Trapped

by Jack Kilborn

  “Help me!”

  Cindy turned in the direction of the plea. It came from nearby. A woman.

  Georgia.

  Sara stood up. She looked strong and sure and every bit Cindy’s hero.

  “You two stay here,” Sara said.

  Cindy shook her head. “Don’t.”

  “I have to help her.”

  “She killed Tom.”

  “Plincer did something to her brain. It’s not her fault. Maybe it can be fixed.”

  Cindy reached out, grabbed Sara’s arm. “You didn’t see it, Sara. She’s a monster.”

  Sara’s eyes got glassy. She placed her hand on Cindy’s. “I wouldn’t give up on you. Or Tyrone. I’ve…lost…I just…I can’t give up on Georgia either.”

  Cindy understood. “We’re coming with you, then.”

  Sara nodded.

  “Please help!”

  The three of them crept over the ditch, so close to each other they looked like a single six-legged creature. Georgia was lying on her back in the clearing, twenty yards away from the bone yard. Her face was a mask of bright red blood, but her chest was moving up and down. One of her hands was clenched in a fist. The other still held the cylindrical propane torch. Cindy could see the blue flame coming out of it, scorching the earth it touched black.

  Cindy didn’t want to get any closer. Though Georgia looked seriously injured, she had a weapon in her hand. A terrible weapon, one she’d tried to use on her and Tyrone. If Cindy lived to a hundred and never saw another flame again, she’d be fine with that.

  But they did get closer. So close that if Georgia so much as flinched Cindy would have wet her pants in fright.

  “Sara!”

  Tyrone pointed to the right. Cindy glanced in that direction, saw Sara turn and raise the gun and aim at two cannibals rushing at them, but then Cindy turned back to Georgia, not trusting the insane girl, feeling something wasn’t right.

  There. On the ground. Small and white and plastic.

  A ketchup wrapper.

  Sara fired the gun, the shots so loud they made Cindy’s head ache.

  Georgia sat up and her eyes popped open, boring into Cindy. She smiled, licked some ketchup off her upper lip—ketchup she’d shown Cindy last night, the stuff she was going to scare the boys with.

  “Burn, bitch.”

  Georgia’s lips formed the words, but Cindy’s ears were ringing so she couldn’t hear them, and then Georgia was raising her clenched fist—it was filled with that powder she had in the baggy—and Sara fired another shot, and Cindy decided she was not going to burn, not now and not ever, and she lashed out and slapped Georgia’s hand, the powder forming a cloud in the air.

  Georgia’s face went from surprise to anger as the cloud settled around her. Then it went from anger to surprise as she turned her attention at the open flame she was holding.

  There was a huge whump, and Cindy felt like she’d been hit with a thousand hairdryers as the cloud around Georgia exploded.

  Cindy jumped backward, feeling her eyebrows singe, quickly patting out the tiny fire that had started on her shirt.

  Georgia also tried to pat herself out, with less effective results. She was completely on fire. Her hair. Her clothes. Her shoes. Even her skin.

  Sara stepped in front of Cindy, tugging her own shirt up over her head, swatting at Georgia. But that only fanned the flames, making them bigger.

  Georgia may have tried to scream, but she’d apparently inhaled some of that powder, because the only thing that came out of her mouth was flames.

  Cindy turned away, saw two cannibals dead on the grass—the ones that Sara had shot—and then Tyrone was holding her and patting her back and Cindy wondered if this nightmare would ever be over, if they’d ever be safe.

  That’s when she saw Lester walking toward them.

  Every nerve ending in Georgia’s body was firing at once. All she cared about, her entire world, was centered on when the pain would end.

  She remembered, inexorably, an old saying—a star that shines twice as bright burns half as long—and hoped it was true, hoped this would be over soon.

  It wasn’t.

  Georgia burned bright, that was for sure. But she also burned for a very long time.

  Lester Paks watched the Sara woman standing over Georgia girl. First the Joe pet. Now this.

  Lester was so angry his teeth were clenched, something he tried to avoid because their sharp points made his gums bleed. His gums were bleeding so badly his cheeks began to bulge.

  The Sara woman needed to die. And the boy and the girl with the Sara woman needed to die.

  He walked after them, barely glancing at the still burning, still twitching Georgia girl. When the three began to run, Lester ran too. He had long legs, and strong muscles. He would catch them.

  They went into the area where the helicopter landed. The helicopter wasn’t there anymore. But the man, Kong, was still there.

  At least, most of him was..

  The feral people were squatting around his body. The Sara woman and the children jogged past, but the boy broke away, heading for something; the metal suitcase Kong had been carrying. The boy picked it up and rejoined the two women.

  The ferals paid the boy no attention. But when they saw Lester, they scattered. The ferals were scared of Lester. They had reason to be. Usually, Martin would bring Lester playmates. Sometimes boats would come to the island, and Lester could get his own playmates. But if Lester didn’t have any playmates, Lester would take a feral person. They were smelly and dirty, but they screamed as well as anyone else.

  The three people ran north, probably not knowing why. This pleased Lester. The lake was very close to the north. Close and high up, more than thirty feet above the water. When they reached the ledge, there would be no place left to go.

  Lester ran faster, closing the distance between them.

  The clearing ended, and the forest began. The woods were thick here, blocking out most of the sun. Sometimes Lester lost sight of them. But they were easy to hear, clomping through the woods, breathing heavy, yelling encouraging words at each other. Lester spit out a stream of blood, and his cheeks began to fill again.

  “There’s nowhere to go,” said the Sara woman. “We’re trapped.”

  That made Lester smile. He had many items on his tool belt. He decided to use the mallet first. He would break all of their knees, so they couldn’t run away. Then he could take his time.

  The trees thinned, and Lester saw Lake Huron, spreading out into the distance. He stopped several yards before the edge. It was a long drop down, and there were sharp rocks among the waves.

  Lester looked left, and then right. He saw the girl on the ground next to a big tree, holding her leg. She must have hurt herself. Lester took out the mallet, happy to make it hurt even worse.

  “Lester needs a new girlfriend,” he said, raising the weapon.

  But something went wrong. Lester’s head jerked back, and he stumbled sideways. He reached up and touched his face.

  Six of Lester’s teeth fell into his large palm.

  My teeth. My teeth. My beautiful teeth.

  He looked up in time to see the boy swing the metal suitcase a second time. The boy had been hiding behind the tree. He and the girl had tricked Lester.

  Lester backed up, staying of range. He had dropped the mallet when the boy hit him, so he reached for his tool belt, seeking out the hatchet. The boy swung again, but this time he let go of the suitcase. It hit Lester in the chin. More of Lester’s beautiful teeth left his mouth, arcing through the air, going over the edge of the cliff.

  That’s when he saw the Sara woman, already running at him, leaping in a flying kick.

  She connected with Lester’s chest. He’d been bracing himself, but it still made him stagger backward two steps.

  Unfortunately, the second step was a long one.

  One moment Lester was on land. The next moment he wasn’t.

  He managed to twist around as he fell, so he
could see the rocks coming up at him at a blinding speed.

  Maybe I will see Georgia girl in hel—

  The thought ended with an abrupt crunch.

  Dr. Plincer had to give Subject 33 credit. The man could inflict pain like a maestro conducted an orchestra. He’d even managed to top Plincer’s time with Lester so long ago.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in Subject 33’s box, but it seemed like hours. Plincer could understand why so many people screamed for so long. He would have as well, if it hadn’t been for the skewers in his tongue.

  At least Plincer’s curiosity had been satisfied. He’d always wondered about the machine Subject 33 had built. Really an ingenious device. Plincer just wished he wasn’t forced to have firsthand knowledge.

  A tiny, still coherent part of him wondered why he hadn’t passed out yet. After all, it couldn’t possibly get worse.

  Then Subject 33 hooked up the car battery, and it got worse.

  Sara looked over the edge. Lester was gone, though she could make out the blood stain where he’d hit the rock.

  “I thought the plan was to lead him north to the ledge and then shoot his ass, not go all Jackie Chan,” Tyrone said.

  Sara shrugged. “No bullets left.”

  Cindy walked over, holding Sara’s wrist as she peeked downward. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure he’s not going to come back, try to kill us again?”

  Sara pointed at the body floating out into the big water. “I’m sure.”

  They watched him for a while, bobbing in the waves. Sara tried to figure out how many men she’d killed this camping trip, and realized she’d lost count.

  There’ll be time for therapy later. Now we need to find Captain Prendick’s boat.

  She checked the compass, fount east.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s go.”

  “Hold on first. Let’s see what’s in this briefcase. Gotta be somethin’ valuable.”

  Tyrone set it on the ground, and they all gathered to look when he opened the lid.

  “Great,” he said. “Some ugly ho.”

  Actually, it was a painting of an ugly ho. In three-quarter profile, sandwiched between two thick pieces of Plexiglas. She had bulgy eyes and a gold cross around her neck and a blue dress, and the style was oddly familiar.

  “Think it’s worth somethin’?” Tyrone asked.

  Sara lifted the painting. Under it was a bill of sale, from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, for just under 20 million Euro. Sara shook her head, amazed.

  “It’s Vincent Van Gogh’s Portrait of Woman in Blue, and the bill of sale looks real.”

  “Twenty million Euro?” Cindy said. “Is that like yen, meaning it’s only worth a few hundred bucks?”

  “The Euro is stronger than the dollar, Cindy.” Sara said, suddenly nervous to be holding it. “This painting is worth about 25 million dollars.”

  “That’s one pricey ho.” Tyrone whistled. “Guess when I go to college I ain’ gotta worry ‘bout no student loans.”

  “Tyrone, you couldn’t get into college, even if you lived long enough to try.”

  Sara jerked in the direction of the voice.

  Martin.

  Paulie Gunther Spence tried to stay calm. He hurt all over, and he wanted to make the doctor pay. But he didn’t want the doctor to die. Not for a long time. So he had to show restraint.

  Paulie knew there were painkillers in the lab, but he didn’t know which drugs he should take. If he was able to talk, he would have asked the doctor. But he couldn’t talk, and when he tried to write what he wanted on paper, the doctor just screamed and babbled incoherently. So Paulie was forced to suffer.

  The doctor would suffer with him.

  Paulie was deciding where to stick the fiftieth skewer when he heard a noise behind him. He jumped away, fearing it to be Lester.

  But it wasn’t Lester. It was a dirty, bearded man with ripped clothes.

  Paulie walked toward him. Though he was injured, it would still be easy to subdue this skinny little man. Paulie could take his wrath out on him, keeping the doctor alive to enjoy later.

  He stopped in mid-step when another dirty man came in. Then another followed. And another. And another.

  They had weapons. Rusty knives. Tree branches. One had a fork.

  Paulie backed away, his lips flapping, his hands raised in supplication.

  The dirty people attacked. Paulie felt like he was in a barbed wire tornado, being ripped apart on all sides. Poking, stabbing, hitting, biting, gouging, bit by agonizing bit.

  Stop. I don’t handle pain well.

  Paulie fell to his knees, covering his face, screaming soundlessly and enduring quite a bit of pain for quite a long time as they tore him to pieces.

  Martin was through fooling around. When the ferals attacked and the craziness started, he went straight for Kong’s bodyguard. A quick poke in the stomach with a hunting knife, and the man graciously gave up his gun. Martin then waited in the woods for things to settle down and Sara to appear.

  She did, dragging her precious kids with her. Pathetic, really. The dumb bitch even tried to save Georgia. Probably hoping to help her.

  She would have had better luck teaching an alligator to fetch.

  When Lester joined the fun, Martin tagged along.

  There was a bad moment, after Martin followed them into the woods, when he worried Lester would kill his wife before he got there. But, incredibly, they’d managed to take out the big guy.

  Which was fine. Martin didn’t like to share anyway.

  “This is how it’s going to work, Sara,” he said, basking in the fear he knew his words caused her. “We’re all going to march back to the prison like a big happy family. Then you’re going back into the trunk, and you’ll get to listen while I do all the things to Cindy that Paulie Gunther Spence did to your childhood friend, Louise. Tyrone, buddy, you’re allowed to watch. To make it more fun, every time Cindy screams, I’ll cut off one of your fingers.”

  “No,” Sara said.

  Martin’s grin slipped a notch. “Excuse me? You see I’m holding a gun, right?”

  “Cindy, Tyrone, get behind me.”

  The children listened to their surrogate mother, who then held the painting at waist-level.

  Martin sneered. “What, I’m not going to shoot you because you’ve got some ugly chick?”

  “It’s a Van Gogh, Martin. Worth twenty five million dollars. You’re an art lover. You wouldn’t do anything to ruin it. And you won’t shoot me in the chest or head, because you don’t want me to die that easily.”

  Martin laughed, full and genuine. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  He aimed right at the ugly chick’s head. When the bullet passed through the painting, it would shatter Sara’s hip.

  How terribly painful, being curled up in a trunk with a broken femur.

  “Put down the gun, Martin, and I’ll give you the painting.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” he said.

  “You won’t shoot. I know you.”

  “The hell I won’t.”

  Then he fired.

  The impact of the bullet slammed the painting into Sara’s pelvis, but she had anticipated it and was already moving forward, rushing at him.

  Martin fired again, clearly surprised, and the painting vibrated in her hands. She felt pain, her leg giving out, but momentum took her the next few steps, and then she was angling the portrait upward, swinging the sharp corner against Martin’s hand, knocking the gun away.

  She thrust it at him again, aiming for his head, but now Martin was backpedaling, pulling something from his tool belt.

  The hunting knife. That awful, horrifying hunting knife.

  He slashed.

  Sara blocked with the painting.

  He thrust.

  Sara blocked with the painting.

  He roared, throwing himself at her, driving Sara onto her back with the painting sandwiched between them. He brought the
terrible knife up to her face.

  I can see my reflection in the blade.

  “I’m going to cut your fucking tongue out and lock you in that fucking trunk for a week,” Martin screamed, spittle flecking out of his mouth.

  But Sara wasn’t afraid anymore. She was done being afraid. Sara grabbed the knife blade as it came up, feeling it slice into her fingers, all the way to the bone. But she wouldn’t let go. She wouldn’t back down. Never. Again.

  As Martin’s face creased with astonishment, Sara used the momentum of her grab and the leverage of her grip to force the tip of the blade ninety degrees, driving it right into the son of a bitch’s eye.

  Martin flinched backward, dropping the knife, pressing both hands to his face, and then Sara saw Tyrone standing over them, once again holding the metal suitcase.

  He swung like Sammy Sosa, cracking Martin square in the nose, knocking him off Sara and onto the ground.

  “That tough enough for ya, asshole?” Tyrone said, staring down at him.

  Martin was clearly disoriented, but he managed to get onto all fours. He shook his head like a wet dog, spraying blood everywhere.

  Tyrone raised the suitcase again.

  “No,” Sara ordered.

  Tyrone looked at her. So did Martin.

  That’s when Sara held up the gun Martin had dropped and blew the top of her husband’s head off.

  Dr. Plincer watched the ferals tear Subject 33 apart, crying with relief that they would no doubt attack him next. Plincer wanted to die more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. The pain was too unbearable.

  Kill me. Kill me quickly. My life’s work will remain. Someone will find my notes, my serum. I can die, because my work will live on.

  In a brief flash of lucidity, Plincer reflected on his legacy, and came to a startling, ironic conclusion. The doctor thought he’d created four Level 6s; Lester, Subject 33, Martin, and Georgia. This high level of evil didn’t appear in nature. It had to be enhanced.

  But Plincer realized, with a jolt, that a Level 6 could, and did, exist without enhancement.

  Anyone who wanted to create a level of pure evil had to, by extension, be pure evil himself.