by Jack Kilborn
Sara could hear Martin and Lester almost upon her. She strained, but the door was too heavy, squeezing her too tight.
Incredibly, her subconscious latched on to a solution, a logic problem she liked to tell her kids. A truck, fifteen feet tall, gets struck under an overpass that is only fourteen feet, ten inches high. What’s the easiest way to free the truck?
Let the air out of the tires.
Sara exhaled forcefully, blowing out her cheeks, emptying her lungs.
Someone grabbed her. But Sara had compressed her ribcage just enough, and she slipped through the door and pulled away and ran outside and into the woods and ran around trees and through shrubs and ran and ran and ran.
Eventually, her bad leg just stopped supporting her, and Sara had to lean against an elm and rub out the cramp that had formed around the fork wounds. Her jeans were soaked with blood, and she realized she was still holding on to the hammer.
While she tried to catch her breath, Sara listened to the woods, to see if she was being followed. She didn’t hear the sounds of pursuit, but she did hear another sound.
Sara glanced overhead, and watched a low-flying helicopter skirt the tree canopy, heading toward the prison.
Dr. Plincer tied off his last suture, then used his stethoscope to make sure Subject 33’s lungs were inflated. They both sounded fine. Plincer hooked up an IV filled with antibiotics, then peeled off his latex gloves. Subject 33 would be paralyzed for several more hours, so there was no need to get him locked up right away. Besides, the guests would be arriving in just a few minutes.
Plincer left the lab and strolled down the hallway, into his bedroom. He checked his facial putty in the mirror and judged the scar coverage to be adequate. There were some spatters of blood on his lab coat, but he didn’t see how that would do anything to hurt the negotiations.
In the top drawer of his dresser were a detailed account of his procedure, an ingredient list of his serum, and various notes, charts, and graphs supporting his findings. He also picked up a plastic bag filled with items Captain Prendick had acquired for him at some sex store.
Plincer returned to the lab, where he grabbed a sealed test tube sample of the serum used in the procedure. This was the latest version, the kind that was apparently successful with Georgia.
Then he went into the cell room, to prepare the volunteers. The three children looked suitably cowed. The white one also looked like someone had used him as the board in a game of darts.
The doctor reached into the sex bag and pulled out a ball gag. Red rubber, with a strap that wound around the head to hold it in the mouth.
“You, young man, if you’d be so kind I need you to put your back against the bars so I can put this on you.”
“Hells no. You can stick that thing up yo ass, old dude.”
“It’s just a simple ball gag. Surely you don’t want to annoy our special guests with your screaming.”
“Ain’ no way you gettin’ that thing in my mouth.”
Plincer nodded. “I do admire a man with convictions. But I must mention the alternative. If you won’t allow me to gag you, I’ll have to sew your lips together.”
The black boy paused, then put his back to the bars and opened his mouth. Plincer made sure the buckle was on tight, then put the next one on the girl in the same fashion. The white boy was difficult—his injuries seemed to limit his range of motion. Plincer managed to coerce him into rolling over to the bars, and put the gag on him as he was lying down.
Doctor Plincer had something else they each needed to wear, also from the sex store, but chose to wait for Lester and Martin to assist, because they’d no doubt balk at the sight of them.
As though God was reading Plincer’s thoughts, Martin suddenly burst in through the outside door. He was pinching his nose, his shirt tie-dyed with blood. Lester strolled in behind him, a large frown creasing his face.
“Sara got away,” Martin said by way of explanation. “With the baby.”
“She has no place to run. You can find her after the company leaves. And make sure the baby lives. You know I want him for my next enhancement.” Plincer glanced up at Lester. “And why, might I ask, are you sulking?”
“Martin told Lester that the Sara woman killed the pet, not Subject 33. Lester wants to bite off the Sara woman’s fingers.”
“I’m sure you’ll have the chance later, Lester. Martin, you’d better go get cleaned up. Also make sure Georgia is presentable, and please find a tool belt for her with all the standard equipment, if you’d be so kind. Lester, please help me put these on the children. I believe they’re going to object.”
Plincer reached into the bag once again, withdrawing three black leather dog collars.
PART 5
REAPING
General Tope waited for the engine to cut off before he removed the protective hearing muffs from his ears. The chopper ride had been loud and bumpy, and passing over the trees had reminded him of the last time he’d taken a bird into the field. Vietnam, more than thirty years ago.
All for God and country, Tope thought.
It didn’t matter to the General that his country had no idea he was here. The US Military needed this. Whether they wanted it or not didn’t matter.
With reserves, the US military boasted over two and a half million personnel. But India and Russia each had just as many. China and North Korea each had even more. Turkey, Brazil, Pakistan, and Egypt combined for another four million.
The United Stated of America was outnumbered and outgunned.
Nukes didn’t mean a thing anymore. Tope knew they’d never be used in battle, and their deterrent power ended with the Cold War.
He reflected back on the old times, and how much things have changed. These days, wars were fought with intelligence and technology. But they never ended. They dragged on, troops dying in vain, with no discernable progress. When was the last time the US won a war?
But throughout history, wars had been won. And not by tech. It was ruthlessness that decided the victor.
Ghengis Khan. Trajan. Napoleon. Atilla the Hun. Marius. Alexander the Great. Julius Caesar. There was no mercy on the field of battle for these great leaders.
An army with no mercy was a fearsome force.
But an army with a thirst for blood—that was an unstoppable force.
General Tope had plans for making his army unstoppable. Plans that involved the serum and procedure Dr. Plincer had developed to enhance a subject’s aggression.
If Plincer could actually turn a normal person into a bloodthirsty sadist, the US would have the most powerful weapon ever created.
Imagine a thousand such psychopaths unleashed on a city. Imagine ten thousand let loose in Iran, or North Korea.
Such an army would be cost-free. It would have no need for weapons or training. It wouldn’t require food or shelter. It could use the transportation already available in the country it had infiltrated. Such an army wouldn’t even need orders, having the order to kill already programmed into its collective brain.
Just like the infomercial said. You could just set it, and forget it.
And General Tope could have it all for just twenty-five million dollars. A pittance. And the ATACMS missiles and launcher he sold to Hamas to cover the cost were “officially” considered obsolete surplus and destroyed, so they wouldn’t be missed.
Tope unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed his metal suitcase, waiting for the rotor blades to stop turning before he exited the chopper. The pilot, a First Lieutenant named Crouch, would stay with the helicopter. A burly Sergeant named Benson would accompany Tope to the meeting and act as muscle if needed. Both were doing this off the clock, and not out of patriotism—Tope had paid them well.
Intel reported that Plincer lived alone, except for his enhanced subjects and the wild people who didn’t respond well to the procedure. As of this morning, the Orbiting Strand Satellite Telescope readings had placed the diminishing number of people on the island at twenty-four. Tope hoped these w
eren’t the volunteers Plincer had been planning to use in his demonstration. He didn’t want to waste time having his men hunt down one of the ferals to use.
The clearing they’d landed in was surrounded by woods, the prison building less than fifty yards away. Tope walked briskly, and Benson matched his pace, sidearm in hand and scanning the treeline for trouble.
General Tope didn’t need to look at his watch, but he did so anyway. Nine o’clock precisely. He allowed himself a measure of satisfaction at being on time, then rapped strongly on the iron door.
Almost immediately it creaked opened, but so slowly that Tope ordered Benson to assist.
Dr. Plincer was balder, older, and uglier than in his press clippings from a decade ago.
“Good morning, General Tope. Welcome to my island.”
Tope noted the fresh blood on the doctor’s smock and was grateful Plincer didn’t attempt to shake hands.
“Good morning, Dr. Plincer.” He didn’t bother introducing Benson.
“Allow me to take you around to the back of the prison. We’ve decided to stage our demonstration outside. No need to worry about cleaning up afterward.”
He led them around the side of the building, to a small courtyard where six people were waiting.
One was an unusually tall man in overalls. He was flanked on either side by a chubby girl in jeans and a sweater, and a man in khakis and a button-down shirt.
Ten yards away from them were three teenagers. They stood with their hands behind their backs, each in front of a large, wooden pole. Tope noted their necks were tethered to the poles.
Good. No need to waste time hunting ferals.
“This area was used for the firing squad, during the Civil War. You’re familiar with the war between the states, I take it?”
General Tope nodded. He was familiar with every war in modern history.
“If you’re a collector, you might keep your eyes peeled for souvenirs. It’s pretty easy to spot old bullets and cartridges with the naked eye. See? There’s one right there. Might even be some Confederate DNA still on it.”
Plincer pointed at the ground.
This man is out of his goddamn mind, Tope thought.
“Can we get to it, Doctor? I have a meeting this afternoon.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
They approached the tall man and his companions.
“General Tope, these are three of my biggest successes. High level functioning, perfectly rational.”
“But totally psychotic,” Tope said.
“We prefer to use the term enhanced. The procedure enhances the brain’s aggression centers, triggering the neurotransmitter dopamine during violent acts. In layman’s terms, killing is an addiction. Causing harm gets them high.”
Tope frowned, simply because frowning made people try harder to please him.
“Do they follow orders?”
“But of course. Anything you’d like for them to do to our volunteers over there, they’d be happy to do. But first, I’d like to see the item I requested from you.”
Tope gestured for Benson to hold the metal briefcase while he opened it.
“Wonderful,” Plincer said, eyes twinkling. “The papers are in order?”
“Yes. Complete with bill of sale. I take it you’re an aficionado?”
The doctor shook his head. “No, not at all. I just have a healthy distrust of banks. And twenty-five million dollars, even in large bills, is a bit cumbersome.”
General Tope couldn’t care less. “Where are the notes and the serum?”
“Inside. I assumed you’d want to see the demonstration first.”
He nodded, closing the briefcase. “You may proceed, Doctor.”
“Certainly. Pick one of the enhanced and tell them what to do.”
“What are they capable of doing?”
“Whatever you’d like.”
Tope raised an eyebrow. He was getting more interested. “Torture? Mutilation? Rape? Murder?”
“Any and all of the above, if you wish.”
“Not to be rude, Doctor,” General Tope said, knowing he was being rude, “but I could order my bodyguard here to do any of those things, and he’d also obey.”
That probably wasn’t true. Tope knew that most men had their limits, and only a special few could commit atrocities without being affected.
“I have no doubt, General. But he wouldn’t enjoy it as much as they do. And he wouldn’t do it on his own if given the chance.”
“Fine,” Tope said. “The girl. Have her disembowel…” Tope studied at the three victims, then pointed. “That one.”
Sara was torn. Maybe the helicopter was sent by the authorities. Or maybe it was part of all the other bad things happening on this island.
So do I follow it, or search for the gun?
She hoped, needed, for the helicopter to be the good guys, coming to the rescue. Even if she had a weapon, what was she going to do? Kill Martin, Plincer, Lester, and Taylor? Sara had never fired a gun, but she knew most held six bullets, and some people could be shot multiple times without dying. And from recent experience on the beach, Sara knew guns were really loud. Firing one next to Jack’s fragile little ears would probably cause permanent hearing loss.
Perhaps she could use the gun to keep them at bay and save the kids, but they’d still be stuck on the island. Could she force Plincer to call Captain Prendick, and then force him to take them back to safety? It was sounding more and more far-fetched.
Or maybe she could save the kids and force the helicopter to take them to safety.
That made better sense. Get the gun. Take Plincer as a hostage. Then fly the hell out of here.
Now all Sara had to do was find a lone gun in two miles of forest.
She still had the compass, but realized it didn’t matter because she didn’t know which way to go. The cliff was north. The beach was east. But where was the gridiron?
That’s when another sense took over. Sara’s sense of smell.
Someone is cooking meat.
But Sara knew it wasn’t meat. It was something else. Her stomach threatened to tie itself into a knot.
Still, she had to follow it, because the smell would probably lead to her destination.
Tracking by smell wasn’t easy. Sara would take ten steps in a particular direction, lose the scent, and have to go back. The breeze was strong enough to mix and twist the odor, but not so strong she could simply follow it upwind.
But eventually Sara came upon something better than scent alone. Smoke.
Smoke could be followed. The thicker it got, the closer she got, and whenever the trees thinned out Sara could see the gray cloud climbing into the sky, the X marking the spot.
When she got closer, her mouth began to water, and she hated herself and her body for betraying her.
When she got really close, she saw that she wasn’t the only one drawn to the cookout.
At the sight of the first feral, Sara ducked behind an ash tree. She was still a good twenty yards away from the fire, and from Cindy’s earlier description, the girl had been only a few feet away when she lost the gun. Sara chanced another look, doing a head count.
It was tough to be accurate because of the bushes and tree cover, but she estimated there were between fifteen and twenty cannibals.
Sara didn’t like those odds. She had a bad leg and didn’t know the territory, plus it was daylight and much easier for them to see her. A chase would end in her being caught, and if she was caught…
Her stomach grumbled, and she cursed herself.
I’d just better make damn sure they don’t see me.
Sara moved slow and low, alternating her attention between the ferals and her footing. She didn’t want to step on a twig and make a sound, or worse, trip. The task absorbed her full concentration. Never before had she tried to be so precise in her movement, and never before was so much riding on her.
Halfway there and the sweat was running down Sara’s cheeks, stinging the cuts
Georgia had made with the scissors.
Two-thirds of the way there and she had to stop and crouch lower when one of the ferals turned his head in her direction. Sara waited, still as a deer, her injured leg beginning to cramp up, then shake.
The cannibal didn’t see her, and she continued forward.
Three quarters of the way there, she could finally see the gridiron. It was an awful thing, like a giant outdoor grill. She tried not to look at Meadow, caught in the middle. She tried not to look at the parts the people were eating.
She looked anyway.
It was nightmarish, a warped combination of familiarity and obscenity.
It also wasn’t Meadow in the fire. Though charred, and partially devoured, Sara saw enough of the body to tell it was Captain Prendick.
Which meant his boat was still here. If the helicopter route didn’t work, maybe they could sail off this godforsaken rock. Maybe they could all actually live through—
That’s when Jack began to cry.
She immediately shoved a finger in his mouth. He showed no interest in sucking, batting her hand away.
“Shhhh,” she whispered. “Please.”
He filled his lungs, his eyes squeezing shut, his tiny mouth stretching open, preparing to shout out to the whole world that he was there—
And Sara covered his mouth, muffling the howl.
Quiet, Jack. You have to be quiet.
Jack clenched his fist and his little arms shook in rage. Sara removed her hand, and the tail end of his cry echoed throughout the woods.
Sara took a quick peek at the ferals. No one had noticed her yet, but any second they would hear Jack’s cries. She scurried backward, retreating, and then noticed another group of the wild people, passing through the forest. Heading her way.
We’re surrounded.
Jack drew in another breath. He was getting ready for the biggest howl yet. Sara hunkered down, grabbing her son roughly by the arms, giving him a little shake.
He needed to stop crying. He needed to stop crying right now. The past twelve hours had been the most horrible of Sara’s entire life, and she was exhausted and hurt and hungry and scared and completely overwhelmed.