Trapped (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  But eventually Sara came upon something better than scent alone. Smoke.

  Smoke could be followed. The thicker it got, the closer she got, and whenever the trees thinned out Sara could see the gray cloud climbing into the sky, the X marking the spot.

  When she got closer, her mouth began to water, and she hated herself and her body for betraying her.

  When she got really close, she saw that she wasn’t the only one drawn to the cookout.

  At the sight of the first feral, Sara ducked behind an ash tree. She was still a good twenty yards away from the fire, and from Cindy’s earlier description, the girl had been only a few feet away when she lost the gun. Sara chanced another look, doing a head count.

  It was tough to be accurate because of the bushes and tree cover, but she estimated there were between fifteen and twenty cannibals.

  Sara didn’t like those odds. She had a bad leg and didn’t know the territory, plus it was daylight and much easier for them to see her. A chase would end in her being caught, and if she was caught…

  Her stomach grumbled, and she cursed herself.

  I’d just better make damn sure they don’t see me.

  Sara moved slow and low, alternating her attention between the ferals and her footing. She didn’t want to step on a twig and make a sound, or worse, trip. The task absorbed her full concentration. Never before had she tried to be so precise in her movement, and never before was so much riding on her.

  Halfway there and the sweat was running down Sara’s cheeks, stinging the cuts Georgia had made with the scissors.

  Two-thirds of the way there and she had to stop and crouch lower when one of the ferals turned his head in her direction. Sara waited, still as a deer, her injured leg beginning to cramp up, then shake.

  The cannibal didn’t see her, and she continued forward.

  Three quarters of the way there, she could finally see the gridiron. It was an awful thing, like a giant outdoor grill. She tried not to look at Meadow, caught in the middle. She tried not to look at the parts the people were eating.

  She looked anyway.

  It was nightmarish, a warped combination of familiarity and obscenity.

  It also wasn’t Meadow in the fire. Though charred, and partially devoured, Sara saw enough of the body to tell it was Captain Prendick.

  That meant his boat was still here. If the helicopter route didn’t work, maybe they could sail off this godforsaken rock. But first she had to find…

  The gun.

  It was only a few feet away, right at the roots of a dogwood bush. Even better, it wasn’t a revolver. It was one of those guns that had the bullets in a clip, which meant it probably held more than just six.

  Sara took one careful step toward it, and then she felt her ears get hot, like her body could sense that a person was staring at her.

  She looked up.

  A person was staring.

  In fact, all eighteen of them were.

  Georgia tingled all over. She felt deliciously alive, and though she wasn’t prone to smiling she couldn’t get the smile off her face.

  In one hand, she gripped the bloody filet knife.

  In the other, she gripped something even more exciting.

  She strolled up to the Chinese man, the one called Kong, the muffled screams in the air almost musical in how they conveyed pain.

  Then, abruptly, she stopped, her arm jerking back.

  She tugged a bit harder, but it was no use.

  Tom’s intestines wouldn’t stretch any farther.

  Cindy had her eyes squeezed shut, and wished she could squeeze her ears shut as well. Of all the horrors of the past day, nothing could compare to when Georgia walked over with that knife. She was humming, actually humming, like this was some sort of game.

  Then, without a word, she cut Tom open.

  It got really bad after that.

  In a perverse way, Cindy was grateful for the mouth gags. If she’d been forced to hear Tom beg, or scream at full throttle, Cindy was sure she would have lost her mind.

  She peeked at Tyrone, who was also closing his eyes.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Cindy was finally straightening out her life. She finally found a good guy to be her boyfriend. She’d kicked drugs and her sentence was almost up and she was excited to become a waitress, of all stupid things, because that’s what regular teenagers did and she so wanted to be regular.

  Cindy tried to picture her parents, when they used to look at her with love instead of suspicion, tried to hear their voices rather than the voice of that horrible man giving Georgia orders.

  “Now do his eyes.”

  Cindy wondered if her body would ever be found. If her mom and dad would ever know what happened to her. She wondered if they would care. She wondered, absurdly, if there was some way for an autopsy to be done, and it could show her parents, her family, her old friends, the whole world, that Cindy Welp died clean and sober, not a trace of meth in her system.

  “Now do his genitals.”

  Cindy wished she could say goodbye to them. To tell them how sorry she was, but even more than that. To thank them, for all they’ve given her. To make them understand that she could finally understand. To say I love you one last time.

  “Now do his scalp.”

  Cindy chanced another peek at Tyrone, and he was peeking at her. All the potential, all the possibility, they shared it in that one long look. Cindy had a brief, intense fantasy, something far beyond becoming a waitress. She stared at him and saw herself through his eyes, in ways she never dreamed of. As a wife. A mother. A grandmother. Someone who was important to other people. Someone needed. Someone loved.

  A tear rolled down Tyrone’s face. Cindy realized she was crying too.

  “Now do the girl.”

  Paulie Gunther Spence blinked. The pain he was in defied imagination. Surgery without anesthesia was agonizing enough, but Lester had hurt him even worse with his squeezing.

  He blinked again.

  They would suffer. Lester, and the doctor. Paulie would take his time with them. Keep them alive for months. Feed them through a stomach tube if he had to.

  He blinked once more, and then twitched his fingers.

  Paulie tried to remember the procedure, those many years ago. He’d been awake for that, too. But it took him all night before he was able to move again. Yet now he was already able to blink and twitch.

  He concentrated, really hard, and jerked his left foot.

  Maybe the procedure had done something to him, to make the paralytic wear off quicker. Or maybe the doctor had given him an incorrect dose, not accounting for all the weight he’d gained.

  Paulie didn’t care about the reason why. He embraced it.

  The sooner he could move, the sooner he could pay them back, tenfold.

  The man known as Subject 33 blinked, then forced his lips into a smile.

  Tom kept waiting for the white light, waiting for the angel choir. But as his blood and breath and life leaked out of his ruined body, he realized there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  His gramma had been frickin’ right all along.

  At first, no one moved. The scene seemed frozen in time. Sara, bending down for the gun. Almost twenty feral people, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and hostility.

  Then one of them said, “Get her.”

  That broke the spell. Sara snatched up the gun and ran.

  The adrenalin spiking through Sara’s system made her leg injury all but disappear. She moved fast and fleet-footed, dodging around trees, hurdling thicket, zig-zagging sharply to throw her attackers off.

  I didn’t come this far to die now. Not now.

  The sounds of pursuit clung to Sara’s heels. It was as if the forest had come alive around her, foliage shaking, blurry figures weaving in and out peripherally, whoops and hollers used to tighten the circle around her, to cinch the noose.

  Sara had no idea where she was going, no idea how she was going to get away. Eventu
ally she would tire, or hit the island’s edge. There were too many of them, and they were coordinating their hunt. She was tired and hurt and had never fired a gun before. This was futile.

  But then, for the first time in a really long time, Sara got lucky.

  Ahead, tied to a tree trunk, was an orange ribbon.

  Orange ribbons led to the prison.

  A tiny beacon of hope flashed in Sara’s mind. Maybe she wasn’t going to die now after all. She poured on the speed, finding a second ribbon, and a third, distancing herself from her pursuers now that she had a goal.

  Then the trees parted, the sun shining on the giant gray mounds of the bone yard. Sara ran into it, the piles taller than she was, darting left, then right, then right again, catching a glimpse of the prison and heading toward it in a roundabout, serpentine way.

  There, on the side of the prison, tied to poles…

  Cindy. Tyrone. Tom.

  Sara didn’t think she had any reserves left, but the sight of her kids prompted a burst of speed and she sprinted toward them like she was running on air.

  As Tyrone watched Georgia work the knife, he remembered a conversation he had with his moms, who told him if he kept up his gangbanging he was going to be dead in an alley with two bullets in him by the time he was eighteen.

  Tyrone hadn’t believed her, but he had recognized the possibility of it happening.

  Neither he nor his moms could have predicted he was going to be done in by a crazy white chick on some cannibal island next to a secret Civil War prison.

  “Can I burn her?” Georgia asked the Chinese man. She was looking at Cindy when she said it.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  Georgia, hands red with poor Tom’s blood, reached into a pouch on her tool belt. Lester and Martin also had tool belts, with various items dangling from them. Tyrone figured they weren’t going to use them to build anything.

  Georgia removed a plastic baggie, filled with powder.

  “I made this myself, back at the Center. I’ve been itching to try it.”

  With her other hand, Georgia pulled a cylinder from her belt, the size of a soda bottle. It said PROPANE and a torch was fitted onto the top.

  Cindy’s eyes got wide. Tyrone knew she was afraid of fire. Knew there wasn’t anything worse for her.

  He couldn’t let her go out like that.

  Tyrone screamed, loud as he could, kicking out at Georgia even though she was out of reach. He pulled against the dog collar until his vision went red, thrashing and moaning, knowing he wasn’t going to stop her.

  But this display wasn’t for Georgia.

  “The boy seems to want to go first,” Kong said. “Give him his wish.”

  Tyrone relaxed. Mission accomplished. He could feel Cindy’s eyes on him, but he didn’t trust that he could look at her without completely breaking down.

  Then he realized, fuck it.

  Thug life was all about frontin’, and representin’, and bein’ some bullshit stereotype just like Martin said. Tyrone wasn’t no thug no more. He was just a man. Men didn’t need to be strong 24/7. Not in front of the woman they loved.

  So as Georgia approached him with the torch, he dropped his guard and let Cindy look at him as he really was. And in her eyes—the last thing he was ever going to see before he burned to death—Tyrone Morrow found acceptance.

  Then a gunshot broke the silence, like the handclap of an angry god.

  “Back the fuck away, Georgia.”

  Tyrone turned.

  Sara.

  Kong wasn’t easily impressed, but the chubby’s girl’s zeal in mutilating the boy was something he’d never seen before. He hadn’t thought women could be so delightfully cruel. If he could use the serum to create an army of likeminded women, the possibilities were limitless.

  Then some other woman, obviously far less in control, ran up to the children and fired a gun into the air.

  What an interesting turn of events.

  Chow reached into his jacket for his gun, but Kong held up a finger, stopping him. This new woman was obviously not a threat. She was haggard and bleeding and out of breath, and she held the gun like it was a cobra she wished to throw away. Kong wanted to see how this played out. Wanted to see how the chubby girl reacted to this new threat.

  The chubby girl fulfilled Kong’s expectations. She lunged at the woman.

  The woman twisted to the side and kicked her in the face, knocking her onto the ground.

  A pity. All that sadistic rage, but no skill.

  “I apologize for this,” Dr. Plincer said. “I’ll have Lester and Martin take care of it.”

  Plincer nodded at his men. They advanced on the woman.

  Fascinating.

  The woman was armed. The men only had hand weapons. But they approached her without fear.

  Kong was liking this serum more and more.

  Rather than try to shoot them like she should have, the woman instead ducked around the boy’s pole. There was another shot, and then the boy’s hands were free.

  Stupid. She should have taken care of the threat first, then released her compatriots. This woman was no warrior. She was an idiot.

  The men closed the gap on her, and she wasted even more time freeing the girl by firing at her bonds.

  Then a handful of dirty people rushed out of the woods. These must have been the mistakes the doctor had mentioned. Wild people, for whom the procedure didn’t go as planned. They threw themselves at Lester and Martin, snarling and slobbering and brandishing…was that silverwear?

  What these dirty people lacked in technique, they apparently made up for in savagery. Kong became concerned.

  Lester and Martin had much better skills than the pudgy girl. They dispatched several of those dirty people with precise, almost eloquent, strokes of their knives.

  But when a dozen more dirty people came screaming into the area, Lester and Martin fled. So did Dr. Plincer.

  Chow had his gun out, shooting two of the dirty people who ran at him. They fell, but were quickly followed by five more.

  That’s when Kong’s concern became fear.

  He ran, briefcase in hand, back the way he’d come. Chow fired twice more, and it sounded like the woman was shooting as well.

  Then a man cried out, “Jiu ming!” Save me.

  The bodyguard assigned to protect Kong was calling for help, but Kong found no amusement in the irony, and he certainly didn’t offer assistance of any kind. Kong didn’t even turn around to see what had happened. He was too intent on running for the helicopter.

  Kong rounded the corner and saw the chopper in the distance. That idiot, Lau, was probably napping. He’d better wake up immediately and start the engine, because Kong could sense he had several of those dirty people chasing him. He chanced a look.

  More than several. Five or six.

  Kong wasn’t in the best shape, and wasn’t a fast runner, but terror was the ultimate motivator. He reached the helicopter before the savages, yanking on the door handle.

  Locked.

  The turbine engine whined to life, the rotors beginning to spin. That idiot Lau was staring over Kong’s shoulder at the oncoming horde, his eyes big as duck eggs.

  Kong banged on the door. Once he got inside he was going to strangle that fool. Revise that; after he got inside and was taken to safety, he would strangle him. But first there were be an extended session with his bamboo rod. Lau would suffer before his death.

  Then the unthinkable happened. Kong Zhi-ou, exalted director of the Jinzhong prison system, the man who was going to lead China to world supremacy, was dragged away from the helicopter in utter disbelief.

  The suitcase was ripped from his hand, but these people had no interest in its contents. They seemed interested in him, wrestling him to the ground, pinning him down.

  But why? What could these savages possibly want?

  The first jolt of pain was in Kong’s leg. It was followed swiftly by an equal pain in his arm.

  They’re biting
me.

  Kong screamed, and a savage stuck his ugly face in Kong’s, flecks of flesh and blood in his filthy beard, mouth open and drooling, his lips moving closer and closer.

  Kong was more revolted by this man’s kiss than by those who were chewing on him.

  But it turned out this man wanted to chew as well.

  Kong was tangentially aware of a strong wind, the helicopter taking off, as more and more of his body was gripped in the mouths of these American savages. He began to choke, blood running down his windpipe from the bleeding hole where his nose used to be.

  The helicopter’s speaker system crackled and came to life. The last human voice Kong ever heard was that idiot Lau’s. Even worse, he used English.

  “Now it is you who has lost face, Mr. Kong.”

  Kong exposed his neck, praying to be bitten there, praying for someone to pierce his jugular or carotid and end his suffering.

  He had no takers. Apparently these American savages liked their meals alive and kicking.

  This was unfortunate. Most unfortunate indeed. Dr. Plincer had been so close to sealing the deal. Who could have guessed the ferals would have showed up?

  Well, actually, he should have guessed it. He was the one who made them that way in the first place.

  But Plincer hadn’t known there were so many. He also hadn’t known they’d been able to organize their group, almost like some primitive tribe. It was fascinating, from a scientific standpoint, but a huge disaster from a financial one.

  Hopefully, Mr. Kong would get away, and they’d be able to try again at a later date. If not, perhaps the Chinese would send another representative. The Russians were also a possibility. Plincer had even been contacted by a former member of the KGB. This situation was just a slight delay—a hiccup—in the overall game plan.

  Plincer hurried through the big iron door into the prison, but before he got a chance to lock it someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arm up behind his back.

  Hello, Subject 33.

  “Well, you recovered quickly,” Plincer said. “It’s good to see you up and about.”