Trapped (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  Tom got to his knees, letting the man see his hands. Lester raised the stick again.

  “No!” Cindy cried.

  In rapid succession, Lester jabbed Tom four more times. He was raising back for a fifth when Cindy said, “Lester.”

  Lester turned to look at her. He was grinning, a thin streak of drool running down his chin.

  “Don’t,” Tyrone told Cindy under his breath.

  But it was too late. Lester was coming over.

  “Is the Cindy girl jealous that the Tom boy is getting all the attention?”

  Cindy looked at Lester, then at the nail on the stick, which was glistening with Tom’s blood.

  “I just, uh, had a question, Lester. You said we’re meeting important people today. Who are we meeting?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Lester said.

  “But these people are important?”

  “Very important.”

  “And you said we need to behave. But if you keep poking us with that stick, we won’t be able to behave. We won’t even be able to move. Is that what you want?”

  Lester seemed to think about it, then slowly shook his head.

  “No. That wouldn’t be good.”

  Then, lightening quick, he thrust out the stick, stabbing Cindy in the arm.

  “But one little poke can’t hurt,” Lester said.

  Then the giant walked away, across the room, back up the stairs.

  Cindy clutched her arm, which felt like she’d been kicked by a mule, and stared out the window fully believing that this was going to be the last sunrise she ever saw.

  Dr. Plincer opened his eyes. He stretched, yawned, removed his earplugs, put on his glasses, and then forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where he sat down on the toilet to urinate. Running water and electricity were the only two utilities on the island, and both were limited. There were only three toilets and four sinks in the entire prison, and the water they used was rust-colored and tasted muddy.

  It was a big day today, so he showered. The electric generator used a lot of gasoline, and one of the biggest power hogs was the water heater, which Plincer kept on the lowest setting. The doctor stoically braved the lukewarm water, toweled off quickly, and then stood in front of the mirror to put on his face.

  First he shaved, never an easy task because of the extra bumps and divots. Then he spent ten minutes building up layers of scar putty, filling in holes and smoothing over rough edges. When he was finished, a bit of pancake make-up to blend. He checked his profile, found it to be suitable, and then dressed in slacks, a fresh shirt, and a clean lab coat.

  The dart gun was a pistol model, not accurate more than five feet, but able to be fired using just one hand. Plincer made sure it was loaded, and he put a fresh CO2 cartridge. Then it was off to make breakfast.

  The prison hallway was scream-free. Either Subject 33 had been unable to restrain himself and had killed his playmate too soon, or he was having a rest. Plincer was grateful for the silence. There was no better way to start a day than a cup of hot coffee and some quiet contemplation.

  He used bottled water for the coffee, and while it brewed he scrambled ten eggs in a large bowl. Plincer then took a loaf of bread out of the freezer, microwaved it until thawed, and dumped the slices into the eggs. As the bread soaked, he heated up the large cast iron skillet on the stove top.

  The secret to perfect French toast was timing. Timing, and just a dash of cinnamon and sugar. When the skillet was hot enough, he gave it a spritz of non-stick spray, then arranged the first four slices on the pan using a spatula. He flipped them at the exact right time, and took them off the heat when both sides were golden brown but the insides still soft. Plincer repeated this process, sipping coffee and musing about a neighbor he once had, a bitter old man who used to yell whenever anyone stepped on his lawn. Perhaps if the neighbor had taken pleasure from the simple things in life, such as making a nice breakfast, he wouldn’t have been so unpleasant.

  Doctor Plincer stocked the cart with the tray of toast, plates, glasses, a carton of orange juice, napkins, some plastic knives and forks, tiny carafes of maple syrup, and some dog biscuits.

  Getting it up the spiral staircase was a slow affair, one step at a time, making sure nothing fell off, but Plincer looked forward to it. Frankly, it was the only exercise he got during the day.

  He pushed the cart to Subject 33’s room at the end of the hallway, checked the slot to make sure he wasn’t in the antechamber, and took the dart pistol out of his lab coat.

  “Good morning. Breakfast is here.”

  Plincer waited, and after a few seconds Subject 33 put his hands through the slot in the second door. They were caked with dried blood.

  “One plate or two?”

  Subject 33 held out two fingers.

  “Excellent.”

  Doctor Plincer filled two plates with French toast, and set them on the floor of the antechamber, along with two glasses of OJ, forks, and syrup. After locking up, he pushed the cart down the hall to Martin’s room.

  Neither Martin, nor his guest, was in. Scratch that—Plincer heard someone whimpering inside the chest. A part of him wanted to open the chest, because he so rarely prepared meals for guests and a small part of him wanted to hear a bit of praise for his cooking. But whatever Martin was doing to her was Martin’s business, and the doctor wasn’t going to interfere.

  Subject 33 was enhanced to the point where he was impossible to control. Plincer was able to control Lester somewhat since his enhancement, but the alterations he’d made to his teeth, along with his freakish height, made it difficult for him to blend in to the general populace. But Martin; Martin was the embodiment of everything Plincer was trying to do.

  The doctor had taken a normal man and made him into a Level 6. Martin was truly evil, but also able to keep his tastes hidden and function within society. Function at a very high level. He’d been successful in maintaining both a job and a marriage, while keeping his killing secret.

  Plincer didn’t want to do anything to annoy Martin, so he moved along.

  Next it was on to Lester’s room. The tall man was sleeping, as was his pet.

  “Lester, my friend. It’s time to start your day. We’ve got a big one ahead of us.”

  In one fluid motion Lester levered himself out of bed and picked up the box of dog biscuits. He threw two into the pet crate, and popped one into his own mouth.

  “Lester, I made French toast. I wish you wouldn’t ruin your appetite with those things.”

  “The biscuits help support healthy teeth and bones,” Lester said, quoting the line on the box. “Lester likes healthy teeth.”

  “Do you have any idea where Martin is?”

  Lester shook his head.

  “After breakfast, meet me in the lab. We have to go over a few last minute things. And perhaps it’s time to change your pet’s hay. I believe it’s getting a bit stinky in here.”

  Doctor Plincer rolled the cart further down the hallway, to Georgia’s room. He paused, fearful that he’d set his hopes too high. If the procedure had been successful, Plincer could tout that he’d finally perfected the formula. If not, the meeting with Kong would require a bit more finesse.

  Time to find out.

  He placed his ear to the door, and heard a high-pitched screeching. A good sign, or perhaps not. If Georgia was tormenting the rat Lester had given her, she’d been properly enhanced. If, however, she was eating the rat, she would have to be tranked and left out with the feral people.

  Plincer didn’t knock. He unlocked the metal security door and pushed it open with one hand, aiming the gun with the other.

  Georgia was naked. The squirming, duct-taped rat in one hand. The scissors in the other. Blood was spattered on her bare breasts.

  The procedure had been a success.

  He pocketed the key and pulled the cart inside, the door closing behind him and locking automatically.

  “Good morning. I made French toast.”

  Geor
gia stared at him, neither hostile nor fearful.

  “Thank you. And thanks for what you’ve done to me.”

  If Plincer could still blush, he might have. “Yes, well, you were a perfect candidate for it, and an excellent subject. What you’re doing right now, with the rodent there, do you think you might enjoy doing that same thing to a person?”

  Georgia’s eyes lit up. “When?”

  “Sometime after breakfast. I’ll come to collect you. I’m assuming it doesn’t matter that you’d be doing it to one of your friends that you came to the island with.”

  “Those aren’t my friends.”

  “Yes, excellent, it’s a date then. Might I ask, do you like orange juice?”

  “Sure.”

  Georgia moved slowly toward him, swaying her hips. Rather than be embarrassed by her nudity, she seemed to flaunt it. One of the added benefits of the procedure. Grandiose narcissism.

  “I must ask you, tell you, to stay back. We need to establish some mutual trust first. You understand.”

  She nodded, running her tongue across her upper lip. “My eyes itch.”

  “There is a bottle of artificial tears in the bathroom, above the sink. That should relieve the redness. Let me set down your food.”

  He quickly made a plate for her, placing everything on the dresser.

  “The door is locked,” Georgia said. “Am I a prisoner?”

  “It’s for your own protection,” Plincer said, adding and mine too in his head. “Once we’re sure you’ve been successfully enhanced, you’ll be able to roam freely.”

  Georgia made an exaggerated pout. “Don’t you trust me, Dr. Plincer?”

  Plincer didn’t go there. “Enjoy the meal. I’ll be back later.”

  He fumbled to put the key in the lock, glancing back at Georgia several times to make sure she wasn’t sneaking up. When he finally got the door open, the girl was standing right next to him.

  The doctor yelped, surprised, raising up the dart gun. But Georgia had already caught his wrist, and she was strong for her size.

  “Relax, Doctor. I was just going to hold open the door while you pushed out the cart.”

  She stood next to him, her palm on the door. Plincer thanked her and quickly hustled out of there, the door closing and locking behind him.

  Doctor Plincer again faced the staircase, but going down was always easier, and the cart was considerable lighter. Then it was back to the kitchen. There were many pieces of French toast left, but no one on hand to eat them. He didn’t care for the dish himself. He supposed he could toss them out a window, let the ferals find them. Or maybe give them to the children in the cells downstairs.

  No. Bad idea. He didn’t want them throwing up in front of the company.

  In Dr. Plincer’s experience, people in terrible pain sometimes threw up.

  Since French toast didn’t reheat well, he went with the simplest solution and tossed the leftovers into the garbage.

  Such a shame, such a waste.

  When the last slice hit the can, he changed his mind and fished out all the food he’d thrown away. Piling it onto a paper plate, he went to the front door, checked the peephole for ferals, and then it opened up and left the plate on the ground.

  Throwing perfectly good food away was wrong, and Plincer didn’t want that on his conscience.

  Captain Prendick opened his eyes. For a moment he thought he was asleep on his boat, but then the headache hit, followed swiftly by the memory of how he received it.

  He’d just locked up the Randhurst woman and the two kids in Doc Plincer’s prison; something he would be getting a large bonus for. Martin had asked him to stay close and ready, just in case. Prendick understood why. He hated coming to the island. When he did his monthly supply drop-off, it was during the day. Being here at night really upped the danger quotient.

  He hadn’t seen a single feral on his walk back to the beach. He’d heard things, but figured they feared him too much to try anything.

  Then, when he was reaching into the bushes to drag out his dinghy, he got whacked from behind.

  Now he was naked, lying on his back and locked in some kind of strange cage. It was in a clearing, and to his right was a bed of coals, glowing orange. Prendick had no illusions what those coals were for. He checked the other side, and could see his clothes in a pile just a few feet away on his left.

  Was my gun in the pile as well?

  He couldn’t tell, and couldn’t reach. The cage gave him no freedom to move, the bars crisscrossing his chest and back. It was sort of like being the meat in an iron sandwich.

  Pendrick knew it was the ferals. It had to be. But he didn’t see any of them around so he was able to control his panic. This cage had to have some kind of locking mechanism, something that didn’t involve any kind of key, because those cannibals wouldn’t have keys. That meant a crossbar, or some sort of lever set-up. He began to explore the bars with his fingers, seeking out the hinges. They were covered with a thick layer of charred grease.

  “Hello, Prendick.”

  Someone was standing over him, but Prendick couldn’t crane his neck back far enough to see who it was.

  “Who is it? Christ, you gotta help me. Those goddamn savages are going to roast me alive. See if there’s a latch on this cage.”

  Movement, to his right. He looked, and saw the figure walk next to him and crouch down. His face was bathed in the soft, orange light from the coals, and Prendick sighed in relief when he recognized Martin.

  “It’s not a cage. It’s a gridiron.”

  “I don’t give a shit what it’s called, Martin. Get me out of this thing.”

  Martin smiled. “Now that would be counter-productive. Who do you think put you in this thing in the first place?”

  Prendick didn’t think that was funny at all. He knew Martin was a killer. What else could explain the many trips Martin took to the island with a companion, only to be alone when Prendick picked him up? But he also knew Martin needed him. There weren’t too many don’t ask/don’t tell captains on Lake Huron.

  “Seriously, Martin. Let me out before those freaks come back.”

  “Seriously, Captain Prendick. I’m the one who hit you on the head, carried you here, and put you in the gridiron. Both Doctor Plincer and I have grown tired of your escalating prices. So we decided that I would be the supplier from now on. I’ll need your boat, of course. I’m assuming it’s paid for, with all the money we’ve given you over the years. Where’s the title on that, by the way?”

  Prendick read Martin’s face, looking for the joke, the lie. But the man looked serious.

  “I haven’t bought the boat yet. Most of the money the doctor gives me goes to the airlines. I have a mother in Florida that I visit all the time. Seriously, you have to believe me.”

  Martin stared at him. Prendick felt sweat break out over his entire body, despite the cool morning air.

  “Martin, I swear. If you think the cost of my services is too high, I’m happy to renegotiate. Hell, I’ll even throw in some freebies. Sort of like frequent flyer miles. You’ve been a great customer, and I don’t want to lose you.”

  Martin moved closer. Prendick saw a glint in his blue eyes.

  “Where’s the title to the boat, Captain Prendick?”

  “I haven’t paid it off yet. I swear.”

  “I see. Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Martin reached down, grabbing the bottom bar of the cage. He kept his back straight and lifted with his legs, tilting the gridiron, and Prendick, onto the side. Prendick eyed the hot coals, just a simple push away.

  “Martin! Wait! We can talk this out!”

  “I built this gridiron myself. Always was curious to try one, after reading about them.

  While it delivers some deliciously slow and agonizing deaths, it wasn’t hands-on enough for my taste. So I gave it to the ferals. They’ve discovered a benefit beyond its intended purpose. Cooking their food. I find the whole thing rather distasteful, really. But w
ho am I to look down my nose at their cuisine? There isn’t much else to eat on this island.”

  Prendick felt hysteria creeping up his spine. He fought to maintain control. “Martin, please, I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”

  “Where’s that boat title, captain?”

  “If I tell you, will you promise not to push me onto those coals?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do I have your word?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Prendick could feel the heat rising from the coal bed. The thought of being pressed against them, unable to pull away, was the most terrifying prospect he’d ever considered.

  “Behind Goldie’s tank, in the safe. The combination is my birthday, three, twenty-nine, seventy. I’ll even sign the title over to you.”

  “How gracious of you. But that won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can adequately forge your signature.”

  Prendick felt the gridiron shift.

  “Martin!” he impotently cried. “You promised!”

  “I’m a killer, Captain Prendick. Certainly you could have guessed I’m a liar as well.”

  Prendick screamed at the gridiron tipped over, dropping him face-first onto the burning coals.

  Kong opened his eyes. He’d gotten exactly one hour of sleep. Not ideal, but it would do. He got out of bed and went into the toilet. The whore was tied up in the bathtub. She’d died sometime during his slumber. No big loss there, but an inconvenience. Kong had desired a shower, but he found bathing with corpses to be distasteful.

  He brushed his teeth, shaved, combed his hair, and dressed in his new clothes, perfectly timing the completion of the Windsor knot on his tie with the knock at the door.

  It would appear that even American Chinese worked at being punctual.

  He greeted the two new arrivals in Mandarin, and was pleased when they answered back in kind. Kong hadn’t met either of them before, and didn’t plan on seeing either of them again. One held an oversized metal briefcase, the other a large, empty suitcase. This also pleased him. They had planned ahead.

  “The whore is in the bathtub,” he told them, using his native tongue. “Next time, send someone with a stronger constitution.”