Trapped (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  Sara raised the weapon in her hand, pointing it at the tall man.

  “Stop,” she said, Not loud enough to attract undesired attention, but hard enough to show it wasn’t a request, but rather an order.

  The tall man stood still, his arms still outstretched. “The woman has a flare gun.”

  Sara had hoped it would be mistaken for the real thing, but she rolled with it. “And if you come any closer, I’m going to shoot it at you. It doesn’t shoot bullets, but I’m pretty sure it can set you on fire.”

  He lowered his arms and titled his head at an angle, like a confused dog.

  “Is the woman Martin’s wife?”

  She wasn’t prepared for the question, but she answered. “Yes. I’m Sara.”

  “Lester will take the Sara woman to Martin.”

  “Where is Martin?”

  “Martin is at the prison. With Tom boy, and Georgia girl, and Doctor.”

  “Doctor Plincer.” Sara felt the lump in her throat. “And you’re Lester Paks.”

  “Lester is Lester Paks. Doctor Plincer is Lester’s friend. Martin is Lester’s friend. The Sara woman should come with Lester.”

  Sara’s hand was shaking now. She wanted this man to get the hell away from her and the kids. But first…

  “Is Joseph there? Joe? Joe Randhurst?”

  Lester smiled, baring teeth that looked like they belonged to an alligator. “Yes. Joe is there.”

  Sara limped in front of Cindy and Tyrone, putting herself between them and the serial killer. Her gun hand was shaking, but she made sure her words were strong.

  “Thank you for talking with us, Lester. But we aren’t going to go with you right now.” She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. “We’d like you to go away.”

  Lester pulled something out of his pocket, and Sara cringed, trying to shield the kids. But Lester didn’t have a weapon. It was only a camera.

  He snapped a picture, the flash momentarily blinding her.

  “The Sara woman is pretty.”

  Sara blinked a few times, tried to focus.

  “Thank you for the compliment, Lester. Now you really do have to go. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

  Lester took another picture.

  “I’m serious, Lester. It’s time for you to leave.”

  A tongue flicked out of Lester’s mouth, running across his bottom lip. “Lester is going to ask Martin. Lester will ask. Lester wants permission. Lester wants permission to bite the Sara woman’s pretty face off.”

  He opened and closed his jaw several times, his sharp teeth making clicking sounds.

  “Get. The fuck. Back.” Sara said. “Now.”

  Lester raised the camera, took one more picture, and then slipped into the woods.

  Sara stood guard for a moment, listened to the woods. All she heard were crickets.

  “That was seriously effed up,” Tyrone said. “I would have shot his ugly ass.”

  Sara nodded. “Me too. But the flare gun is empty. I couldn’t find any cartridges.” She looked over her shoulder. “Let’s get going. I think we’re really close.”

  Sara led them through the woods, following the compass, the water sounds getting stronger until…

  “It’s the beach,” Cindy said, her enthusiasm making her sound ten years younger.

  Sara was relieved as well. That relief became excitement when she saw the running lights of a boat moored offshore. She headed for the boat, her leg hurting a little bit less, her energy level kicking up several degrees.

  “Do we have to swim to it?”

  “No, Cindy. The Captain will use the dinghy again.”

  The dinghy was a sixteen foot inflatable, shaped like a large U. It sat five. When they’d arrived at the island, it took two trips to get everyone from the boat to the shore. Sara listened for the outboard motor, but the lake was quiet.

  “Maybe he just got here,” Tyrone said.

  “Or maybe he’s already here.”

  Sara spun around. Captain Prendick stood on the sand. Sara’s joy in seeing him was immediately dampened when she saw the rifle the pistol in his hand. It was pointed at her.

  “Drop the flare gun, Mrs. Randhurst.”

  “Captain, what are—”

  He fired. The bullet went well over Sara’s head, but the sound was so loud and such a surprise she almost fell over.

  “Drop it. I have orders to take you to the prison. If you don’t want to come willingly, I was told to shoot you in the leg and leave you for the ferals.”

  Sara dropped the empty flare gun. “You work for Dr. Plincer.”

  Prendick shrugged. “I’m his supply man. He needs something, he pays me to get it for him. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship. Now start heading up the shore. Anyone tries to run, they’re a cannibal snack.”

  “What do we do?” Cindy whispered.

  “What he says.”

  They began to march back the way they came. But Sara wasn’t ready to give up yet. Being at Dr. Plincer’s tender mercies was a worse proposition than fighting it out with the wild people. Prendick obviously hadn’t called the Coast Guard, like he said. But maybe he didn’t know she had. Which meant it was just a question of stalling him until they arrived.

  “You’re probably taking us to our deaths,” she said, over her shoulder.

  “Maybe. Of maybe you’ll just wind up crazy with a taste for other people.”

  “If it’s money you want…”

  Prendick grinned, and it was an ugly thing. “I was wondering when you’d get to that. Everyone tries that, eventually. I’d happily listen to any offer, but the problem is the pay-off. You could promise me money, but then instead go to the police when we get back to the mainland.”

  “I could make a bank transfer. All I need is a cell phone.”

  “Again, what’s to stop you from going to the authorities?”

  Sara glanced at the water, looking for other boats. There were no other lights for miles. She stopped walking, and stared at Prendick.

  “Maybe I can offer you something else.”

  He smiled. “I get that offer a lot, too. But there’s still the law thing. I let you go, I get in trouble.”

  Sara took another look at the water, then began to walk toward Prendick.

  “Maybe I can convince you I won’t say anything.”

  Prendick shook his head. “I find you very attractive, Mrs. Randhurst. But I’ll be honest, here. Having to hold a gun on a woman while I make love to her isn’t exactly a turn on.”

  “I’ll hold it for you,” Tyrone said.

  “Nice try, kid. But the answer is no. Besides, I don’t want you thinking that you just need to stall me until the Coast guard gets here.” Prendick pinched his nostrils together. “Mrs. Randhurst, this is the Coast Guard. We have been informed of your situation. Estimated time of arrival is nineteen minutes.”

  Sara felt herself deflate.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Prendick said. “The radio I gave you was broken. Only worked on my frequency.”

  In a burst of anger, Sara unclipped the walkie-talkie from her belt and pitched it at him. She missed by two feet. He bent down and picked it up, keeping the gun on her the whole time.

  “I told you to pick another island, Mrs. Randhurst. I tried to insist. But you wanted this one. Now turn around and get to walking, or I will shoot you.”

  “You’re a bastard,” Sara said, with as much venom as she could muster.

  “I’ve been called worse, by better. Now move your ass, bitch. Or you can walk the rest of the way with a broken jaw.”

  Captain Prendick pulled the heavy iron door closed, then wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.

  He’d lied to Mrs. Randhurst. Several times, actually. But the doozy was when he’d told her he didn’t enjoy making love to a woman while holding a gun to her head.

  He actually liked it quite a lot. In fact, the last three times Prendick got laid involved that very scenario. Had he been alone with S
ara on the beach, he would have definitely gotten his groove on.

  But those kids had been there too. Not that Prendick had any sort of performance anxiety. It just wasn’t easy to drill some broad while making sure they didn’t run off.

  After they were safely locked up, Prendick did seriously consider throwing Mrs. Randhurst up against the bars and going at it.

  But he didn’t do it. He’d wanted to. It’s not like it mattered. Everyone who came here was as good as dead. Giving them a final toss before they met their maker was throwing a starving dog a bone.

  Heh heh. Bone.

  The Randhurst woman, though, didn’t have that desperate, needy, broken look about here. She looked like, if given the chance, she would kick Prendick’s ass.

  So he locked her up with the kids, and left horny and frustrated.

  It never occurred to Prendick to try anything with the girl. She was too young, and he considered himself a good man.

  Halfway back to the beach, he heard something in the woods. He stopped, listening, and there was only the sound of crickets. But when he started to walk again, the sound repeated.

  Those damn wild people?

  They’d become more brazen lately. Last time he’d dropped off supplies, two of them had even come up to him, waving sticks and hooting like monkeys. He shot at them a few times, scared them off.

  If they were following him now, he’d do the same thing. But this time, he wouldn’t miss.

  Prendick had never taken a life, but he would if he had to. He wasn’t some rube, unable to defend himself. If cornered, he knew he could be as bad as they come.

  He flicked the safety off on his pistol and dared those bastards to try something.

  There was no way in hell any wild people 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 was in an old prison cell, but like none he’d ever seen before, and Tyrone had some jail experience. These 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 kickin’ on them for half an hour.

  That asshole captain locked them up after marching them here, then jetted. And if the place wasn’t dank and scary enough, somewhere else in the building, someone was screaming like mad. Tyrone tried hard to block it out, to not think about it, but he was pretty sure it was Laneesha.

  It was 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.

  Tyrone 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. The captain had turned off the lights when he left.

  Sara hadn’t said anything since being put in the cell. 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 boy needed to man up.

  “Tom, please, tell me what happened. Do you know where Martin is?”

  “Martin.” Sniffle. “Martin saved me.” Sniffle. “From Lester.”

  “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 pile of bones.”

  The lights went on, the surprise of it making Tyrone 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.

  “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 that 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 mold 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 an old wooden chest, a wheelchair, and a pegboard, on which a wicked assortment of knives and saws hung.

  “Good morning, sunshine.”

  Martin walked into view. He looked happier than he had in a long time.

  “Martin, what’s—”

  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’ve figured it out by now.”

  Sara took a moment, until she was sure she could speak without breaking down. This betrayal was so unexpected, so absolute, she felt she had to make sense of it.

  “Six years ago, Joe went missing. You were with him, on his boat. You came here.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Plincer got 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’s voice was quavering.

  “No. What I said in my campfire story was true. Joe and I and six others. Two friends of his, and four women.” He sat down. “Did you really think I was faithful all these years?”