Trapped (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  The man with the suitcase nodded, apologized, and hurried to the bathroom as Kong turned his attention to his companion.

  “Show me,” Kong ordered.

  The man placed the briefcase on the bed, popped the latches, and opened the lid.

  Kong stared. He didn’t so much as flinch, but he was shocked that something worth so much money was so small.

  Kong told the man to leave, so entranced by what was on the bed that he wasn’t even aware he’d used the word qing, meaning please, as if making a request rather than a command.

  The man bowed, then hurried into the bathroom. The shower came on—the men rinsing away the blood. A minute later, the duo were lugging out a bulging and obviously heavy suitcase.

  Kong paid them no mind as they left. There were also papers in the briefcase, but Kong didn’t bother checking them, knowing they were in order. He closed the lid and shook his head, marveling at what Westerners considered valuable. For the same price he could get a hundred such items in China, any of which would make this pale in comparison.

  But then it would be difficult to carry a hundred items in one small case. He gave Plincer a modicum of respect for his ingenuity. There weren’t many items that were portable, legally obtainable, could easily pass through airport security, and were worth twenty-five million dollars.

  Kong didn’t bother checking his watch because he already knew the time in his head. His plane would be in a little over an hour, enough time for him to endure a bland, banal representation of what people in this country considered breakfast. Hopefully one of those garish airport restaurants served Wulong tea, though he wasn’t holding out much hope.

  He picked up the briefcase and headed out, confident that he was about to take the first step in changing the future of China, and by extension, the future of the world.

  Laneesha opened her eyes. But she couldn’t see anything, only feel a sharp yet empty throb.

  That was because her eyeballs were gone.

  Sara wasn’t a religious person. She understood the social and psychological needs that religion sated. Apart from a few late night college gab fests with fellow psyche majors fueled by wine and pot, she’d managed to avoid having to justify her godless convictions.

  But locked in the trunk, relieving the biggest horror of her past and waiting to experience one that would be even worse, Sara gave herself over to a higher power and prayed for death.

  She prayed hard, with all she had, chanting the phrase over and over in her head until please God let me die became one long, endless word, ends running into beginnings running into ends.

  She tried to help God along, hyperventilating to the point of dizziness, trying to suck up the last bit of oxygen in the trunk.

  letmediepleasegodletmedieplease…

  When that didn’t work, possibly because the trunk wasn’t air tight, Sara tried holding her breath, willing her body to give up, picturing her brain cells dying and bodily functions ceasing through the sheer force of determination.

  That didn’t work either. Sara sobbed for a while, alternately being assaulted by terrifying memories of the past, self-hatred at her own naïveté for loving and trusting and being married to a monster, and the despair of what would happen to the rest of her kids, and the horror of the tortures yet to come. The darkness nipped away at her soul, the heat and cramps making the claustrophobia even worse than when Paulie Gunther Spence abducted her a lifetime ago. The feeling of helplessness was so encompassing, so powerful, she lost all sense of anything else.

  The shift was gradual. The sobbing abated, mostly out of exhaustion. The darkness remained, but became a tiny bit more bearable. Anger snuck into the mix, jockeying for position against fear and guilt. It built slowly, and Sara embraced it, fed off of it, and added a fuel she didn’t have when she was eleven years old. Responsibility.

  This wasn’t just her life on the line. There were children involved. Children she’d pledged to help and protect.

  She couldn’t do either while stuck in a trunk.

  Sara stretched out a crick in her neck, shifted her weight, and began to test her bonds. The rope was thin, nylon, the same type the ferals had used to string up Martin.

  Should have let the bastard hang there.

  She let the anger carry her forward, twisting her arms, trying to get some play in the rope to slip out. Her wrists became slick, first with sweat, then with blood, but the knots were simply too tight.

  Then she remembered the nail clippers that she’d shoved into her back pocket while at the campsite. Were they still there, or had Martin taken them?

  Sara shifted again, bending her knees to give her hands more room to work. Her fingers dug into her pocket and touched the small metal object.

  Small, but packed full of hope.

  They weren’t the best tool for the job, and Sara couldn’t see what she was doing, but she opened up the clippers and began to slowly nip away at the rope binding her left wrist.

  It was slow going, and involved intense concentration. The clippers were slippery, and the repetitive motion made her fingers cramp and throb. But she kept at it, clipping a few nylons threads at a time, and after five minutes of exhausting work she was through the rope.

  It freed her left arm, which was one of the greatest feelings Sara had ever experienced. But her right wrist was still tied to her legs, the multiple knots Martin had used still holding tight. Sara attacked the rope again, using her left hand. But it lacked the control, and strength, of her right, and after ten minutes she’d only gotten halfway through.

  Self-doubt returned. Martin could come back any minute. He might even be in the room right now. Maybe he left her the nail clippers on purpose, seeing if she’d try to escape, waiting for her to come out. He’d fooled Sara for six years without her suspecting a thing. Clearly he was capable of anything.

  The darkness pressed down on Sara, getting into her nose and mouth and ears, reminding her what was going to happen.

  Keep cool. Stay focused. You can do this.

  She doubled her effort, fighting the cramps, imagining the clippers were a tiny alligator, relentless, tenacious, biting, biting, biting—

  I’m free.

  Sara didn’t bother with her ankles. She turned onto her back, pressed her feet against the top of the trunk, and pushed like she was doing the mother of all leg-presses.

  The trunk lid creaked, then popped open, drenching Sara in beautiful, magestic light.

  She did a sit-up, looking around the room, nail clippers clenched in her hand to poke in Martin’s eye if he were anywhere close.

  He wasn’t. The room was empty.

  Sara pulled herself out of the trunk, rolling over the edge and closing the lid behind her. She inch-wormed over to the table with the tools. There, on the top, was the hunting knife.

  She recoiled. Though Sara had never seen the knife Paulie Gunther Spence had used on Louise, the monster had described it in perfect detail. Martin had found a match for the one in Sara’s imagination. It was horrible looking, with a seven inch blade, and a serrated back that seemed capable of sawing through wood.

  Even though it would have made a good weapon, Sara couldn’t bring herself to even touch it. Instead she took a utility knife—one with a retractable razor blade—and quickly freed her wrists and ankles.

  Now to go get the kids.

  Sara went to the door and carefully checked the hallway. Clear. Not knowing which way to go, she chose left, creeping alongside the wall, listening for any sounds.

  One came from behind her. A toilet flush.

  Sara hurried into the nearest room. It looked a lot like Martin’s, with a bed and a table piled high with gore-stained tools. Alongside the wall was a large wooden crate.

  Footsteps, from the hall. Getting closer.

  The table was too small to fit beneath. The bed had no dust ruffle and she’d be easily spotted. There weren’t any other doors.

  That left the crate. Sara rushed to it, put a leg over the side, and
climbed in, pressing her belly down onto a pile of hay.

  The smell hit her first, reminding her of a dog kennel.

  Then she realized there was something in the crate with her.

  “Uuuuuuhhhhnnnn,” it said.

  Sara clamped a hand over her mouth so she didn’t scream. It was only a foot away from her, buried beneath the filthy straw. The thing undulated, and Sara saw a glimpse of white skin.

  “Uuuuuuuhhhhhnn.”

  The footsteps came into the room. Sara heard them walk over to a dresser, heard the drawer open.

  The thing wiggled. “Uhhhhhnnnnnn.”

  “Lester will clean the crate soon,” said the man who belonged to the footsteps. “Lester promises.”

  More hay fell away, and Sara stared at something that used to be human. The eyes were gone, the limbs were gone, the face horribly scarred and yet somehow…

  Familiar.

  “Uhhhhhhhhhnnn.”

  The torso turned toward Sara, sniffing her, squirming closer, and Sara realized who she was looking at.

  My god. It was Martin’s brother, Joe.

  “Lester said he’ll change the bedding later. Be quiet, or Lester will get angry.”

  Joe opened his mouth, getting ready to wail again. With a mixture of revulsion and sadness, Sara reached over and put her hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

  It didn’t keep Joe quiet. When Joe was touched, he screamed. Sara recoiled, pushing back against the side of the crate, trying to bury herself in the soiled straw as Lester’s footsteps drew closer.

  “The Joe pet wants hay,” Lester said. “Lester will get some hay. Along with the stick.”

  The crate shook—Lester giving it a kick. Then Sara heard him walk out of the room.

  Sara moved fast, getting to her knees, swinging a leg over the side, and then stopping.

  She looked back down at Joe’s torso, pale and scarred. She couldn’t leave him like this. There didn’t seem to be any of Joe left in this body. The funny, outgoing man she once called her brother-in-law was now a pathetic, sub-human creature.

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” she whispered.

  The utility knife parted his neck with a whisper, and Sara hopped out as the blood began to gush.

  Sara ran to the hallway, focusing on the task ahead rather than dwelling on what she’d just done. Seeing Lester disappear around a corner, Sara went the other way, down the long corridor, which dead-ended at a door. A large, iron door, with a slot in the center and a bar across it.

  “Here comes Lester, and Lester is angry.”

  Sara looked through the slot, seeing an antechamber with another door, also with a slot. She didn’t like the looks of it, but she heard Lester’s footsteps echoing closer and had no place else to go.

  She removed the bar and went inside, closing the door gently behind her. On the floor were two empty plates and glasses. Sara approached the second door cautiously, placing an ear against it.

  There was nothing to hear.

  Sara bent down, putting her face close to the slot, trying to peer inside. She could make out a room, awash in dim, flickering light. There was also a smell. A sickly sweet, coppery smell.

  “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  Lester must have discovered Joe. Sara had no options left. She opened the second door and went inside.

  The lighting effect was from candles, set up all around the room. But rather than evoke a peaceful, church-like setting, it was more akin to a medieval dudgeon. The stone walls looked damp, and the floor was covered with brown stains that made Sara’s shoes stick.

  She looked around. There was a large bureau, an umbrella stand, a workbench, and a table and chair with salt and pepper shakers and a roll of paper towels. There was also a bed, and for a bad moment it looked like there was someone in it.

  No; it was just pillows and shadows. But beneath the bed might make a good place to hide. With the low light in here, it would be tough to see under it.

  Sara also wondered if she could hide in the bureau, which seemed big enough, when she noticed another door in the corner of the room.

  A bathroom? A closet?

  The door was wooden, slightly ajar. Sara didn’t want to see what was behind it but knew she had no real choice.

  She was heading for the door when she heard a squeaking sound.

  It’s coming from the bureau.

  She paused, moving closer.

  The bureau rattled.

  That’s when Sara realized it wasn’t a bureau at all. It was something else. Something horrible.

  And someone was inside.

  After only a few minutes, Martin tired of Captain Prendick’s screams. The gridiron was as he’d remembered; hands-off and boring. There was nothing for him to do but watch, and Prendick was face-down so he couldn’t even see the man’s expressions.

  Martin said a goodbye that probably wasn’t even heard, then took off. He was anxious to get started on Sara. Gun cocked and eyes scanning the trees for ferals, he headed back to the prison.

  Tom hurt. His finger felt like it was being crushed, burned, and sawed-off, all at the same time. Then that freakazoid Lester poked him over and over with that frickin’ nail, and each one was worse than a bullet wound combined with a snake bite, which was a guess on Tom’s part because he’d never actually been shot or bitten. But they hurt like frickin’ hell.

  To make the whole thing even worse, he was thirsty, he was forced to watch Tyrone and that skank Cindy hold hands and make lovey eyes at each other, and he still had a little piece of Meadow stuck in his teeth that he couldn’t get out.

  Tom wondered, obliquely, when someone was going to come and rescue him. Every time he’d ever gotten into trouble, there was always somebody there to bail him out. No matter how often he screwed up, it always could have been worse.

  But this situation didn’t seem like it could get any worse. Plus, none of this was even his fault, except for going a little hyper with the gun, and getting that stringy thing wedged between his back molars. But Tom didn’t blame himself for the actual eating; sure, it wasn’t his food, but how was he supposed to know it was a person? Tom did, however, wish he’d taken smaller bites and chewed more carefully, because every time he touched that stringy bit with his tongue he felt like ralphing again.

  “Tom. Tom, you awake, dog?”

  Tom ignored Tyrone. If that guy minded his own damn business, Tom would have still had the gun, and he wouldn’t be in this frickin’ cell.

  “Tom, man, I see something on the floor, near your cell. A few feet in front of your door.”

  Tom refused to look. Screw that guy, and his skank.

  “Tommy boy, I think it’s a key.”

  Now Tom looked. Sure enough, sitting on the concrete like a brown dog turd, was one of those rusty old skeleton keys.

  “Can you reach it?”

  “I got handcuffs on, brainiac. How’m I supposed to reach it?”

  “Try your legs, man.”

  Tom decided to try his legs. The bars were close together, but he was thin, and he forced his right foot through the gap. Then he scooted closer. His knee was a little too big. He pushed hard, but it wouldn’t go in.

  “Try turning on an angle, Tom.”

  “No duh.”

  Tom turned on an angle, bending his knee slightly, and it slipped between the bars. He inching closer, trying to touch the key with his toe.

  “Careful, Tom.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Tyrone.”

  Tom shifted again, reaching a bit more, and accidentally kicked the key a few inches further.

  “Shut up,” he said, even though Tyrone hadn’t said anything.

  Tom laid down on his back, shimmying closer to the bars, pushing his thigh through almost up to his crotch. He felt around with his heel, listening for the tinkling sound of metal.

  Then the lights came on.

  “Tommy. Someone’s coming.”

  Tom heard the tinkle, felt the bump under his foot.

  “I f
ound it.”

  Footsteps echoes closer. Tom didn’t dare to look. He tried to focus all of his attention on getting that key.

  “Just forget it, man,” Tyrone ordered. “Get your leg back in.”

  But Tom wasn’t going to forget it. No frickin’ way. His concentration was razor sharp, rock solid. He carefully bent his leg, dragging the key closer, and closer, tuning out the oncoming footsteps, tuning out Tyrone’s pleas to quit.

  See? I can focus when I have to.

  “Hello, Tom. What is this?”

  Frick. Martin.

  Martin grabbed Tom’s ankle and lifted it up, revealing the key.

  “Whoa. Someone made a mistake here. If you guys had gotten this, you would have probably all escaped.”

  Martin crouched down, picking up the key and pocketing it. Then he yanked Tom’s leg. The action was sudden and violent, bouncing Tom’s groin against the iron bar. The pain was like a gong being rung; a sudden strike, building up, and then resonating, lingering.

  Tom howled, doubling over. Martin leaned forward and frowned, feigning concern.

  “I sense a bit of distress, Tom.”

  He jerked Tom’s leg once again, repeating the move.

  “Would you like to talk about how you’re feeling?” Martin asked. “You know I’m here for you.”

  It hurt so bad Tom couldn’t even inhale. His vision was peppered by swirling red and gold specks.

  “Leave him alone,” Tyrone said.

  “We’ll get to you in a moment, Tyrone. Right now it’s Tom’s time to talk.”

  “You think you all badass? Why don’ you come over here, step in this cell wit’ me.”

  Martin let go of his ankle, and thank God, because Tom didn’t think he could handle anymore. He pulled his leg back and brought his knees to his chest, curing up fetal on his side, staring as Martin walked over to Tyrone.

  “Do you know what you are Tyrone? Sticking your chest out, trying to act tough? You’re a stereotype. Poor African American kid, no father, grows up on the mean streets and joins a gang. Would you like to know why you never hear any stories about gangbangers who grow up to be happy, productive members of society? Because there aren’t any.”