by Jack Kilborn
He gripped his pistol and dared those bastards to try something.
There was no way in hell any cannibals were going to get the jump on him. Guaranteed.
Tyrone kicked the iron bars again. That made fifty-eight times. Each impact made his right hand throb. He lifted his leg once more, going for fifty-nine.
He’d never seen a prison like this before, and Tyrone had some jail experience. These cells were the size of his walk-in shower at his mom’s house. There were dozens of them, all lined up next to each other, in a large room that smelled like a basement where the sewer line backed up.
Cindy was in the cage to his right. Sara to his immediate left. There was also someone else locked up, a few rows back. Tyrone could hear rough breathing, see the outline of a person curled up on the floor of the cell, but it was too dark to see who it was, and Sara’s mini-flashlight beam didn’t reach that far. Repeated calls to the mystery figure provoked no response.
The bars, and the locks, looked older than hell. This was probably the civil war prison Martin had talked about in his campfire story. Regardless of age, the iron was still solid, and the bars didn’t budge an inch, even after kicking on them for half an hour.
And if this place wasn’t dank and scary enough, somewhere else in the building, someone was screaming like mad. He was pretty sure it was Laneesha.
Tyrone tried hard not to think about what was happening to Laneesha, what they were doing to her. But as bad as Tyrone felt for his friend, what terrified him even more was the thought that he and Cindy would be next in line for the same treatment.
He kicked the door again, feeling the shock run up his leg and jar his burned hand, the clang reverberating across the room and fading away.
“It’ll be dawn soon,” Cindy said. “It’s getting brighter.”
Tyrone stared through the bars to a window in the brick wall. It was open to the outside, and had more iron bars set in it, like an old-fashioned Wild West jail. Still looked pretty dark out, but he could make out the barest glimmer of pink.
Sara hadn’t said anything since the captain left. Before then she was all spit and fire, ready to throw down. Now she looked like a beat dog. Tyrone wondered if his court-appointed caregiver had finally reached the limits of her endurance.
He used the mini-flashlight to check the bars again. No progress.
All things considered, this was turning out to be a pretty shitty camping trip.
Tyrone reared back to kick again when someone mumbled, “Lester…”
It was a male voice, coming from across the room. The person in the cell.
“Hey!” Cindy shouted. “Who are you?”
Tyrone shushed her. While he was curious who this guy was, he didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention. And this island seemed to be full of folks looking to pay unwanted attention.
“Martin…” the man said again.
That single word seemed to rouse Sara from her stupor. She stood up and gripped the bars.
“Martin? Is that you, Martin?”
“Sara? Frick…where am I?”
Tyrone recognized the voice. Tom.
“Tom, we’re in a civil war prison. Are you okay?”
“I’m…sleepy. Everything is all weird looking. Tilted-like.”
“Can you remember how you got here? You mentioned Martin. Was he with you?” Sara’s voice sounded awfully desperate.
“I don’t know. It’s fuzzy. I remember…I was with Lester…aw, frick! My frickin’ finger!”
Tom began to whimper. Tyrone had no idea what Tom had been through, but he didn’t feel much sympathy for him. That kid needed to man up.
“Tom, please, tell me what happened. Do you know where Martin and Jack are?”
“Martin.” Sniffle. “Martin saved me.” Sniffle. “From Lester. Poor little Jack.”
“Where’s Jack, Tom?”
“I dunno.”
“How did you get here, Tom?”
“We were… we were looking for you. Followed those orange thingies—the ribbons—on the trees. To get back to camp. But then we found these huge piles of bones.”
The lights went on, surprising Tyrone and making him flinch. Footsteps echoed across the concrete floors, and Tyrone followed the sound, his eyes finally landing on—
“Martin!” Sara made a happy, squealing noise, reaching through her bars for her husband. Martin rushed to her, holding her arms.
“Sara!” Tom yelled.
Tyrone watched, unable to do anything, as Martin dug a syringe out of his pocket, jabbed it into Sara’s arm, and pressed the plunger.
“Martin? Wha…”
Sara fell to her knees, then onto her side.
Cindy said, “Martin? What are you doing?”
But Tyrone knew. He knew in his gut.
“You one of the bad guys, ain’t you?”
Martin smiled at Tyrone, walked over to him. “Bad as they come, brutha.”
Tyrone lunged at Martin, his left hand slipping through the bars, trying to grab the man’s neck. Martin stood just out of reach.
“You need to save your strength, Tyrone. Trust me. You’ll need it.”
“You son of a bitch.”
Martin turned away, taking a key from his pocket and unlocking Sara’s cell.
“He did that to me, too,” Tom whined. “Jabbed me with a needle and knocked me out.”
“Too little too late, dumb ass,” Tyrone said.
Martin crouched down, pulled Sara’s arm over his shoulder, then hefted her up in a fireman’s carry.
“Martin?” Cindy’s voice was meek, disbelieving.
Martin glanced at her. “Let me say what a distinct displeasure it has been working with you pathetic little fuck-ups. You’re going to die today. Die in more pain than you can possibly imagine. And you know what, Cindy? Not a single person in the world is going to care.”
Martin winked, then carried Sara out of the room.
Cindy began to cry. Tyrone had no idea what to do. So he reached through the bars with his left hand, held Cindy’s, and squeezed.
“I care,” he said.
But for some reason that made her cry even harder.
Sara opened her eyes. Her head was muddled, thoughts groggy, her brain floating in a state between sleep and awareness.
Then she remembered Martin stabbing her with that needle, and all at once she was on full alert, processing her situation. She was on her side, on an old cot that smelled like mildew and dried sweat. Sara tried to sit up, but discovered she was hogtied; hands behind her back, the same rope snaking down her legs and securing her ankles.
Sara looked around. She was in a room, well lit and relatively warm, with a lingering scent of lemon air freshener masking something rank. The gray stone walls told her she was still in the prison, and the nearest wall had shackles hanging from it by a large metal bolt.
The wall was covered with reddish-brown stains.
Near the far wall was a wooden dresser with eight drawers. Next to that was a table. Sara craned her neck to see what was on top, and saw a variety of power tools, including a portable drill with a large bit.
On the other side of the room, there was a wheelchair, and a pegboard, on which a wicked assortment of knives and saws hung. Next to that…
An old wooden chest, with Jack’s baby sling resting on top.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
Martin walked into view. He looked happier than he had in a long time.
“Martin, where’s Jack? What’s going—”
His hand lashed out, hard and fast, slapping Sara on her right cheek and rocking her head back. Sara felt the blood rush to her face, then the inevitable sting.
“Don’t be stupid, Sara. You must have figured it out by now.”
Sara took a moment, until she was sure she could speak without breaking down. The betrayal was so unexpected, so absolute, she felt she had to make sense of it.
It hit her all at once, and she understood.
“I
see it in your eyes,” Martin said. “You finally get it. Please. Enlighten me.”
Her voice was soft, and sounded hollow. “When Joe went missing. You were with him, on his boat. You came here. Martin… where’s our son?”
“Finish the story, then I’ll tell you.”
Sara felt like she was listening to someone else talk, even though the words came from her mouth. “Plincer must have gotten you both. The cannibals brought you to him.”
“Lester got us, actually. Back then there weren’t nearly as many of the ferals, and they weren’t organized.”
Martin pulled up a folding chair, set it up near the bed.
“Did you know it was Plincer’s Island?” Sara felt like she was teeter-tottering between depression and hysteria.
“No. What I said in my campfire story was true. Joe and I and six others. You were actually supposed to come with, do you remember? We were dating at the time, but you were under the weather. But I swear, I do hold that against you.”
He sat down. Sara said nothing. This was too much, too fast.
“One of the women actually did get seasick. And we did beach the boat. And the cannibals did attack. Joe and I got away, but Lester found us. Took us back to the Doc.”
Martin rubbed his eyes. They were tinged with red, like they always got without his Goniosol medication. The holes in his cheeks had stitches in them.
“Plincer made you evil,” she whispered.
“That’s not quite how it works. The procedure enhances the parts of the brain that process aggression. The doctor simply enlarged these portions, making violent acts not only more appealing, but necessary. Sort of like the sex drive, except this is the violence drive.”
Martin lashed out again, slapping her harder this time. Sara’s cheek burned.
“Doing that to you, it gave me a huge rush. I can feel the serotonin spike, my dopamine receptors feasting on it. Better than any high I’ve ever known. And especially sweet, since I’ve wanted to do that to you since the day we married.”
Sara couldn’t help the tears now, but she managed to keep from sobbing.
“The orange ribbons on the trees…”
Martin nodded. “That was me. After I did my disappearing act at the campsite, I changed the ribbons to lead us to the prison. The next morning, I was going to lead everyone there, and we’d be met by Lester and Prendick. It was supposed to be nice and easy. No running around in the dark. Nobody dying until they had to. But those feral fuckers got the jump on me. I was so caught up in playing Mr. Nice Guy Martin, telling scary stories, I forgot to take the gun in my backpack. You really did save my life, Sara. Allow me to thank you for that.”
He hit her again, this time with a closed fist. Sara had been expecting it, though, and turned her head in time, so his knuckles met the top of her skull.
“Bitch,” he said, shaking his hand and then blowing on his knuckles. Then he laughed. “I’d feel that if I wasn’t on painkillers. You’re going to pay for that.”
Sara’s eyes blurred with tears, her nose ran like a faucet, and her voice was a pitiful wail. Even though she didn’t want to, she glanced again at the trunk, Jack’s sling draped across the lid.
“Where’s Jack, Martin? What have you done with our son?”
“Our precious little Jack? Are you worried you’ll never hold him again? Never gaze into his adorable little face and tickle him to make him laugh?”
Martin leaned over, his face inches from hers.
“Maybe later I’ll let you hold his tiny little corpse.”
Sara looked for the lie in his eyes. All she saw was malice and glee.
Something inside her shattered.
“You didn’t… Martin… no…”
“You want to hear what happened to the others? Plincer gave Laneesha to Subject 33. He’s had her for a while now. I doubt there’s very much left of her. He’s got some sort of device he uses on them. Personally, it gives me the creeps. And Georgia? Bad girl, that one. We both knew she was faking her remorse. I think she was hiding more than that. We’re taking good care of her.”
“Martin,” Sara was only mouthing her words now, without any sound coming out. “Why?”
“Why do you think I married you so soon after Joe’s disappearance? Love? I never loved you. I used you as a cover. Marrying you was the perfect way to indulge in my particular tastes without being detected.” He winked. “Plus, I couldn’t have opened the Center without you.”
Sara realized where this was going, and she shook her head. “No…”
Martin smiled. “Do you really think we’ve had eleven runaways? Wasn’t that statistically high?”
He stood, walking over to the dresser. Keeping his eyes on Sara, he opened the top drawer.
“Remember Chereese Graves? One of our first court-appointed cases at the Center. Also our first runaway.”
Martin reached into the drawer. Sara didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t turn away. He pulled out what looked like a brown shirt. But then he held it up, letting it unroll to full length.
Sara gagged, throwing up on the cot mattress.
“Not my best work,” Martin said. “Skinning isn’t easy. Especially when the person is still alive. All that flinching and bleeding. That’s why there are all the holes on this one. Take a look.”
Martin tossed the skin across the room. It glided, almost like a kite, then landed on Sara.
The hair was still attached, and it fell on Sara’s chest. She shook it away, and it slid across her neck. The texture was stiff, rough, not unlike burlap, and it carried an odor of salt and beef jerky. Gravity took the hide over the edge of the bed, and Sara tried to twist away from it, watching as the legs and feet—complete with toenails—fell onto the floor.
“Poorly done. I know. But I got better, as time went on. Here’s Jenna Hamilton.”
Martin tossed another skin at her. “And Rich Ardmore.” He threw that too.
Sara managed to dodge the first, squirming backward on the cot, but Rich landed directly on her face. She screamed, shaking her head back and forth, able to see Martin through a hole that was actually Rich’s mouth.
Martin tossed another at her.
“Here’s Miranda Walker.” The skin landed on Sara’s legs. “And remember Henry Perez, liked to start fires? I gave him a nice, charred finish.”
Sara freed herself of Rich, only to have Henry smack her in the head. He smelled like burned bacon. She managed to scootch back into the corner of the bed and get onto her knees. The skins piled up around her like tangled sheets.
“Here’s one you were particularly fond of, from just last month. Tonya Johnson. All set to straighten out her life, start fresh. Then I brought her here. She doesn’t smell so fresh now.”
Tonya’s skin hit Sara hard, with a slapping sound. It was still moist, and left a pink, wet splotch on Sara’s sweater.
“Martin… no more…”
“No more? But we’re just getting started, Sara honey. I’ve been forced to live a lie with you these past few years. Ever since the procedure, do you know how difficult it has been to restrain myself? To push down my urges? I had to pretend to be a responsible, upstanding adult, a caring psychologist, and a decent husband, while all the time thirsting for my next opportunity to cut someone apart.”
Martin rushed at her, making Sara cringe.
“I… I love you, Martin.”
His smile was demonic. “And I hate you, Sara. Hate you with every fiber in my body. Hate you so much, in fact, that I’ve got something really special planned for you. Remember your summer at Aunt Alison’s?”
The memories came hurtling back. Being nine years old, locked in that horrible trunk.
“It took a while to find the right one, but you told me the details of the story so many times I think I found a pretty good approximation.”
Martin grabbed her with both hands, one tangling up in her hair, the other tugging on her sweater. He yanked her off the bed, and she hit the floor on her knees
, hard. Then he began to drag her toward—
“Martin... oh no… please don’t...”
“It’ll be just like old times, Sara. A blast from the past.”
He pulled her to the old chest in the corner of the room, and popped open the top.
Sara didn’t want to look, afraid to see her child dead inside. The trunk was empty.
And for her, that was just as terrifying.
“Nice and dark in there. Dark and cramped.”
Sara struggled, contorting her body, not letting him get a firm grip. But he did, yanking the rope so hard her shoulders felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets, lifting her up, and—oh jesus, oh god no—dumping her face-first into the trunk.
The lid closed, catapulting Sara into absolute darkness.
She screamed; a muffled, constricted sound that was so intimately familiar to her.
Martin knocked on the top of the trunk.
“So here’s what’s going to happen, Sara. I’m going to leave you in there. I don’t know for how long. Maybe a few days. I’m going to make you wait for so long that you’ll be happy when I finally open it up to kill you. That’s what you used to tell me, those nights when you couldn’t get to sleep. You told me you were so scared you wanted to die rather than stay in there any longer. How fucked up is that?”
Sara looked all around, seeking a crack in the chest, a seam, something that might allow a sliver of light in. But there was only darkness.
“I’m going to make you wait even longer, Sara.”
No. Please not that.
“Then when I finally take you out, I’m going to show you my knife collection. Do you remember Cousin Timmy?”
Sara felt like the world was spinning. She found it hard to breathe.
“Remember the knife he had? The hunting knife, with the jagged back? I’ve got one of those, too. Can you picture it, Sara? You used to get woozy when you saw a steak knife whenever we went out to eat. Can you imagine Timmy’s big ole survival knife?”
Sara could imagine it. It was the only thing in her head, blocking out everything else.