by Jack Kilborn
Martin didn’t say anything, but he did give Laneesha a sly wink.
“So where was it?” Georgia asked.
“It wasn’t anywhere, Georgia.” Sara slapped at a mosquito that had been biting her neck, then wiped the tiny splot of blood onto her jeans. “This is a campfire story. It’s made up, to try to scare you.”
“It’s fake?” Georgia asked. “Pretend?”
Sara nodded. “Yes, it’s pretend. Right, Martin?”
Martin shrugged, still not looking at Sara.
“So what pretend-happened?” Laneesha asked.
“Eight people,” Martin said. He was sitting on an old tree stump, higher up than everyone else. “Camping just like we are. On a night like tonight. On what might be this very island. They vanished, these eight, never to be seen again. But some folks who live around here claim to know what happened. Some say those unfortunate eight people were subjected to things worse than death.”
Meadow folded his arms. “Ain’t nothin’ worse than death.”
Martin stared hard at the teenager. “There are plenty of things worse.”
No one spoke for a moment. Sara felt a chill. Maybe it was the cool night breeze, whistling through the woods. Or maybe it was Martin’s story, which she had to admit was getting sort of creepy. But Sara knew the chill actually went deeper. As normal as everyone seemed right now, it was only an illusion. Their little family was breaking apart.
But she didn’t want to think about that. Now, she wanted to enjoy this final camping trip, to make some good memories.
Sara scooted a tiny bit closer to the campfire and hugged her knees. The night sky was clear, the stars bright against the blackness of space, the hunter’s moon huge and tinged red. Beyond the smoke Sara could smell the pine trees from the surrounding woods, and the big water of Huron, a hundred yards to the west. As goodbyes went, this was a lovely setting for one.
She let her eyes wander over the group. Tyrone Morrow, seventeen, abandoned by parents who could no longer control him, running with one of Motor City’s worst street gangs for more than two years. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans so baggy he has to walk with one hand holding them up.
Meadow was on Tyrone’s right. He was from a rival Detroit club. That they were sitting next to each other was a commitment from each on how much they wanted out of the gangsta life.
On Meadow’s side, holding his hand, Laneesha Simms. Her hair was cropped almost as short as the boys’, but her make-up and curves didn’t allow anyone to mistake her for a man.
Georgia Dailey sat beside Laneesha. Sixteen, white, brunette, pudgy.
Tom Gransee predictably paced around the fire, tugging at his sleeveless tee like it was an extra skin he wanted to shed.
These were kids society had given up on, sentenced into their care by the courts. But Martin—and by extension, Sara—hadn’t given up on them. That was why they created the Second Chance Center.
Sara finally rested her gaze on Martin. The fire flickered across his handsome features, glinted in his blue eyes. He had aged remarkably well, looking thirty rather than forty, as athletic as the day she met him in a graduate psych class twelve years ago.
“On this dark night ten years ago,” Martin continued, “this group of eight people took a boat onto Lake Huron. The SS Minnow.”
Sara smiled, knowing she was the only one old enough to have caught the Gilligan’s Island reference, the boat the castaways had taken on their three-hour tour.
“They had some beer with them,” Martin said. “Some pot …”
“Hells yeah.” Tyrone and Meadow bumped fists.
“… and were set to have a big party. But one of the women—there were four men and four women, just like us—got seasick on the lake.”
“I hear that.” In her oversized jersey and sweatpants, Cindy looked tiny, shapeless. But Sara noted she’d gotten a little bit of her color back.
“So they decided,” Martin raised his voice, “to beach the boat on a nearby island, continue the party there. But they didn’t know the island’s history.”
Tom had stopped his pacing and was standing still, rare for him. “What history, Martin?”
Martin smiled. An evil smile, his chin down and his eyes hooded, the shadows drawing out his features and making him look like an angry wolf.
“In 1862, a prison was built on this island to house captured Confederate soldiers. Like many Civil War prisons, the conditions were horrible. But this one was worse than most. It was run by a war profiteer named Mordecai Plincer. He stole the money that was supposed to be used to feed the prisoners, and ordered his guards to beat them so they wouldn’t stage an uprising while they starved to death. He didn’t issue blankets, even during the winter months, giving them nothing more to wear than sacks with arms and leg holes cut out, even when temperatures dropped to below freezing.”
Sara wasn’t a history buff, but she was pretty sure there had never been a Civil War prison on an island in Lake Huron. She wondered if Martin was using Camp Douglas as the source of this tall tale. It was located in Chicago near Lake Michigan and considered the northern counterpart to the horrors committed at the Confederate prison, Andersonville. Yes, Martin had to be making this up. Though that name, Plincer, did sound familiar.
Martin tossed one of the logs they’d cut earlier onto the fire. It made a whump sound, throwing sparks and cinders.
“But those starving, tortured prisoners staged a rebellion anyway, killing all the guards, driving Plincer from the island. The Union, desperate to cover up their mistake, stopped sending supplies. But the strongest and craziest of the prisoners survived. Even though the food ran out.”
“How?” Tom asked. “You said there are no animals on this island.”
Martin smiled, wickedly. “They survived … by eating each other.”
“Oh, snap.” Tyrone shook his head. “That shit is sick.”
Sara raised an eyebrow at her husband. “Cannibalism, Martin?”
Martin looked at her, in what felt like the first time in hours. She searched for some softness, some love, but he was all wrapped up in his menace act.
“Some were cooked. Some were eaten raw. And during the summer months, when meat would spoil, some were kept alive so they could be eaten piece by piece.”
Sara did a quick group check, wondering if this story was getting too intense. Everyone appeared deadly serious, their eyes laser-focused on Martin. No one seemed upset. A little scared, maybe, but these were tough kids. She decided to let Martin keep going.
Martin stood up, spreading out his hands. “Over the last five decades, more than a hundred people have vanished on this part of Lake Huron. Including those four men and women. What happened to them was truly horrible.”
The crickets picked that eerie moment to stop chirping.
Cindy eventually broke the silence. “What happened to them?”
“It’s said that these prisoners became more animal than human, feeding on each other and on those men unlucky enough to visit the island. Unfortunately for this group of eight partyers, they were all doomed the minute they set foot onto Plincer’s Island. When their partying died down, and everyone was drunk and stoned and passing out, the killers built a gridiron.”
The word gridiron hung in the air like a crooked painting, blending into the forest sounds.
Tyrone whispered, “They built a football field?”
Martin shakes his head. “The term gridiron is used for football these days, but it’s a much older word. It was a form of execution in ancient Rome. A layer of coals are spread on the ground, stoked until they’re red-hot. Then the victim is put in a special iron cage, sort of like a grill, and placed on top of the coals, roasting him or her alive. Unlike being burned at the stake, which is over in a few minutes, it takes hours to die on the gridiron. They say the liquid in your eyes gets so hot, it boils.”
“That’s enough, Martin.” Sara stood up and folded her arms across her chest. “You’ve succeeded in freaking ever
yone out. Now who wants to roast some marshmallows?”
“I want to hear what happened to those people,” Tom said.
“And I want to be able to sleep tonight,” Sara replied.
Sara’s eyes met Martin’s. She saw intensity there, but also resignation. Eventually his lips curled into a smile.
“But we haven’t gotten to the part where I pretend to be dragged off into the woods, kicking and screaming. That’s the best part.”
Sara placed her hands on her hips. “I’m sure we would have all been terrified.”
Martin sat back down. “You’re the boss. And if the boss wants to do marshmallows, who am I to argue?”
“I thought you’re the one who created the Center,” Laneesha asked.
Martin glanced at Sara. There was kindness in his eyes, and maybe some resignation, too.
“Sara and I created it together. We wanted to make a difference. The system takes kids who are basically good but made a few mistakes, sticks them into juvie, and they come out full-blown crooks. The Center is aimed at taking these kids and helping them change.” Martin smiled sadly. “Well, that was its purpose.”
“It’s bullshit the man cut your funding, Martin.” Meadow tossed a stick onto the fire.
“It sucks,” Cindy added.
There were nods of agreement. Martin shrugged. “Things like this happen all the time. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you kids. Sara and I don’t have any children of our own, but you guys are like our—”
Martin screamed in mid-sentence, then fell backward off the log, rolling into the bushes and the darkness.
Sara, like everyone else, jolted at the sound and violent action. Then laughter broke out, followed by a few of the teens clapping.
“That was awesome, Martin!” Tom yelled into the woods. “It think I wet my freakin’ pants.”
The applause and giggles died down. Sara waited for Martin to lumber out of the woods and take a bow.
But Martin stayed hidden.
“Martin, you can come out now.”
Sara listened. The woods, the whole island, was deathly quiet.
“Martin? You okay?”
No answer.
“Come on, Martin. Joke’s over.”
After a moment the crickets began their song again. But there was no response from Martin.
“Fine,” she called out. “We’re not saving you any marshmallows.”
The forest was silent. Sara picked up the bag of marshmallows and began passing them out, the kids busying themselves with attaching the treats to the sticks they’d picked out earlier. If her husband wanted to screw around in the woods, he was welcome to do so.
“Now what?” Tyrone asked, raising his like a sword.
“You put it in the fire,” Tom said. “Duh.”
“Ain’t never roasted marshmallows before, white boy.”
“It’s like this, Tyrone.” Sara held her stick six inches above the flame. “Like we did with the hot dogs. And keep turning it, so it browns evenly on all sides.”
Everyone followed her lead. Sara allowed herself a small, private smile. These were the moments they came out here for. Everyone getting along. No fighting. Criminal pasts momentarily forgotten. Just six kids acting like kids.
“Mine fell off,” Cindy said.
“Wouldn’t eat it no how. Oughta change yo name to Annie Rekzic.”
“Respect,” Sara reminded Meadow.
“Sorry. My bad.”
There was a comfortable silence. Sara forced herself to stay in the moment, not look over her shoulder for Martin. He’d come back when he was ready.
“I’m on fire.” Georgia held her stick and mouth level and blew hard on the burning marshmallow. Then she bit into it carefully. “Mmm. Gooey.”
“Like an eyeball on the gridiron.” Tom plucked his off the stick and pretended it was oozing out of his eye socket.
“Awful way to die,” Cindy said. “Guy I knew, had an ice lab in his basement. He died like that. When he was cooking a batch it blew up in his face. Burned him down to the bone.”
“You see it?” Tyrone asked.
“Cops told me about it.”
Tyrone frowned, his face looking ten years older. “Saw a brother die, once. Drive-by. Right next door to me. I was eight years old.”
“I saw someone die, too,” Tom said.
Tyrone sneered. “Man, yo gramma doesn’t count.”
“Does too. I was there. Does it count, Sara?”
“It counts. And let’s try to talk about something other than death for a while.”
“Damn.” Meadows stuck out his tongue. “My shit is burned. Tastes nasty.”
“I like the burned ones.” Georgia held out her hand. Meadows passed it over. “Thanks.”
Sara bit into hers. The perfect combination of sweet and toasty. She loaded up another one, then felt her neck prickle, like she was being watched. Sara turned around, peering into the trees. She saw only blackness.
“When is Martin coming back?” Cindy was poking her stick into the fire. She still hadn’t replaced her lost marshmallow.
“He’s probably just beyond the trees,” Sara said. “Waiting to jump out and scare us again.”
“What if someone grabbed him?”
“Cindy, no one grabbed him. We’re the only ones on this island.”
“You sure?”
Sara made an exaggerated motion out of crossing her heart. “And hope to die.”
“What if he had an accident?” Cindy persisted. “Maybe hit his head on a rock or something?”
Sara pursed her lips. There was a slight chance, but it could have happened.
“Tyrone, can you go check?”
Tyrone sneered. “You want me to go in those woods so he can jump out ’n scare the soul outta brother? No way.”
Sara sighed, and just for the sake of argument she let her imagination run unchecked. What if Martin’s little stunt really had gone wrong and he’d hurt himself? What if he’d fallen into a hole? What if a bear got him? There wasn’t supposed to be any bear on this island—according to Google, there wasn’t supposed to be any animal here larger than a raccoon. But what if Google was wrong?
She sighed. Her imagination had won. Even if this was a stupid trick on Martin’s part, Sara still had to go check.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” She got up, handed her stick to Cindy, and dusted off her jeans, staring into the darkness of the woods surrounding them.
And the woods were dark. Very dark.
The confidence Sara normally wore like a lab coat suddenly fell away, and she realized the very last thing in the world she wanted to do was tread into that darkness.
“Tom, can you help me look?”
Tom shook his head. “He can stay out there. I’m not leaving the fire.”
“Ain’t got no balls, white boy?”
“You go then, Meadow.”
“Hells no. At this particular time, Laneesha be holding my balls.”
Laneesha rolled her eyes and stood up. “Y’all are cowards. C’mon, Sara. We’ll go find him.”
Sara blew out the breath she’d been holding, surprised by how grateful she was for the girl’s offer. “There’s a flashlight in one of the packs. I’ll find it.”
She walked over to her tent and ducked inside. It was dim, but the fire provided enough illumination to look around. Sara cast a wistful glance at the double sleeping bag. She tugged her eyes away, then located the backpack. Pawing through the contents, she removed a canteen, a first-aid kit, some wool socks, a bottle of Goniosol medication, a hunting knife, the papers …
Sara squinted at them, staring at the bottom of the last page. It was unsigned. Irritated, she shoved them back in. She eventually dug out the Maglite, pressing the button on the handle. The light came on. It was yellowish and weak—which annoyed Sara even more because she told Martin to buy new batteries.
Putting the papers out of her mind for the time being, she left the tent and joined Laneesha, who was st
aring into the woods where Martin disappeared.
“If you see any cannibals,” Tom said to their backs, “don’t tell him we’re here.”
“Y’all are weak,” Laneesha said.
Sara eyed her, normally cocky and busting with attitude, and saw uncertainty all over the girl’s face.
“The story was fake, Laneesha.”
“That Plincer cat ain’t real?”
“He might be real. The name is familiar. But the way to make campfire stories sound believable is to mix a little truth with the lies.”
“How ’bout all them cannibal soldiers, eating people?”
“Even if that was true, and it wasn’t, it happened over a hundred and forty years ago. They’d all be long dead.”
“So Martin just joshin’?”
“He’s probably just waiting to jump out and scare us,” Sara said.
“Prolly. That’d suck, but be better than someone grabbing him.”
Sara raised an eyebrow. That possibility was so far out she hadn’t even considered it. “Did you see someone grab him?”
“It was dark, ’n’ he was right in front of that bush. Thought maybe I seen somethin’, but prolly just my mind playing tricks ’n’ shit.”
Now Sara was really reluctant to go into the woods. She knew the Confederate story was BS, but wondered if perhaps someone else was on the island.
That’s crazy, Sara thought. There’s no one here but us.
There were over a hundred of these islands on Lake Huron, from the size of a football field up to thousands of acres. This was one of the big ones, a supposed wildlife refuge. But there was no electricity, and it was too far from the mainland for there to be anyone living here.
Other campers?
Sara reminded herself to be rational. Occam’s Razor. The simplest solution was usually the right one. Martin joking around made much more sense than unknown habitants, or coincidental campers, or old Warden Plincer and his imaginary gang of southern maniacs.
Still, they did have that radio the boat captain gave them. Sara wondered if her husband goofing off qualified as an emergency, because she was almost ready to contact the captain and beg him to return.
“Let’s do this,” Laneesha said.
Sara nodded. Practically hip to hip, the women walked around the bushes and stepped into the thick of the woods.