by Jack Kilborn
A walkie-talkie.
Cindy seized it, snugging it to her chest, and it let go with a loud burst of static hiss when she accidentally pressed a button.
She froze, holding her breath, listening for the inevitable sound of the cannibal reaching for her.
There was only silence.
Cindy waited, her hands shaking, her kidneys aching. If attacked, she needed to scream to alert Sara and Tyrone. She also needed to find a weapon. The radio had some heft, but she couldn’t risk damage by throwing or swinging it. The first aid kit was in a metal box. Heavier and stronger.
If he wakes up, scream first, then go for the kit.
Still no sound. Cindy hadn’t exhaled yet.
If she had to defend herself, she needed her hands free. Carefully feeling around the walkie-talkie, she discovered what she sought; a belt clip. Ever so slowly she hooked it onto the top of her pants.
Silence continued to pervade the tent. The cannibal wasn’t moving at all.
Cindy let her air out slowly, through her teeth, in an extended, soft hiss. She wanted to take another breath—her heart was thumping like mad—but she was too frightened.
Just get out of there. Get the hell out.
She began to back up, nice and easy, the quiet pressing down on her like a weight, when the obvious hit her.
Why isn’t he snoring anymore? Could he be awake?
That’s when the cannibal sprung up, winding his filthy arm around Cindy’s mouth before she had a chance to scream.
Sara felt ready to explode. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since Cindy crawled into the tent, but each second seemed like a little stretch of eternity in hell. Not being able to see her, not knowing what was happening to one of her kids, made Sara’s imagination run riot with atrocities.
She forced herself to count the seconds. A minute was more than enough time for Cindy to find the radio. After a minute, Sara was determined to go in after her.
Sara began a slow count to sixty.
“How long Cindy been in there?” Tyrone nudged her.
“Not long,” she whispered back.
The numbers ticked through Sara’s mind, and she pictured them as she thought of them, each one big and red and sounding like a gong.
By the time she reached number twenty, it felt like a year had passed.
“I’m going after her.”
Sara held Tyrone back. “Give her a minute.”
“Been more than a minute.”
The number thirty shone like a spotlight in Sara’s head. “He’s still asleep. She’s okay.”
“There were two of those cannibals,” Tyrone said.
Number thirty-four hung in the air, then disintegrated. “Two?”
“I just had a bad thought. Maybe the other guy is in the tent.”
Sara abandoned the count, springing up from the crouching position, marching through the thicket to the campsite.
It’s murder, Sara. You can’t murder another human being. Not while he’s asleep.
She stormed over to him, crossing the damp ground where blood had mixed with the dirt, making mud. Bits of sinew clung to her hiking boots, and organ meat squished beneath her feet.
This is cold-blooded. It’s not even self-defense.
Sara stood next to the sleeping cannibal, raising up her foot, ready to stomp down on his neck.
He’s asleep for chrissakes. You’re killing a defenseless, sleeping man.
The cannibal opened his eyes.
He’s not asleep anymore.
Sara brought her heel down as hard as she could. She put her weight into it, twisting her hips, trying to separate his head from his body.
But he moved at the last moment, and her foot hit his shoulder.
Then Sara was stumbling backward, thrown off balance, and the cannibal was on his feet and eyeing her malevolently, crouching in an attack position. He’d picked up his cutlery, the blood-stained fork in his right hand, a rusty steak knife in his left. Sara found her center, spread her feet, and waited for the charge.
Behind her, in the tent, Cindy screamed.
That distracted Sara long enough for the cannibal to slip inside Sara’s defenses, feinting with his left, jabbing the right at Sara’s thigh.
The fork penetrated her jeans, her skin, her muscle, and stuck firmly in the bone.
Sara spun, whipping her elbow around, hitting her attacker squarely in the nose. The cannibal staggered back, arms pinwheeling, and then tripped and fell onto his ass, right in the middle of the campfire.
He laid there for a second, then began to flap his limbs, almost like he was making a snow angel in the burning ashes. He cried out—trying to turn over—his legs getting tangled in some of the firewood—getting to his feet—slipping and falling face-first—getting to his feet again with his hair and beard on fire—and finally running into the woods, screaming like a police siren as he retreated into the night.
That’s when the pain hit. Sara doubled over, her hands fluttering around the utensil sticking out of her leg, afraid to touch it. This was worse than a charley horse, reducing Sara’s world to nothing but an agonizing throb. She whimpered, saw Tyrone in her peripheral vision. He was streaking out of the woods and heading for the tent.
Now there’s two of my kids in danger.
Sara slammed her eyes closed, clenched her fingers around the fork handle, and yanked.
She staggered sideways, her balance, her stomach, her mind all going wavy. Jerking her eyes open, Sara oriented herself and limped to the tent, ducking inside, seeing Tyrone struggling with a man, a man who was growling and biting a screaming Cindy on her shoulder.
Sara made a fist, pressing her thumb down hard across the top of her index finger knuckle, and threw the punch.
Her thumbnail jabbed into the cannibal’s eye. He opened his teeth and howled, allowing Tyrone the snake his arm across his neck. Sara grabbed the man’s torn shirt, and she and Tyrone manhandled him out of the tent, forcing him to his knees. The eyes she’d poked was bleeding. The other one was bloodshot and…crying.
He ceased struggling, his arms limp at his sides.
“I’m a bad man,” he croaked.
Sara paused. She was hurt, and sick to her stomach, and part of her knew she needed to end this monster’s life, but another, bigger part saw he was not only docile, but quite possible in need of help himself.
“Who… are you?” Sara asked.
“My name…is…John.”
Cindy crawled out of the tent, crying. She held a white gym sock to her bleeding shoulder.
“What’s your last name, John?”
He blinked. His body shook with sobs, but there were no tears.
“I can’t remember.”
“How many of, uh, your group, are on this island?”
“Twenty of us. Maybe more.” The wildness in his red eyes was still there, but behind it was a tinge of sanity. “We live like animals. And we enjoy it.”
Sara bent down, wincing at the pain in her leg. “What happened to you, John?”
“Someone brought me here. I don’t remember who. Brought me to the doctor. He did something…to my brain.”
“Dr. Plincer?” Sara asked.
John made a nodding motion, restricted by Tyrone’s grip.
“Maybe we can get you help, John.”
“I don’t want help. I’ve…done things. Killed people.”
“Maybe that’s not your fault.”
John’s eyes changed, going from docile to filled with rage. “It is my fault. I wanted to do all of those things. I still want to. Right now I want to tear you open and eat your beating heart.”
He grabbed Sara’s hair, pulling her close, his ugly mouth opening to bite her face. His breath was hot and the few teeth he had left were tinged red.
Tyrone pulled him back, muscling him to the ground. They wrestled for a moment, and then everyone heard the crack.
Both Tyrone and John stopped moving. Then, slowly, Tyrone disentangled himself, lett
ing John slump onto his face, unmoving.
John blinked. “I…I can’t feel my body.”
Tyrone scooted further away on his butt and elbows. “I think I broke his neck, man. I think I broke his fuckin’ neck.”
John let out a breath, blowing dirt away from his mouth. His eye darted around, frantic.
“You have to kill me.”
Sara went to Cindy, peeled the sock back. The bite was ragged, ugly, but not very deep. She limped over to the tent and almost stepped on the first aid kit. She picked the box up and opened it. Inside were bandages, hydrogen peroxide, acetaminophen, and—thank God—a mini flashlight.
John began to wail. “They’ll come back and eat me alive. Kill me. Please.”
“Tyrone. Come here.”
After pouring peroxide on Cindy’s shoulder, Sara had Tyrone hold out his hands. She dumped half the bottle into his palms, the blisters foaming pink and gray from blood and dirt.
“There are bottles of water inthe tent. Get a few, and each of you take some painkillers.” She handed him the acetaminophen, which he gingerly took using two fingers. “Don’t come out until I say so.”
Sara and Tyrone exchanged a knowing look, and he nodded, putting his arm around Cindy and leading her away. Sara moved over to John. He looked pathetic, sad, terrified. Human.
“I want a priest. Can you get me a priest? I want to confess my sins.”
“I’m sorry, John. There aren’t any priests here.”
With effort, Sara sat down next to him.
“I’ve done things. Horrible things. And I’ve enjoyed them. Killing and raping and eating people. Something is wrong, in my head. I need—I hunger—to hurt others.”
“It isn’t your fault.” Sara put a tentative hand on his matted hair.
“New people would come to the island. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes they were brought here. The doctor kept most of them, but he would give us a few. I think it amused him. Like throwing a mouse to cats.”
Sara closed her eyes, softly patted his head.
“One time, I remember, there was a girl. I got to her before the others did. Got to her and took her to a private spot. I ripped off her clothes. Then I took a stick. A big stick—”
His eyes got big, his smile growing as he talked. Sara placed her other hand under John’s chin, winding her fingers in his hair.
The crack wasn’t as loud this time. More like a pop.
Lester peered at the vomiting boy through the viewfinder, then pressed the button again. The flash went off, and he looked at the screen on his digital camera to see how the picture came out.
Very nice. He glanced up at the boy, who was looking around, wondering what was happening.
Time for Lester to show him.
Lester tucked the camera into the bib pocket of his overalls and walked out of the scrub brush. He smiled at the boy’s reaction, a mixture of fear and awe.
“The boy shouldn’t try to run. It will just make Lester mad.”
Lester strolled over, appearing casual but ready to bolt if the boy took off. But the boy stayed on his knees, mouth hanging open, some barf on his chin.
Kind of sexy.
Lester stood next to the boy and peered down at him. He reached down, and with his index finger, caressed the lad’s cheek.
“What is the boy’s name?”
“T…Tom.”
“Lester.”
Lester glanced down at the mess Tom made, locking his eyes onto one of the bigger chunks. He tried to remember all the things he’d ever put in his mouth, but knew he’d never be able to remember them all. If Lester could bite it, he had. But he didn’t think he’d ever eaten something that had already been eaten by someone else.
Unable to control the impulse, Lester snagged the piece of meat from the puddle of stomach acid. He opened his jaws and tossed it in like popcorn.
Tangy.
“Lester has a girlfriend,” Lester said, chewing.
“That’s…uh…cool.”
Lester nodded. “Does Tom have a girlfriend?”
Tom’s eyes were very wide. He shook his head. “No.”
“That’s sad. Does Tom have a boyfriend?” Lester asked.
The boy shook his head again.
“That’s good.” Lester got on his knees. He still towered over the boy, and had to lean down.
“Lester doesn’t have a boyfriend either. What a lucky day for Tom and Lester.”
Lester felt Tom scream in his mouth as he kissed the boy’s deliciously tangy lips.
Doctor Plincer got under the bed covers, then reached onto the nightstand for his earplugs. Subject 33 was really coaxing some screams out of his new playmate, and Plincer needed to get some sleep before the meeting with Kong Zhi-ou.
He found the two foam plugs by the base of the lamp, and spent a minute taking off his prosthetic ears and shoving the plugs into the holes. When the cries were dulled to a whisper, Plincer placed his glasses where the earplugs had been, switched off the light, and rested his head back on the pillow.
Oops. Almost forgot.
Plincer flicked the lamp back on, sat up, and spent a minute picking the facial putty out of the divots in his nose, chin and cheeks. When he had a decent sized ball of it, he set that next to his glasses and again killed the light.
The doctor actually did sympathize with the poor suffering girl. Sympathize, and empathize.
Plincer rested his hands on his bare chest and ran his fingers over the rubbery scars. There were several dozen gnarled, shiny bumps, in precise, even rows. It felt like touching a truck tire.
The plastic surgeons weren’t able to do skin grafts, because there was no place on the doctor’s body where skin could be harvested. His arms, legs, back, and even buttocks had the same scars.
Scars from Lester.
Doctor Plincer knew, firsthand, what it was like to be completely at the mercy of a psychopath. After the court ordered Lester into Plincer’s care, the doctor had been so intent on curing the teenager he hadn’t given enough thought to precautions. Lester was smart, and managed to escape his room one night and sneak into the doctor’s.
For two days, Doctor Plincer had been victimized by the boy. Lester stripped him naked, tied him up, and began the methodical process of biting him over his entire body.
Human beings can clench their teeth with a hundred and fifty pounds of force. It hurt worse than being pinched with pliers. Not to mention the obscene intimacy of it. Plincer often imagined he could still feel Lester’s lips, his warm breath, his slick tongue, on his skin. Followed by the piercing, tearing pain.
Plincer had screamed during the ordeal. Screamed until his throat went numb. And when Lester finished, when he’d covered almost every bitable scare inch on the Doctor’s body, he started over. Nibbling off the scabs. Reopening the wounds. Ramping the agony up to surreal levels.
The maid saved Plincer’s life. Coming in for the weekly cleaning, she heard the doctor’s whimpering and called the police.
Doctor Plincer needed over two hundred stitches and staples, and three pints of blood. The most extensive reconstruction work was done on his face and genitals, to little effect. It took him weeks to recover, and Plincer knew that perhaps he never truly did get over the psychological aspects of the attack.
But he didn’t blame Lester, any more than he could blame a shark for following its nature. When Plincer healed, he resumed his experiments with Lester. Curing him. Enhancing him.
Plincer sighed, digging another bit of putty out of the gap in the bridge of his nose and flicking it off into the dark. Funny, that he’d still have so much vanity he had to put on his face before the new arrivals saw him. He had no reason to care if they saw his disfigurement or not. Even if one of the female visitors on the island took a liking to Plincer, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Lester had bitten off those parts of him.
Chalk it up to an old man’s pride, Plincer thought. We’re all entitled to our little idiosyncrasies.
He
sighed deeply and burrowed his head into his pillow. If all went as planned, by this time tomorrow he would no longer have money troubles. He’d even be able to buy some better, more modern equipment, and have enough left over to feed those unfortunate ferals for a while.
Plincer allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps he should write a letter to his accountant, have him invest in a company that made ear plugs.
If Kong was going to do what Plincer anticipated, there would soon be a lot of screaming, all around the world.
The flashlight from the first aid kit was small, but it had a nice bright LED bulb. Sara clenched it between her teeth and bit down, hard, as she peeled off her jeans. The wound didn’t look too bad when she cleansed it; just four tiny punctures and a growing oval bruise. But it bled like hell and wouldn’t stop. Sara knew that a vein, or maybe an artery, was torn beneath the sin, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. She settled for wrapping it as tight as she could, then putting on a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater.
While Sara chugged a bottle of water she went through the backpacks, searching for anything useful. She pocketed some fingernail clippers, a lighter, and a compass when something caught her attention. Resting unfolded on the ground, like a dead dove, were the divorce papers.
Seeing them brought a lump to her throat.
Martin, her Martin, was out there, in the woods. So were Tom and Laneesha and Georgia. But Martin…
I’m more worried about him than the kids.
The thought surprised her. Here they were, a signature away from never seeing each other again; something Sara initiated. Yet the thought of Martin being killed—it scared her more than anything else.
Sara reached down, picked up the papers, and crumpled them into a ball.
If we get out of here, Martin, we’re going to find a way to make it work between us. I swear.
Then she left the tent to check on the kids. Both Tyrone and Cindy had put on shirts. Cindy had opted for something less baggy and a bit more flattering, a gray button-down top that showed she had a waist. Tyrone was in a familiar red and blue plaid shirt, but it wasn’t familiar on him.