by Jack Kilborn
“I am going to hurt you,” Santiago said. Though Josh’s heart hammered like an Olympic sprinter’s, Santiago didn’t even seem out of breath.
Josh tried to bring up a leg, but Santiago pinned them down with his own. He placed his left hand on Santiago’s chest, pushing against it, but he might have been pushing against a wall. The man didn’t budge.
Josh felt Santiago’s hand travel down his side, over his belly, creeping lower and lower until he cupped Josh’s testicles.
Josh tried to jackknife into a sitting position, but Santiago held him immobile. Though they seemed to be the same body weight, the soldier was disproportionably strong.
Santiago brought his face to within an inch of Josh’s. “I’ll pop them like grapes.”
If asked which was worse, a tooth drilled without anesthetic or getting kicked in the balls, any man would choose the former. Knowing that the pain was coming terrified Josh to a degree he didn’t know was possible. He put even more effort into his shove, bucked and turned, and then remembered that he still held the Swiss Army Explorer in his right hand. Streng had been right; Josh had owned it since Boy Scouts. He’d used it so many times it had become like an extra appendage. Working by feel, Josh flicked open the corkscrew and held the knife in his fist, so the pointed end protruded up through his clenched fingers.
Santiago squeezed. Josh screamed in pain and horror and then punched Santiago in the side of the head. The corkscrew embedded itself in Santiago’s ear, but the man didn’t budge, didn’t release Josh.
The pain in Josh’s groin became so bad his vision actually went red. Hand still on the knife, he began to twist the corkscrew. He punctured something—probably the eardrum—and Santiago howled. He released Josh’s balls and brought both hands up to his neck. His thumbs quickly found Josh’s carotid arteries and pressed down. Josh’s vision went from red to black, but before losing consciousness he brought his hand back and slapped at the side of Santiago’s head, forcing the knife in deeper.
Santiago went rigid, then collapsed onto Josh, dead weight.
Josh coughed, disentangling himself from the stronger man, pushing him off. He began to crawl, trying to put as much distance between him and Santiago as possible. His testicles glowed with pain, and like most testicular pain it lingered like a gong being struck, refusing to fade away even though the damage had already been done. Josh felt his stomach flutter, and then he threw up between his hands onto a bed of fallen leaves.
He paused for a moment, trembling, and then felt something large on his back.
Ajax.
Josh’s jacket bunched up around his shoulders and chest as the giant clenched a handful of material and lifted Josh into the air. Josh’s arms and legs untangled beneath him, and he kicked out but found only air.
Josh felt his head become wrapped in something, and he realized it was the huge man’s fist, his enormous fingers encircling it like a baseball.
He knew what came next. The twisting. The popping. The pulling. Josh clenched his teeth and made his neck stiff. When the wrenching began, he fought it with his whole body, refusing to let this happen.
His efforts weren’t enough. Ajax’s strength was inhuman, and slowly, inexorably, Josh’s head began to turn. He strained against it, so hard it felt like his temples would explode, straining even as his chin touched his shoulder and the hyperextension began. Josh couldn’t imagine a sound more terrifying than hearing his own spine cracking. He screamed in his throat. He shut his eyes, and tears squeezed out of their ducts.
“Ajax!” Sheriff Streng’s voice. “That pressure you feel in the back of your neck is a .45. Even someone as big as you wouldn’t be able to handle a few slugs in the vertebrae. Put him down, or I’ll fire.”
Ajax continued to hold Josh, but the twisting stopped.
“The only thing stopping me from killing you is that I have some questions I want to ask. Now stop fucking around and put down the firefighter!”
Ajax’s hands opened and Josh fell onto all fours. He took in a gulp of air, let it out as a brief cry of relief.
“Now get down on your knees, big boy. I’m getting a neck strain staring up at you.”
Ajax complied. Josh scrambled around behind him, next to Streng. It was difficult to make out in the dark, but Josh saw the sheriff raise a hand up, then bring it down hard against the side of Ajax’s head. Ajax flopped over.
“Shoot them,” Josh said, a sob still caught in his throat. “Shoot them both.”
“I lost the gun. All I’ve got is a rock and a tree branch, and I just dropped the rock.”
Josh considered their options. Their best chance would be to kill them while they were incapacitated. They could grope around in the dark for the gun. Or maybe find his knife. Josh didn’t know if he could stomach the actual killing, but he could leave that up to the sheriff.
“We need to run,” Streng said.
“But—”
“I know what you’re thinking. But what if one of them wakes up before we find a weapon? Then we’re both dead. These guys are too skilled, too strong.”
“Maybe Ajax has a gun or a knife on him.”
“You want to frisk him?”
“We have to try.”
Josh’s spirit was willing, but his feet did not want to go anywhere near Ajax. Santiago scared him in a bullying, sadistic way, but Josh considered him still human. Ajax was like a creature from a bad dream, a monstrous force of nature. He didn’t seem to be the same species, or even to belong on the same planet.
But the only way to stop being afraid was to kill him, and the only way to do that was to search him for weapons.
Josh quickly dismissed using his flashlight, as it might wake his tormentors up. He put his hands out before him and walked cautiously through the darkness, trying not to smack into any trees. His knees bumped into Ajax and he drew in a sharp breath. He reached down, amazed that he could touch his chest without bending over. This guy was freakishly huge. Time became measured in heartbeats, only a finite number remaining before the creature woke up.
Josh screwed up his courage and felt around for the giant’s belt. He found a Velcro pouch, ripped it open. It held a smooth metal container, and some kind of electronic gizmo, but no weapons. Josh pocketed the box and continued around the perimeter of his hips. A canteen. Josh took it, attached it to his own belt.
Ajax moved, shifting away. Josh stood absolutely still, fighting the impulse to flee. He needed to finish this up fast.
He patted down the rest of Ajax’s waistline but found nothing else. Josh wondered why Ajax didn’t have a gun and then realized that the man’s enormous fingers probably would be too big to squeeze a trigger. Then why not a knife, or some other weapon? Maybe in his vest.
Josh reached up, fingers exploring. The material was soft, pliable. It amazed Josh that it was actually bulletproof. He found an empty pocket, and then a zipper that was stuck. Ajax’s chest rose and fell beneath his hands, so huge that Josh felt like he was frisking a fallen horse.
“I found matches, and some capsules.” The sheriff’s voice startled Josh. He must have been searching Santiago. “You?”
“A container, some sort of electric thing, and water.”
Josh reached up higher, touched Ajax’s throat. Any thought of breaking the man’s spine while he slept vanished when Josh realized how large it was. It would be easier to snap a log in half.
“My knife should be in his ear,” Josh told Streng.
“Not there. Maybe he pulled it … umph.”
A gentle rustling sound. Then the forest went quiet.
“Sheriff?”
Streng didn’t answer. Josh strained to hear but heard only the steady rasp of Ajax’s breathing.
“Sheriff Streng? You okay?”
He felt foolish the instant it left his lips. Of course he wasn’t okay. Santiago must have woken up. Maybe Streng was already dead. Why hadn’t they run away like the sheriff suggested?
Ajax shifted, emitting a low growl.
Josh jumped back. He considered taking off, finding County Road H, following that into town. Maybe he’d be able to flag down a car. Once he got to Safe Haven he could call the state cops. He faced the woods, his legs itching to bolt.
Not without the sheriff, he told himself.
Then he turned, clenched his fists, and headed toward Santiago.
• • •
Fran had never been so cold. Her whole body—not just her bound hands—felt numb, and her teeth chattered. But when she saw the large uniformed figure standing on the dark road, Fran turned and started down the embankment, back into the river.
“Hey! You okay?”
Fran didn’t stop. The voice didn’t belong to Taylor, but she didn’t trust anyone walking alone at night. She tried to keep her balance, to plant her feet firmly after every step, but the slope was steep and she was still dripping. Her damp heel slid on a patch of weeds and she fell onto her back. Before she could move again a flashlight beam hit her face, prompting a wince.
“Fran? Is that you?”
Fran squinted into the light, couldn’t make out anyone behind it. But the voice didn’t seem threatening, and it was oddly familiar.
She managed to swallow the lump in her throat and said, “Who’s there?”
“Erwin Luggs. You work with my fiancée, Jessie Lee, at Merv’s Diner. I also teach Duncan.”
Erwin. He was one of Safe Haven’s firemen, and he taught gym at the junior high. Her son liked him. Jessie Lee complained about him all the time, to the point where Fran wondered why she had agreed to marry him.
Before Fran answered, Erwin had his big hands on her arm and helped her up.
“Jesus, Fran, what happened?”
Fran’s eyes widened in fear when she realized Erwin was covered in blood. Erwin seemed to read her reaction.
“It’s from a deer,” he said.
Fran recovered from the shock. “My hands. Do you have a knife or something that cuts?”
“I’ve got some fingernail clippers.”
“See if they work on this plastic.”
Erwin disappeared behind her, and Fran could barely feel his touch as he manipulated her hands and arms.
And then, agony.
Her hands fell at her sides, and the blood rushing back in burned like acid. Her arms, and especially her fingers, were being stabbed with thousands of pins while simultaneously being dunked in lava.
Fran began to cry, and Erwin took his bloody jacket off to drape over her shoulders. It smelled rank, but she welcomed the warmth. Fran opened and closed her fists, trying to make it stop, and Erwin must have mistaken her pain for distress because he put his arms around her in a protective, brotherly way.
“What happened, Fran? Who did this to you?”
Fran sniffled, then went rigid, as if someone had stuck a pole up her spine.
“Duncan. We need to get to my son. Do you have a phone?”
“I’ve been trying for half an hour. No signal.”
“Let me borrow it.”
Erwin fished it out of his pocket, handed it over.
“Where’s your car?”
“Back at the station.”
Fran dialed, but her fingers hit the wrong buttons. She kept trying, getting the same results. Frustrated, she handed the phone back to Erwin.
“Dial for me.”
“There are no bars. We’re in the middle of the woods.”
“Dial!”
Fran stated her phone number, and Erwin dutifully punched in the digits. Then he held the phone up so she could hear the we’re sorry recording.
“We need to get to my house, Erwin. Right now.”
“I need to get to town. Something’s happened to Josh and Sheriff Streng.”
“Josh?”
“There was a helicopter crash in the woods, and someone stole our truck. Then I saw the sheriff get attacked by some guy in a black uniform.”
Taylor wore a black uniform. And though Fran hadn’t seen his face, whoever was driving the fire truck with the mayor also wore black.
“Something’s going on,” Fran said. “Something bad. Which way is town?”
“About two miles south. This is Harris Street.”
Fran knew Harris Street. She hadn’t recognized it in the dark. Her neighborhood was less than a mile away.
“Duncan might be in trouble, Erwin. I think one of those men in the black uniforms has him.”
Erwin stepped away from her, spreading his hands. “I need to get to town, Fran. I need to—”
She grabbed Erwin by his shirt, the motion bringing fresh tears to her eyes.
“I need your help, dammit! Help me get my son!”
“These men—we need some help. We can’t do this alone …”
Fran pushed Erwin away, then began to run down the road. Away from town. Toward home.
“Fran!”
Fran ignored him, ignored the pain in her arms, ignored the throb in her injured foot that ignited every time it hit the pavement. Nothing would stop her from getting to her son. Nothing.
Mathison let out a screech of displeasure and hung on to the back of Dr. Stubin’s collar. That was how he hid. Stubin also felt like hiding. The helmet and fatigues made him feel like a child playing dress-up, and the fact he hadn’t been given a gun hammered home the point; he wasn’t a soldier.
Of course he wasn’t. Stubin was a scientist. Perhaps the premier brain specialist on the planet, a fact he would someday prove. Traipsing around through the forest playing commando wasn’t the best use of his time and skills. But he had to be here, much as he loathed it.
The helicopter had dropped him and Mathison off at the crash site. A sergeant and two privates were also deposited there—for babysitting duty—until the Green Berets arrived. His minders were humorless, no-nonsense, and though they weren’t openly hostile Stubin could feel their disdain for his presence.
The three didn’t approach the wreck of the chopper; they were probably under orders not to. But Stubin had no such orders, and he spent a few minutes examining the site, with a monkey literally on his back.
The decapitations in the cockpit were a surprise, but Stubin wasn’t shocked. Being a brain surgeon, he’d witnessed more than his fair share of gore. He looked closer, the flares and field lighting set up around the perimeter allowing him to do so without needing a flashlight.
The cuts were clean, almost surgically so. Cutting off a human head wasn’t easy, and Stubin felt strangely impressed.
Next he poked around in the back of the wreckage and found a large footlocker. It couldn’t be opened without a key, but next to it was an electronic panel with buttons and switches.
In the distance, Stubin heard another helicopter. He took it to be the Special Forces team. Stubin checked his watch, did a quick equation in his head, and estimated they’d be here within two minutes.
A moment later Mathison abandoned his hiding place on Stubin’s back and leapt out the side door, bounding off into the woods.
“Mathison! Dammit, come back!”
Stubin bounded after him, tripping over some debris on the ground. The soldiers didn’t laugh. Nor did they try to stop him when he picked himself up and headed into the woods after his monkey.
The light seemed to reduce by half every five steps, and after walking for less than a minute Stubin was surrounded by the dark. He stared at the helicopter coming in low overhead, holding on to his helmet as it passed. Stubin made an OK sign with his thumb and index, then stuck it into his mouth and blew. The shrill whistle could be heard above the din of the Huey, and Mathison came running out of the trees and stopped to stare at him.
“Don’t be afraid, Mathison. It’s just another helicopter. Come on.”
Stubin crouched down, smiling. He patted his thighs, and then a tremendous explosion shocked his ears, causing the ground to shake and momentarily turning night into day.
The fingers that locked around Streng’s throat were cutting off his air, preventing him from answering Josh.
The darkness of the woods, and his inability to make a sound, meant he was going to die less than five feet away from his young friend.
Streng knelt next to the killer’s prostrate body and struggled against the grip, his efforts no more effective than when Santiago had been on top of him, mauling his kidney. The man had preternatural strength, and Streng felt like he had a noose around his neck rather than flesh and bone.
He reached down, trying to find Santiago’s face. The killer’s arms were longer, keeping Streng away. But they weren’t longer than Streng’s legs. Though on his knees, Streng managed to tilt left and get one of his feet in front of him. He kicked Santiago in the side, fiercely. Again. And again.
The killer held on. Streng’s balance faltered and he fell onto his side. Still, Santiago squeezed his neck, hands tightening, Streng’s vision blurring and going black.
Streng planted both feet under Santiago’s chin, using it as a fulcrum. Then he pulled back as hard as he could, using the muscles in his legs and his back, straining and pushing until the claws released him, allowing in sweet, sweet oxygen.
“Josh …” he croaked.
The flashlight came on, and then Josh hooked a hand around his belt and bullied him through the woods as fast as they both could move. Streng didn’t have a chance to catch his breath, and he kept tripping over things, but Josh never let him fall, never let the pace slacken.
The road appeared suddenly, rising out of the trees like a fever dream, and as the sheriff doubled over and sucked in air he barely noticed Josh yelling. A screeching sound cut the silence of the night, accompanied by the smell of rubber, and then Streng had a hand over his eyes, protecting them from the blinding light coming from—
“Sheriff? Josh? What in the high hell are you doing out here?”
—Olen Porrell’s Honey Wagon, a large tanker truck with a cartoon skunk painted on the side. The skunk wore big smile on its face and a clothespin on its nose, and the cartoon balloon next to its head said “Septic and Plumbing!”
Olen climbed out of his truck and hurried over to them. He wore the typical Olen outfit of stained bib overalls, stained T-shirt, and the world’s filthiest Brewers baseball cap. In the headlights Streng could see Olen’s face clearly but still couldn’t make out where the beard ended and the grime began.