Trapped (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  Captain Edward Prendick got off the radio with the Coast Guard, and wondered if everything was going to work out okay.

  Prendick considered himself a good man. He loved his mother, and visited her on every holiday, Labor Day and Valentine’s Day included, even though she lived out of state and it cost a fortune. He treated other people with decency and respect. He had an aquarium on board his boat, which contained a single goldfish, named Goldie, which he’d dutifully taken care of for more than five years.

  That’s why the distress call from Mrs. Randhurst was, well, so distressing.

  Rock Island was a bad place. It even had an aura about it. An evil vibe. And something shady was definitely going on there.

  He’d tried to warn them, to get them to camp elsewhere. But they’d been insistent.

  Now he was forced to head back there. Something he didn’t relish at all.

  “Mama told me not to become a sailor, Goldie.”

  Goldie was asleep in his tank. Or her tank. Prendick didn’t know if it was a boy fish or a girl fish. Actually, he didn’t know if Goldie actually slept, either. She certainly didn’t close her eyes and start snoring. But sometimes she’d stay in one place for an extended period of time, not even moving when he fed her, and Prendick assumed she (or he) was sleeping.

  He glanced from the tank to the locked cabinet next to it. A gun cabinet, containing two revolvers and a rifle. Prendick checked the GPS and turned the wheel, silently praying he wouldn’t have to use them.

  Tom didn’t think he could possibly be more frightened, and then the giant kissed him.

  His first reaction was shock. Not only was the act totally unexpected, but it was so frickin’ gross, so frickin’ sick, that Tom didn’t know what the hell to do.

  The obvious answer—push the freak away—scared Tom even more. This guy was so big and scary that rejecting him didn’t seem like an option.

  So Tom closed his eyes as the psycho explored his mouth with his tongue, nibbling on his lips with those horrible needle teeth and making an awful, moaning sound in his throat.

  Worst of all, this was technically Tom’s first French kiss. Yuck.

  It was almost as bad as realizing he’d eaten Meadow.

  Tom endured it, staying stock-still, praying for it to end. Eventually it did, and this crazy Lester person looked down at Tom and patted him on the head.

  “Mmm,” Lester said. “Tom tastes yummy.”

  Lester moved in closer, like he was going for another kiss. Tom leaned away and quickly said, “Uh, are you the one that cooked my buddy?”

  The giant shook his head. “Lester doesn’t cook people. He likes to eat his raw.”

  That was enough for Tom. He shoved Lester as hard as he could, then broke the land-speed record for sixteen-year-old boys and ran the hell out of there. It was too dark to see, and the trees were everywhere, so he stuck his hands out ahead of him to avoid busting open his head. When he did finally hit the tree, he was spared a concussion, but it hyper-extended his pinky, which hurt worse than just about anything Tom ever felt before.

  He was cradling his injured finger, wondering how to get it to stop throbbing, when someone grabbed his shirt from behind.

  “Tom shouldn’t have run from Lester,” the giant whispered in his ear. “Now Lester is taking Tom back to his playroom.”

  “My finger,” Tom said, whining. “I think I broke my finger.”

  Lester grabbed both of Tom’s wrists, encircling them like handcuffs. He raised them to his lips, and then—oh god no—he put the jutting pinky into his mouth.

  Tom felt like throwing up again. Lester swished the finger back and forth in his mouth, causing such incredible waves of pain that it made the darkness come alive with orange and blue flashes. Tom began to beg, and when that didn’t stop the manipulation he fell to his knees and alternated between crying and screaming. There was no possible way the pain could get any worse.

  Then the biting began.

  General Alton Tope slugged down his fourth shot of scotch. It was a single malt, but a young one, and the alcohol burned his throat. The private who brought him the liquor needed a lesson in the selection of fine spirits, but he was grateful to the lad nonetheless.

  He glanced at the OSST monitor again, frowning at the new population count.

  Twenty-six.

  Jesus, they’re dropping like flies.

  General Tope understood the chain of command. He lived by it. Orders were orders, and the soonest he could get to Rock Island was tomorrow. There was no leeway.

  He hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

  Tyrone hurried through the woods alongside Cindy, three steps behind Sara. His palms were slathered in burn cream, which contained a topical anesthetic. It didn’t really kill the pain, just sort of turned some of the throbbing into tingling. He could manage.

  Cindy had a finger stuck in his belt loop, which was a poor substitute for holding hands. But the persistent tug made him feel closer, connected. After they’d dressed, Cindy had been the one to apply the burn cream. It hurt, and the ointment smelled foul, but her tenderness and dedication touched Tyrone. For a moment, he actually felt like a kid again, way back when safety was taken for granted, and love was given freely, and life had possibilities.

  “Do you think we’ll get out of here?” Cindy had asked, not meeting his eyes.

  “We will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I won’ let nuthin’ happen to you.”

  Then she looked at him and all at once Tyrone felt nervous. Because he knew what he wanted to do, and the risks involved. Funny, there they were, surrounded by cannibals, and the thing that scared him most at that moment was leaning in for a kiss and being rejected.

  But he did lean in. Cindy’s eyes got wide, then closed, and his lips lightly touched hers.

  For ten beautiful seconds, all was right with the world.

  Now they were trekking through the forest, heading for shore. That kiss had felt so right, but it had raised the stakes. Tyrone had spent so long just caring about himself, he’d forgotten all the pressure that came with caring about someone else. He couldn’t let anything happen to Cindy. Not now. He’d die first.

  Sara got slightly ahead of them, even while limping, so Tyrone picked up the pace. She kept the light cupped in her hand, only flashing the beam occasionally to check the compass.

  Tyrone always liked Sara. She was one of those people who actually wanted to help. She didn’t pretend to understand all the things the kids at the Center were going through. She didn’t make the mistake most adults did, trying to relate. Unless you were bangin’ and jackin’ and scoring drugs and hootchie mamas and livin’ day by day, how the hell were you supposed to know what the thug life was like? But Sara never fronted like that. She just showed the kids how they could change their lives if they tried, and that was cool.

  But Tyrone hadn’t known how strong Sara actually was. He watched when she broke that guy’s neck. That was some tough as hell shit. Tyrone felt better knowing she had his back.

  Sara stopped again. When she shined the light on the compass, Tyrone saw a face behind her. A crazed, snarling, charred and bloody face, the long hair and beard half-melted away, the burned lips and swollen to twice their size.

  The cutlery man.

  He lunged at Sara, his knife and fork raised. Tyrone shot forward, pulling Cindy off her feet, straight-arming the cannibal in the shoulder. The shock of the impact made Tyrone stagger back, and it knocked the cutlery man sideways. Then the pain came, starting off slow like a distant train, speeding in to become huge and loud and unstoppable.

  Tyrone fell to his knees, staring at his right hand. The skin on his palm, already blistered and loose, had sloughed off.

  A roar, almost like an animal, drew Tyrone’s attention upward, and he watched the cutlery man’s attack, the knife slicing down through the air, a perfect angle to bury itself into his neck.

  Then, just as fast, the cutlery man was knock
ed to the side, the knife spinning harmlessly in the air and dropping to the ground.

  Sara pivoted and brought her other foot around, landing this second kick on the cannibal’s face. Another inhuman roar escaped the burned man’s ruined lips, and even though his face looked like one of those Picassos in the art book Martin made them read, he continued to come at them.

  The cutlery man dashed forward, and Sara turned slightly, bumping out her hip, flipping the cannibal over. She immediately followed up by dropping her knees onto his chest, and raising her fist back.

  But she paused.

  Why wouldn’t she hit him? Why didn’t she kill the fucker?

  The cutlery man used the advantage, flailing at Sara’s bad leg, stabbing it with his fork.

  Sara cried out, knocking his hand away. She hit him twice more. First in the nose, snapping his head back. Then in his bare neck.

  The cutlery man’s eyes rolled up. He clutched at his throat, bucking Sara off and rolling onto his knees. Tyrone saw that the cannibal couldn’t breathe, that Sara must have broken something in his neck.

  Cindy crouched next to Tyrone, her arm around his back, burying her face in his shoulder. Sara got to her feet, limping worse than before, then touched Tyrone’s head.

  “We need to keep going.”

  Tyrone didn’t move. The pain wasn’t what immobilized him. It was the terrible spectacle of watching the cutlery man desperately try to gasp for breath. The madness and evil in his eyes had been replaced by a very human look of raw panic. Seeing that made Tyrone understand why Sara had hesitated.

  This wasn’t a monster. It was a human being. A suffering, dying, human being. And it was horrible to watch.

  Then the cutlery man brought his rusty fork up to his own throat, dug it in, and tore a big hunk out.

  The blood sprayed in Tyrone’s face, accompanied by a sound not unlike the whoosh of a fire extinguisher. Then the cannibal raised the fork again, a piece of him still hanging from it, and leapt to stab Sara, who was turned away.

  Again Tyrone reacted, both hands up, blocking the cannibal’s attack. Again Tyrone’s raw palm hit the cutlery man’s filthy shirt, making his vision go red with pain.

  Sara noticed the movement and spun around, dodging the thrust, striking at the cutlery man’s throat and temporarily losing her fist in the hole. She pulled away with a sucking noise, and the cutlery man fell to his knees, then onto his side, convulsing.

  The pain built, getting stronger and stronger, and when the train finally hit him Tyrone couldn’t handle it and everything went blurry, then black.

  Conflicting feelings assailed Sara so quickly she felt like she was playing emotional ping-pong. Rage and pity, fear and triumph, disgust and elation, concern and regret. She wasn’t sure whether to scream, weep, or laugh. Sara held everything back, including the pain in her thigh, and went to Tyrone, lying on his back. She sat next to him, stretching her leg out, and checked his pulse.

  Tyrone’s eyelids fluttered, then opened, his wince expanding into a rictus of pain.

  “Cindy, the med kit is in my backpack. We need to wrap his hand up.”

  Cindy dug into the bag. Sara held up Tyrone’s wrist.

  The boy’s palm looked like he’d dipped it in red paint. His whole arm was shaking, and he had a far-off look that made Sara question his connection with reality. She touched his forehead. Cool and clammy.

  “Tyrone, can you hear me?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s Sara. You need to stay awake. Cindy, when you’ve got the kit, put the pack under his feet to elevate his legs. Also, give me that vial of ammonia.”

  Cindy handed over the bottle. Sara avoided looking at the cannibal, who was still twitching. She pulled the stopper and waved it under Tyrone’s nostrils. He tried to turn his head, but she kept it close until he lifted up his good hand to push the ammonia away.

  “We have to get going,” Sara said. “Can you understand me?”

  “Hand hurts bad,” he mumbled.

  “Can you understand me, Tyrone?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cindy raised Tyrone’s feet, increasing the blood flow to his brain.

  “Can you wrap his hand?” Sara asked.

  Cindy nodded and got to work. Sara took the time to examine her new injury. It was just a few inches below the previous one, and not bleeding as badly. Sara found an Ace bandage in the kit and wound it tight around both her wounds. Then she checked her watch.

  Half an hour until the boat arrived. Hopefully the Coast Guard was en route as well. Sara pulled the radio off her belt and pressed the button.

  “Captain Prendick, this is Sara Randhurst. Can you hear me?”

  A few seconds of quiet, then, “I hear you, Mrs. Randhurst. I should be there soon.”

  “How about the police?”

  “I contacted the Coast Guard. They’re on their way. Over.”

  Sara pressed the call button, but didn’t speak. She wasn’t sure how to say what she was thinking without sounding paranoid.

  Not that she didn’t have good reason to be paranoid.

  Captain Prendick must have guessed her intent, because when she released the button he was in mid-sentence. “…try it for yourself. Emergency frequency is on channel A, one, five, six, point, eight, zero, zero. Use the word mayday. The Coast Guard will respond. Over.”

  “Say that again. What do I press?”

  “Hit the 16/9 button two times. That resets it to the emergency channel. Then hit it two more times to be able to reach me again. Over and out.”

  Sara followed instructions, then pressed the call button again.

  “Mayday, mayday, this is Sara Randhurst. I’m on Rock Island with several children and we need help.”

  After a pause, a nasally voice said, “Mrs. Randhurst, this is the Coast Guard. We have been informed of your situation. Estimated time of arrival is nineteen minutes. We’ll be coming ashore on the north-east beach, over.”

  “Thank you so much,” Sara said. She took a quick glance at the still-twitching cannibal and added, “Bring guns. Lots of guns.”

  “Roger that, Mrs. Randhurst. Coast Guard over and out.”

  Sara clipped the walkie-talkie to her belt and let out a long breath. They needed to get moving. Not only because of the danger, but because Sara didn’t want to sit still long enough to deal with everything on her mind. She and Cindy helped Tyrone to his feet, Sara shouldered the backpack, and the trio got on their way.

  The woods were dark. Quiet. Scary. Sara stopped often to check the compass and scan the outlying foliage for pursuers. Tyrone was moaning softly, but not soft enough. Sara was afraid he might be heard.

  Cindy whispered, “How much farther?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tyrone is really cold.”

  “I think he’s going into shock, Cindy.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We keep going. Help is on the way. They’ll take care of him.”

  A few steps later, Tyrone couldn’t walk anymore. Sara sat him down and handed Cindy a bottle of water.

  “Make sure he drinks this.”

  “Where are you going?” The teen looked panicked.

  “I think I can hear waves. I’m only going a few yards ahead.”

  “Please don’t leave us, Sara.”

  Sara drilled her eyes into Cindy. “I won’t. You have my word. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Leaving Tyrone in Cindy’s capable hands, Sara pressed ahead. In just a few steps she found something. Not Lake Huron, but something that indicated the water was close.

  A boat.

  It was on its side, the hull split wide open, vines and overgrowth obscuring the outline. Sara guessed it had been here for years. She played the tiny flashlight beam across the bottom, up the side, to the stern, and read the fading name painted there.

  SS MINNOW

  That was the boat from the TV show Gilligan’s Island. But it was also the name Martin had used in his campfire story, when h
e talked about the party of eight who had come to the island and were attacked.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. This must have been the boat he was talking about. But how could he have known? Unless…

  Sara crept around to the other side of the boat, a growing feeling of dread creeping up her back. She had to fight the thicket, and branches poked at her hair and caught on her clothing. The cabin was setting on the ground, partially crushed like a stepped-on soda can. Two of the bridge windows were broken out. Sara shone the light through one, peering into the cabin interior.

  The inside was filled with mud and dead leaves. Pieces of a deck chair, part of a life preserver, and various other detritus vied for space with an abandoned raccoon nest. Amid the mess, resting on a pile of disintegrating magazines, was a hardcover book that looked disturbingly familiar. The silver embossing on the cover was faded and dirty, but it clearly said, LOG.

  Sara reached through the window, brushing the book with her fingertips. She leaned in further, snagged it, and then something screeched. Before she could pull back, it pounced, scrambling up her arm, over her shoulder, and racing into the forest.

  Guess that raccoon nest wasn’t abandoned after all, Sara thought, leaning against the wreckage, clutching the book to her hammering heart. When her pulse returned to something resembling normal, she took a closer look at the log.

  Please don’t let this be what I think it is.

  The book was damp and smelled of mildew. The cardboard cover wilted as she opened it up. There, on the first page, Sara’s fears were confirmed. Handwritten on the first blank line was:

  SS MINNOW, CAPTAIN JOSEPH RANDHURST

  Joe. Martin’s brother.

  Sara had always liked her brother-in-law. Joe was sort of like a more playful, less serious version of her husband. Rather than dedicating his life to making a difference, Joe preferred the life of leisure, day trading and blowing his money on travel and toys. Sara could remember the day Joe talked about buying a boat. He’d come over for Thanksgiving dinner before she and Martin had gotten married, extolling the many virtues of living on the open water. The three of them killed four bottles of wine, and afterward Martin and Sara disregarded Joe’s plans. Joe always talked about doing silly things like that, but never did.