by Jack Kilborn
She held her breath, Laneesha clinging to her arm so hard it hurt, listening to the rustling as it faded out. For a bad moment Sara felt like she was locked in that awful trunk again, waiting for that rapist to come for her. The darkness was too big, too heavy, pressing on her from all sides and making it impossible to move.
“Sara?”
Martin.
“Are you and Laneesha okay?”
His voice broke the spell, and Sara tore away from Laneesha and ran to him, throwing her arms around his familiar form, the hug feeling so good and right that it made the desperation of their predicament fade just a little bit.
Then the relief was replaced by confusion, and anger. She pushed Martin away, holding him at arm’s length.
“Martin, what the hell is going on?”
Sara felt his shoulders slump. His voice was thick, pained, and he winced when he spoke. “I don’t know.”
“That whole campfire story. That civil war prison. You made that up. Right?”
“No. I mean…it’s just a story. A story that I remember from camp when I was a kid in Boy Scouts. Scared the wits out of me and my little brother. But it’s not true. It can’t be true.”
“What happened back at the campsite? Were you dragged off?”
“That was supposed to be a joke. I was going to pop out and scare everyone. But before I could, something grabbed me, strung me up.”
“So you don’t know what’s going on?”
“Honey, I swear, I’m just as freaked out as you are. I picked this island because I’ve been here before. I didn’t know there was anyone else here; Sara. Jesus, I would never do anything to hurt you or the kids. You know that.”
Sara did know that. Martin got moody sometimes, but he was one of the gentlest men she ever met. This man would catch and release spiders he found in the house rather than kill them. Sara knew he’d gladly die to defend her.
“What about Plincer? You said this was Plincer’s island. That name sounds familiar.”
“That’s just what we’ve always called this island. Sara, we need to get out of here. When they grabbed me—I counted at least five of those people. Maybe more. We need to get back to the campsite. Do you have the flashlight?”
“It died.”
“Give it here.”
Sara handed the flashlight over. Her husband moaned when he took it.
“Help me, we need to open it.”
Her fingers grazed his swollen hands, then grasped them gently. Together they unscrewed the back off the Maglite. Martin dumped the batteries onto his palm.
“Do you have an emery board?”
“No. Laneesha? You have a nail file?”
“I don’ go nowhere without one. Y’all don’ allow no acrylics, so I gotta make do with what God gave me.”
“Let me borrow it,” Martin said.
Laneesha handed Sara the thin strip of cardboard, the size of a popsicle stick. Martin pressed the batteries between his palms.
“Sand the tops and bottoms. Really rough them up. And then dab the ends in the blood on my wrists. This’ll make them more conductive, suck a bit more energy out of them.”
Sara followed instructions, then popped the Ds back into the flashlight. Light trickled out, faint yellow but better than nothing. She swept it over the trees. If she just found a single orange ribbon, they could get their bearings and get back to the campsite. Then they could use the radio, call for help, and get off this crazy island.
Sara spotted orange, but it was dead leaves, not a ribbon. The strips were phosphorescent, and glowed like reflectors when light hit them. Why couldn’t they find any?
“Where the hell are those ribbons?”
Martin put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find them.”
She flicked the beam from one trunk, to another, to another. Nothing.
“We must have tied a few dozen.”
“We’ll find them.”
Sara spun around, tried the other direction. All the trees looked the same. Every damn tree looked the same. They just needed to find one, dammit. This island wasn’t that big. How hard could it be to find a single goddamn…
Then Sara heard something horrible.
“Oh, god, no…”
In the distance. Faint, but obvious.
Screaming.
“Can you hear that?”
“What, hon?”
“Someone screaming.”
Martin looked around. “That’s the wind.”
“It’s not the wind. It’s one of the kids. Do you hear it Laneesha?”
The teen cocked her head. “I don’ hear nothin’.”
Sara began to walk faster. “Which direction is it coming from? We have to help.”
“Sara…you need to calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down, Martin. That’s one of our kids out there.”
The screams seemed to get louder, more frantic. What was happening to that poor child? Sara knew, more than most, about the terrible things men could do, the depths of depravity trolled by those inclined to cause harm. She understood what is was like to be at someone’s mercy, and that some had no mercy at all. The thought of that happening to one of her kids was—
Sara felt herself get grabbed from behind. She went on automatic, widening her stance, shifting her body to flip the attacker. But he got his leg between hers, preventing her leverage, one hand snaking over her mouth and the other reaching for the flashlight.
Sara bared her teeth, ready to chew the bastard’s fingers off, when Martin’s voice whispered in her ear.
“Kill the light. They found us.”
Sara tapped the Maglite button just as she noticed three…four…six…no, at least eight people—filthy and ragged and obviously insane—walk into the clearing just ten yards ahead of them.
Cindy watched Tom turn the gun on her, so clear and precise that it seemed like slow-motion. He aimed it at her chest. She could feel a cold spot where the bullet would enter, right next to her heart. It made her knees shake.
Growing up in northern Michigan, Cindy knew guns. Her dad had several, and when money was tight—and it usually was—he would supplement groceries with fresh rabbit, possum, and deer.
Knowing the damage guns could do, and the respect they demanded, made her understand the depths of Tom’s stupidity. Even at this distance she could see the pistol was cocked, which meant the slightest touch of the trigger, or even dropping the gun, could cause it to fire.
I made Cindy realize, with a combination of both fear and relief, that she didn’t want to die.
Being in rehab before, and being around other addicts, showed Cindy how deadly meth was. It killed you three times. First, it killed your will, making you a slave to another fix. Then it killed your looks, turning you into a toothless, underweight skeleton. Then it finally snuffed out your life, but by that point the end was welcome.
Cindy had begged, borrowed, and stolen to get high, giving up everything she cared about. She even had meth mouth, her teeth starting to rot in her head, losing three molars before being put into the Center. Her first few months at the Center, Cindy didn’t care if she lived or died. She thought wanted to straighten out her life, but she was unsure if that was just the therapy talking.
But now she knew. Staring down the barrel of the gun, Cindy wanted to live.
“Tom. Don’t point that at me. It’s not funny.”
Tom stuck out his chest. “Who’s trying to be funny? I know what you—what all of you—think of me. You think I’m some kind of joke. You laughing at me now?”
Cindy cast a quick glance at Tyrone, his knees bent and his head slightly lowered, and figured he was getting ready to rush Tom. Tyrone was fast, but bullets were faster.
“I never thought you were a joke, Tom. I always liked you.”
“Is that why you were holding hands with Tyrone? You pretending he was me?”
“If you wanted to hold my hand, all you had to do was ask. But how much do you think pointing a gun a
t me will make me like you?”
“I don’t care who likes me.”
“Sure you do, Tom. Isn’t that why you stole that car? For attention? But there’s good attention and bad attention. This is just more bad attention.”
“Give me a break, Cindy. I’m not the loser here. How many guys you suck off to get a fix? Is that why you’re playing Tyrone? You think he’s got some ice?”
Anger replaced some of Cindy’s fear.
“Do you like it here, Tom? Because if you shoot me, the place you’re going will be a lot worse, and for a much longer time. No juvee hall. You’ll be tried as an adult, stuck in general pop. Then we’ll see how many guys you suck off to stay alive.”
Tom lowered the gun, just a fraction. Then Tyrone lunged, crossing the distance between him and Tom in two steps, driving a shoulder into the kid’s chest while stiff-arming Tom’s gun hand up and away from Cindy.
Tom toppled like he was on hinges, the gun arcing out of his hand and plopping into the campfire with a puff of sparks.
Cindy’s automatic instinct was to reach for it, but she stopped. She’d gotten burned before. Second degree on both hands. That’s why she didn’t roast a hotdog or marshmallows earlier. Fire scared the crap out of Cindy.
She often had nightmares about it. The meth lab, her friend cooking a batch, the flask of chemicals exploding and setting him ablaze. He ran at her, screaming, and she had to push him away to keep from dying herself, scorching her hands in the process. They healed, with minimal scarring, but the pain wasn’t anything she’d ever forget.
Badly as she wanted the gun, Cindy knew there was no way she’d reach into fire to get it.
Instead, she ran toward Tyrone and Tom. Tyrone was straddling him, one hand on Tom’s neck, the other raised to punch him in the face.
Cindy caught Tyrone’s fist, held it back.
“Don’t.”
“Fool needs to be taught.”
“He’s off his medicine, Tyrone. Beating him up won’t teach him anything.”
Tom looked small, terrified, a big difference from the swaggering macho dipshit he’d been seconds ago.
“Apologize to the lady,” Tyrone told him.
Tom wheezed out, “I’m sorry.”
“You ever gonna try that shit again?”
Tom shook his head, much as he could with his throat being squeezed.
“We’re all on the same side, fool. We gotta watch each other’s backs. And y’all are trippin’ on Clint Eastwood. Be cool.”
Tom nodded, and Tyrone got off him. Cindy still held his fist, which opened and then clasped her hand, and then he turned and looked at her, his face soft and his pupils wide. His free hand slid around her waist, pulling her a little closer, and Cindy felt her legs get weak again.
Tom had been wrong. She hadn’t ever done anything sexual for drugs. When she was so far gone she was willing to, the boys she hung out with her too far gone to want any. So her experience was limited to a few French kisses, and a freshman year groping session on a couch that felt more like wrestling than foreplay.
But looking up at Tyrone, she felt her knees start to shake for the second time in only a few minutes, and as his lips moved slightly closer she tilted her chin up and began to close her eyes.
“Jesus!”
Tom’s outburst was followed by him tearing ass into the woods, disappearing into the dark.
Both Cindy and Tyrone looked in the opposite direction, at what had made Tom run.
Three men stood along the tree line. They were each tall and thin, dressed in dirty, ripped clothes. Cindy knew Martin had made up that Civil War cannibal story, but that’s exactly what these men looked like. Like crazed cannibals out of a 70’s horror movie.
“What do you want?” Tyrone said, moving Cindy behind him.
Astonishingly, the one in the middle stepped forward, and out of his pockets he pulled a rusty knife and fork.
Meadow had gone insane with pain, sometime shortly after his eyes boiled and burst. But now, even though a thin thread of consciousness remained, he was at peace. The agony was gone. He had no way of knowing it was because most of the nerves on the front side of his body had burned away, but had he known, he wouldn’t have cared. All that mattered was he didn’t hurt anymore. His throat was too swollen to scream anyway.
Then they flipped him over onto his uncooked side, and the screaming began again.
When Georgia felt Lester’s horrible teeth begin to pierce her tongue, she squeezed his testicles. Not hard enough to cause damage, but as a warning; if he didn’t let up, neither would she.
Lester’s jaw clenched, and Georgia realized she’d judged him wrong. He was going to bite off her tongue, and her lips, and her face, and that would just be the beginning. The first man she’d ever kissed was going to make headcheese out of her.
But then his mouth opened, his own tongue snaking out of her mouth and across her lips in a way that made her chest feel heavy and her breath quicken. He stuck the tip into her ear, sending sparks throughout her body. His tongue flicked across his chin, down her neck, and then Georgia was gently lowered onto her back. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he tugged her sweater up over her head.
This was all happening fast. Too fast. She’d never done anything like this before, and she didn’t know this guy at all. Plus he was psychotic. Georgia knew she should be scared, and maybe she was. Her heart was beating so fast she couldn’t differentiate between fear and exhilaration. Then Lester had her bra up, around her neck, not a strangle move but enough to show her he was in control. His hot breath was on her chest, and then his horrible teeth were nibbling on her breasts, her nipples. First one, then the other, the points barely grazing her skin, causing pin-pricks of pure sensation. Georgia knew that if he wanted to he could tear them off, chew them up, turn this exquisite pleasure into unbearable pain, and in some sick way that made it even more exciting.
Then his head went lower, fingers fumbling for her jeans, and Georgia began to struggle in earnest, not wanting his face anywhere near that part of her, not wanting those teeth to so much as—
“Uhhnnn.”
Lester didn’t use his teeth. He used his tongue, and his fingers, and he was gentle and insistent and she wound her fists in his hair and pulled him closer and ground into him even though she was terrified, grunting deep within her chest.
And then his pointy teeth locked onto her and he bit down.
When Martin was a little boy, he wanted to be a doctor. He didn’t really have an interest in medicine, and got woozy at the sight of blood. But he had an inner drive to care for people who needed help.
At fifteen years old he and his older brother Joe went on a camping trip, a tradition that began when both boys were younger and would continue on into adulthood. This particular excursion was in Michigan’s upper peninsula. Three days in the woods, no adult supervision. Martin and Joe didn’t suffer from the sibling rivalry that plagued most brothers born a year apart, and they were the best of friends. Camping with Joe was Martin’s favorite time of the year.
The second day into their hike, Joe slipped and broke his leg—a nasty compound fracture that swelled up to the size of a melon. It was a decade before cell phones and GPS became commonplace, and a compass miscalculation put them two miles from the spot they told their parents they would be. Worst of all, it had happened in gray wolf territory. Joe was hurt so bad he couldn’t move, drifting in and out of consciousness. If Martin left him, chances were high the wolves would kill Joe before he could return with help.
So Martin stayed with his brother, gathering food and water, keeping the fire going. And most importantly, talking.
Martin hadn’t understood the true power of words before that fateful trip. How talking about the future, of dreams and hopes, of fears and failures, could sustain a person in an increasingly hopeless situation. Martin learned more about Joe than he ever could have imagined. He also learned about himself. As sure as man needed to eat, sleep, and breat
he, he needed to communicate.
The boys were rescued after four days. In a way, Martin was almost sad to see it end. He had bonded with, and helped save, a human being, and that was rewarding on a level he’d never dreamed possible.
Ironic how, so many years later, Joe would wind up in even worse trouble.
As for Martin, this incident led him from an interest in medicine to an interest in social science and psychology. Human nature, and the way people interact, never ceased to fascinate Martin. He thought he was unique in this curiosity, until he met Sara.
Sara’s desire to help others was only matched by her desire to learn. Unlike Martin, who believed that certain psychological problems could inhibit socialization, Sara was convinced that actions, not thoughts, dictated a person’s social potential. They were a perfect match for getting wayward youth back on track, Martin working on healing their psyches, Sara teaching them how to integrate into society.
And now, with the funding for the Center being cut, Martin was cut off from Sara as well. He’d hoped, on Plincer’s Island, to bond with Sara in a way they’d never bonded before.
But being attacked and hunted like animals hadn’t been part of the plan.
Martin hurt. His swollen hands throbbed in time with his pulse, and his face felt like it been pulled off and sewn back on off-center. But these aches disappeared when he saw the tribe of crazies cross his path only a few dozen feet ahead.
Being caught by them once was enough for a lifetime, and the thought that they might get Sara or Laneesha was unacceptable. Because of this, his pain was surpassed by a surge of adrenalin that made him grab both women and drag them face-first to the ground. The trio collectively held their breath. Martin’s imagination boiled with images of horrific tortures and screaming victims, and he squeezed his eyes shut and decided, if need be, he’d fight to the death right here rather than let those bastards take him again.
The tribe moved closer, not bothering with stealth, marching single file and slapping wayward branches out of their way. Martin felt Laneesha squirm, and he kept hard pressure on her shoulder, preventing her from bolting and giving away their position.