Endurance

Mal didn’t answer.

“Your little boyfriend ain’t gonna help you, Debbie. Harry already took care a’ him.”

Teddy pushed the mattress up, so hard and violent that Deb almost rolled off.

“Ready ‘er not, here I come.”

She heard a palm slap the wood floor. Summoning up some dregs of courage, Deb peeked over the edge and saw Teddy’s hand, sticking out from under the bed. It was large and grimy, the fingernails long and yellowed. Teddy’s thumb was actually two thumbs; at the knuckle it split into a Y shape.

Deb thought about reaching down, grabbing it, trying to break a finger, but she was too scared to move.

Another hand came appeared, also with a bifurcated thumb. Then Teddy slowly eased himself out. His hair was brown, matted, a bird’s nest of tangles. He turned and stared up at Deb. His face was just as ugly as his hands. Bushy eyebrows. A scraggly beard. One eye bigger than the other, the lens gray with a cataract, the other so deeply bloodshot it looked like a maraschino cherry. Teddy smiled, showing stained, rotten teeth, and Deb caught his pungent odor—stale sweat and sour milk.

“Ain’t you a pretty one. Ol’ Teddy may get hisself a taste ‘fore we get to bleedin’ you.”

Then Teddy pulled himself the rest of the way out from under the bed, and Deb got another shock.

He doesn’t have legs.

No, wait. He does.

His overalls ended just below the buttocks, and jutting out of them were two tiny, underdeveloped feet. Like those of a baby.

I have a chance.

I can get away.

Fear gave way to action, and Deb rolled to the opposite side of the bed. She slid off the end, face-first, landing on her hands and knees. Then she peeked under the dust ruffle to see where Teddy was—

—and stared directly into his gray eye, only inches away.

Teddy’s hand shot out, grabbing Deb by her hair before she had a chance to flinch. Deb made her fingers stiff and poked at his good eye, jabbing hard. Teddy howled, releasing her, and Deb crawled like crazy around the bed.

Hall or closet? Hall or closet?

Closet. I can’t get away without my legs.

Deb beelined for the closet, her bare knees beating a painful staccato against the hardwood floor. Teddy slid out from under the bed, pushing himself along on his belly, cutting off her route. Then he headed for her, efficiently dragging himself forward in a serpentine manner, like a fish swimming on land.

Deb spun around, scurrying past as his hand reached out. His fingers brushed her thigh, but he couldn’t grab on. She frantically tried to figure out where to go next. The closet was blocked. So was the hallway. And Teddy was slithering toward her at a quick clip, a grotesque, hairy snake.

The bathroom? Go for the knife?

No. I’d be trapped in there.

So what the hell can I do?

My Cheetahs. He took them.

Maybe they’re under the bed.

She grabbed the post, sliding under the bed, immediately seeing the displaced boards and the hole in the floor. Teddy was reaching for her again, fingers grazing her stump. She caught a quick glimpse of his wide, brown grin, and then Deb pulled herself, face-first, through the trap-door.

Then she was falling—a sick, familiar feeling that was worse than any pain in the world. Her fear was short-lived, and she quickly banged her arms and head into a recessed floor, only a few feet lower than the one she’d just fallen from. Trying to catch her breath, Deb squinted at her surroundings.

I’m in a crawlspace between the first and second levels.

A few yards away was a dim, flickering light.

A candle.

Deb felt around, finding one of her Cheetahs, then the other, and then Teddy was dropping through the trap-door, landing next to Deb with a huge thump.

She swung her prosthetic like a scythe, hard as she could, trying to catch Teddy’s face with the blade edge. The blow hit home, the leg vibrating in Deb’s hands. Teddy howled, covering up his head. She followed up with two more strikes, trying to pound his face into hamburger. But the Cheetahs were lightweight, not much heft to them, causing only superficial injuries.

Tucking the legs under her arm, Deb crawled toward the candle. It was awkward, and she had to switch from crawling to a sideways shuffle. She sucked in dust and cobwebs, trying to avoid banging her head on various support posts.

Teddy began to chuckle. “Oooo, y’all gonna pay for hittin’ me, little girl. Y’all gonna pay dearly.”

Deb reached the candle and smacked her palm on top, snuffing out the flame. The blackness was stifling, and the enormity of her situation hit her like a sledgehammer.

I’m trapped in a dark crawlspace with a psychotic freak.

She began to hyperventilate, unable to get enough oxygen. That led to wheezing.

I’m too loud. He’ll find me.

Deb clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to silence herself. When she was sure she wouldn’t pass out, she scooted away from her position, moving quietly. It was slow going. She didn’t want to bump into anything, or make the floor creak.

After she got some distance between herself and the candle, she began to put on her Cheetahs. Even though her hands were shaking, her years of competing in races paid off and Deb was able to get them on in less than thirty seconds.

Now I need to find an exit.

Deb raised her hands up over her head, feeling above her. She found a beam, and began to follow it along its length, crawling as silently as she could.

“Where you goin’, Debbie?”

Teddy was close. Very close. To her right. Deb paused, holding her breath, listening for movement.

She didn’t hear anything.

He’s either sitting still, moving toward me, or moving away from me.

So what’s my best option?

Keep going. Don’t wait for him to find me.

Deb softly blew out her breath, then continued her trek.

“I get it. Y’all wanna play a game.” Teddy had gotten even closer. Almost near enough to reach out and touch. “A little hide ‘n seek.”

She moved faster, feeling a sob well up in her chest.

I can’t cry. I need to stay quiet.

“I looooove games, girly girly.”

She froze.

Oh, sweet Jesus, he’s right in front of me.

“I know all sorts of games. ‘Cept I never played none of ‘em with a cripple before. You got no legs, just like me. I won’t even gotta tie you up to make babies.”

He got even nearer. She couldn’t see him, but she could sense his mass, feel his body heat.

Can he sense me as well?

“Maybe Momma will even let us get married. She’ll make us a big ol’ wedding cake.”

He’s so close.

Deb could actually feel his warm breath. It washed across her face like a foul summer wind blowing across a garbage dump. She tilted away, turning her head, crazy with fear that the floor would creak and he’d find her.

I can’t see him. That means he can’t see me. Stay calm.

“Will y’all marry me, Debbie girl?”

Teddy was close enough to kiss. He had to know she was there. Sweat rolled down Deb’s forehead, stinging her eyes. She closed them, willing, praying, for Teddy to go away.

“Teddy and Debbie, sittin’ in a tree. K...... I...... S...... S...... I...... N…...”

Deb lashed out before he could say G, making her hand into a claw and raking her hundred dollar manicure across his face. He screeched, and she scampered past him, crawling as fast as she could. She smacked her forehead into a joist, didn’t stop to assess the damage, and continued hurrying until she felt a cool breeze. Air flow potentially meant an exit. Deb paused, trying to sense its direction, and adjusted her course.

“The wedding is off, bitch!”

He was right behind her again. Deb plowed ahead, reaching a wall. She tried to go left, then right. Each way was blocked off.

Dead end. I’m dead. I...

Then her hand touched something solid and familiar.

A ladder rung. This is a ladder.

Ladders were Deb’s nemesis, and a large part of the reason she never tried to mountain climb again. If she couldn’t take ten vertical steps, how was she supposed to scale a sheer cliff face?

Previous ladder experiences—even with small step ladders—tended to end badly. And out of all her prosthetics, the Cheetah’s were the most ill-suited for ladders. The backwards curve meant she had to push her legs out behind her to take a step, which was awkward and threw off her balance.

“Gotcha!”

Teddy grabbed her around the thigh. His grip was iron, and his fingers palpated her quadriceps, stroking intimately.

Deb screamed, bringing her arm forward, then jamming her elbow back. It connected with his face.

Teddy grunted, releasing his grip. Deb kicked out backwards, felt her Cheetah bounce off of him. He knocked her prosthetic aside, so hard it almost came off.

He’s too fast. Too strong. There’s no place to escape.

I need to try the ladder.

Using only her upper body, Deb lifted herself up the first four steps. The darkness was absolute, and she had to work by feel. Grabbing a rung with both hands, she did a chin up. Then, holding it with one arm, she stretched up her other arm for the next rung.

Pull.

Reach.

Grab.

Pull.

Reach.

Grab.

Once she got the rhythm, she ascended quickly. And she no longer heard Teddy behind her. Maybe he—

He’s got my leg!

Deb pulled, her arms shaking, but she didn’t move an inch.

He’s going to drag me down. How long can I hold on for?

Deb hooked her elbow over the rung, waiting for him to tug.

Teddy didn’t tug.

Why isn’t he pulling?

Deb almost laughed hysterically when she figured it out.

It’s not Teddy. My Cheetah is caught on the rung.

The curve of the prosthetics acted like a hook, and it had apparently snagged onto the ladder. Deb lowered herself down a few inches, arched her back, and freed her leg.

But now her adrenalin had run out, and her arms were shaking from the strain. Going up any farther was impossible. She needed to get a foothold, rest for a moment, or else she’d lose her grip.

Deb prodded around with the tips of her Cheetah’s, trying to feel for a rung. Her leg found purchase. She tested it, easing herself down. It bore her weight. She stood there on one leg in the darkness, getting her strength back, straining to hear any sound of Teddy.

Where is he?

Maybe he can’t climb ladders. Maybe he isn’t strong enough.

Maybe he—

Deb almost fell when her foothold moved.

Oh, fuck.

I’m standing on him.

She scrambled to get a better grip on the rungs, and then began to ascend again, her tired muscles be damned. Fear gave her speed and strength, and after seven more rungs she reached up for the next and met with a ceiling.

A dead end?

Can’t be. Why have a ladder that takes you nowhere?

Holding on with one hand, her chin resting on the top rung, she pushed up with her free palm.

The ceiling moved, because it wasn’t a ceiling at all. It was another secret entrance.

Deb pushed it aside, then chinned-up into the open space. There was a thin strip of light at face-level, and Deb realized she was looking under a door. She hoisted herself up, pulling herself into this new room. Then she moved the board back and stood on top of it, her head brushing against something.

Coat hangers. I’m in a closet.

Then the door flew open, and Deb was hit in the face so hard it knocked her down.

# # #

Felix stared out the rear window of the police cruiser. A tow truck hauling a Corvette passed them going in the opposite direction. It was the only other vehicle he’d seen in the last thirty minutes.

“Where are you taking us?” Cam asked the Sheriff.

He’d asked that same question at least a dozen times. The Sheriff had yet to answer.

Felix wondered what was happening. Was this going to be some sort of backwoods justice? Take them deep into the woods and beat the shit out of them?

No. The Sheriff would have done it already. Why drive for this long? There were plenty of woods around here where no one would here the screams.

So what does he want?

Felix’s mind switched back to Maria. His brief elation that she was still alive had turned into a deep-rooted, sick feeling.

They’re raping and bleeding her. They’ve been doing this for a whole year.

The enormity of the horror she had endured made Felix want to scream.

I have to save her. I have to. I can’t let them do this to her for one more day.

But alongside the outrage and the pain, Felix felt a twinge of something shameful. Something he had a hard time facing.

Is she even Maria anymore?

He couldn’t shake the image of her, gaunt and gibbering, her mind completely fried because of her ordeal.

What if, when I finally find her, she’s a vegetable? What if she’s so traumatized she can no longer take care of herself.

Felix clenched his jaw.

Then I learn to change diapers.

I love her. I’m going to save her. Both her body and her mind.

But Felix didn’t see how he was going to save anybody, handcuffed in a squad car being taken someplace other than the police station.

He glanced at Cam. The younger man didn’t seem scared. If anything, he seemed hyper.

Not for the first time, Felix questioned whether bringing Cam along was the right decision. On one hand, Cam loved Maria just as much as he did. To leave him languish unjustly in a psychiatric institution was wrong, especially when Felix needed help looking for his sister.

On the other hand, Cam had been in the institution for a reason.

For ninety-five percent of the time, Cam seemed entirely normal. But every so often Felix would catch him talking to himself, and saying some pretty bizarre shit. And several times over the last few months, Cam seemed to zone out completely, even when Felix was yelling in his face.

Then again, if I had his history, maybe I’d zone out too.

Still, the enthusiasm he showed while breaking John’s fingers was definitely not normal. Willingly hurting another human being—even if that person was a kidnapper and a rapist—was really dark stuff.

“We’ll be okay,” Felix said, more to reassure himself than Cam.

“I don’t think so,” Cam said. “I think he’s taking us somewhere to kill us.”

The matter-of-fact way Cam said it was chilling.

“He’s a police officer. He won’t do that.”

“He didn’t call it in,” Cam said. “Didn’t report back.”

“It’s a small town. There’s no one to report to.”

Cam shook his head. “He’s not the only cop in the county. There are others. Murder is still a big deal. But he didn’t call anyone. Base. The coroner. Paramedics. That means he’s going to get rid of us.”

Felix felt himself get very cold. He was mentally and physically a wreck, hurting in a dozen places, his mind alternately torturing and tantalizing him with thoughts of Maria. To think that he was going to die soon was almost too much to handle.

“Don’t worry,” Cam said. “It’s not so bad.”

Felix let out a half-insane chuckle. “What’s not so bad?”

“Dying,” Cam said.

Cam would know.

The police cruiser began to slow down. Felix looked around. Nothing but woods and darkness. A lump formed in his throat.

The lump got even bigger when the cruiser pulled onto the shoulder, into a copse of trees.

“Sheriff,” Felix said. “Please. Don’t do this.”

“Son, I can’t begin to describe what a pain in the rear you’ve been these last few months. Botherin’ the locals. Stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong. All for one little woman.” The Sheriff stared in the rear view mirror, looking at Felix. “There are other fish in the sea, boy. Didn’t your mama ever tell you that?”

“She’s alive?”

“Hell, ‘course she’s alive. I saw ‘er just a few weeks ago. Got my transfusion, and dipped my wick in ‘er honey pot. I tell you, she’s one sorry piece of tail. Does nothing but lay there and cry. I don’t see why you’re so damn anxious to get ‘er back.”

Rage replaced fear. Felix tried to get at the Sheriff by ramming his head through the Plexiglas partition between the front and back seats. The only damage he caused was to himself, opening up the cut on his head.

“Careful there, son. Y’all oughta save your strength. Fine looking young buck like yourself. I don’t personally care for none of that sodomite behavior, but to some of my brothers a hole is a hole is a hole. You keep acting so impetuous, you won’t last a week with my kin.”

Felix sank back in his seat. Of the countless nightmare scenarios he’d dreamed up to explain Maria’s disappearance, none were this bad.

The car hit a hump, bouncing Felix and Cam. If only Cam had been on his right side, maybe he could have reached Felix’s handcuff keys in his jeans pocket. But Cam was on the left—the wrong side—and he wouldn’t be able to dig them out, not with the Sheriff eyeballing them every few seconds. And Felix had been stretching since the moment he got into the car, and his hands hadn’t even come close.

Not that it mattered. Even if the cuffs were off, the Sheriff was still armed. Assuming he and Cam could somehow get out of the cruiser, they wouldn’t get far.

The police car stopped. Felix’s brain popped and sizzled, trying to figure some way out of this mess. He glanced at Cam. Incredibly, the kid appeared peaceful, like he was going for a ride in the country.

What the hell is wrong with him?

“We’re here, fellas. Don’t give me no trouble. I get angry, I start breakin’ things on y’all. You hear?”

The Sheriff got out of the car, gun in hand, and opened the door. Felix got out first, staring into woods so dark he felt like her was being swallowed. There was nothing around, far as he could see. When Cam exited the vehicle, the Sheriff took out a flashlight and marched them forward.

Out of nowhere, a gigantic house appeared. Made of logs, surround by tall trees on all sides. Not a single light was on.

Is this the Rushmore Inn?

“The forest rangers don’t even know this place exits,” the Sheriff said. “Got some trees on the roof, so it can’t be seen flyin’ overhead. Every so often, hunter’ll stumble on it. We take care of ‘em.”

He marched them inside the heavy front door, closed it behind him, and yelled, “Ma! I’m home!”

Felix looked around the room, awed by the decor. U.S. Presidents were everywhere. He was so floored by how odd it was that he almost failed to notice the large old woman lumbering toward them.

“Good evening. I’m Eleanor Roosevelt. Welcome, gentlemen, to the Rushmore Inn.” She fussed with her hair, held in place by a white hairnet, then turned to the Sheriff. “Dwight? Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing guests?”

“Sorry, Ma. This was last minute.” Dwight took off his cowboy hat and held it by the brim, looking solemn. “I’m afraid I got some bad news. These fellas here killed John.”

Eleanor blinked her bulbous eyes. “John? My John?”

“’Fraid so. These are the ones I told you about a while ago. The ones looking for the girl. They shot John in the head. Like a dog, Ma. Nuthin’ I could do.”

“Better than he deserved,” Cam said. “You people are scum.”

Sheriff Dwight hit Cam in the stomach, dropping him to his knees.

“Mind my momma, boy.”

Eleanor placed a hand on her chest. She moaned, a low, keening sound that grew higher and higher in pitch, like a fog horn.

“There there, Ma.” The Sheriff patted her shoulder.

Eleanor stopped howling long enough to pull a handkerchief out of her robe pocket. She dabbed her eyes, but as far as Felix could tell they were already dry.

“Get me some water to calm my nerves, Dwight. There’s a pitcher on the table.”

Dwight nodded, heading for the pitcher. Felix flexed his legs.

If he turns his back on me, I’ll run at the old woman and...

The next thing he knew, Felix was on his knees, teeth clenched in agony. It felt like a pick axe hit him in the stomach. He stared up at Eleanor, who was now holding a stick she must have had hidden in her robe.

She touched the stick to Felix’s arm, and it hurt worse than if she’d branded it with a hot iron.

It’s a cattle prod. But Felix was much more interested in the hand that held it. On Eleanor’s pinky.

A yellow diamond ring. Pear shaped.

Maria’s engagement ring.

She’s here! Maria is here!

“Shame on you,” Eleanor said. “Shame on both of you. John was a good boy. A special boy. He wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he loved his momma, and I had big plans for him.”

“He was a rapist and a murderer,” Cam said.

Eleanor juiced him with the prod, and Cam cried out.

“Not another word out of you, boy. Dwight! Where’s my water?”

“Here it is, Ma.”

The Sheriff handed her a glass of rust-colored liquid, and she drank the whole thing, smacking her lips at the end.

“Not much in the taste department, but wonderful for the nerves. Get my blood kit, Dwight.”

“Got it already, Ma.”

“Test ‘em.”

The Sheriff knelt down, poking Felix in the hip with something that stung. He did the same thing to Cam. Then he opened up a leather satchel and pulled out some vials of fluid.

He just took our blood samples. He’s going to test if we...

Jesus, who’s that?

A giant had come down the stairs. A giant with a gaping split in his face. He walked up to them and stared at Felix, flicking his tongue out through the hole in his nasal cavity.

“Did you take care of the reporter, Harry?” Eleanor asked.

The giant nodded.

“Where is he?”

“Immmby av imm.”

“Jimmy has him?”

He nodded again.

“Good boy. You done your momma proud. Have you heard from Teddy yet?”

Harry shook his head. Eleanor sighed. “He’s probably fooling around again. Teddy is a lot like your father. That man was a rascal, never satisfied. Sometimes, your father would mount me four, five times a day.” Eleanor fanned her face with her palm.

The Sheriff walked over, holding two test tubes.

“The older one, no,” he said. “But the younger one’s a match.”

Eleanor pointed at Cam. “Harry, show that one to his new room.”

“Shouldn’t he take them both down, Ma?” The Sheriff crouched down on his haunches, staring at Felix. “I thought my kin could have a bit of fun with this one.”

“There ain’t any place for him, Dwight. We’re overbooked as it is. Past capacity.”

“We could double-up.”

Eleanor shook her head. “Not safe. When the guests are allowed to mingle, they get ideas about escapin’.”

The Sheriff grinned, and it was an ugly thing. Felix hadn’t noticed before that he had the tiny, rounded teeth of a child.

“I’ll cut out his tongue,” The Sheriff said. “He won’t be minglin’ with nobody.”

Eleanor waggled a finger. “Don’t you dare get any blood on my Richard Nixon rug.”

“So what do we do with him? Should I just take him out back, put one in the back of his head?”

The Sheriff made his hand into a gun, and pointed his index finger at Felix.

“No. Give him to Ronald. He ain’t been fed proper in a while.”

“Yes, Ma.”

The Sheriff hooked a hand under Felix’s armpit, pulling him to his feet.

“And when you’re finished up, Dwight, help Grover up in the Grant bedroom. The old woman in there is the only one left.”

The Sheriff made a pouty face. “Aw, c’mon, Ma. I gotta get back to the office. I’m working tonight. Can’t Ulysses do it?”

“Ulysses is towing a guest’s car.”

“How about Millard or George?”

“Millard is cleaning up a mess in the transfusion room. One of our permanent guests is holed up in there. She’s with a dog that bit George, pretty bad. Millard’s going to take care of it, soon as he gets dressed.”

Permanent guests?

“You’re talking about Maria,” Felix said.

Eleanor cocked her head at Felix, then zapped him with the prod. Felix fell onto his knees again.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Eleanor said. “But yes, I was talking about Maria. Big disappointment, that one. I had hopes for grandchildren, but the girl is barren as the Sahara Desert. But don’t you get your hopes up, young man. Millard is going to put the poor girl out of my misery. He’s very good at that. And it’s no loss for us. We have enough new blood to last us for the year.”

“You... monster,” Felix said, bracing himself for another jolt.

But Eleanor didn’t prod him again. She just smiled.

“Sometimes, people in power have to do distasteful things for the greater good. Throughout our nation’s history, our Presidents have had to do many things that could be considered unsavory. And before them, the kings that passed on their sacred blood line, often made sacrifices for the greater good. Being born to rule is a huge responsibility, and royalty has no need for morality.”

Then Eleanor stuck the cattle prod on Felix’s chest, pressing him to the floor, holding him there until his entire world was reduced to a blazing, pinpoint of pain.

“Get him off my rug and feed him to Ronald,” Eleanor said. “Then go help Grover with the old woman.”

The Sheriff scratched his head. “Shit, Ma, it’s just an old lady. Grover can handle—”

Eleanor’s hand shot out, fast as a rattlesnake, slapping Sheriff Dwight across the face.

“Dwight D. Eisenhower Roosevelt, don’t you swear in this house.”

The Sheriff looked at his shoes. “Sorry, Ma.”

“Besides, you should never underestimate women of later years. They’re a lot stronger than you think.”

“Yes, Ma.” The Sheriff hauled Felix to his feet once again. “This is the one that did John. You want to give him a horse whippin’? I can fetch it for you.”

“It’s been a frightfully busy day, Dwight. I’m too gosh darn tired to horse whip anyone right now. Besides, Ronald will deliver a right proper punishment without me.”

The Sheriff nodded. “As you wish, Ma. And remind me before I go I got somethin’ for you in the car.”

Eleanor beamed. “Is it the Reagan/Bush ’88 banner I’ve been asking for?”

“It sure is. Found one on Craigslist. Practically brand new.”

She touched the Sheriff’s red cheek. “Y’all are such a dear boy. When you get off work tonight, come knock on Momma’s door. She’ll show you how grateful she is.”

Eleanor ran her liver-colored tongue over her lower lip.

Felix winced. I didn’t think this could get any more repugnant, and it just did.

The Sheriff set his cowboy hat on a cabinet, opened a drawer, and took out a mining hat. He perched that on his head, turned on the light.

“Move it, boy. Lest I horse whip you myself.”

He prodded Felix out the front door, walking him into the woods. After being inside the house, the forest seemed even darker. Felix eyed the treeline, wondering how far he’d get if he made a run for it.

Best case scenario, I escape, return, and save Maria and Cam.

Worst case, I get shot. Which sounds preferable to being eaten by Ronald, whoever that is.

Then Felix felt the Sheriff grab the chain linking his wrists. Escape was no longer an option.

“Straight ahead. Keep a’moving.”

He marched Felix through the trees. They walked for several minutes, not following any particular path Felix could make out. The Sheriff’s head lamp constantly scanned the foliage in all directions. Like he was afraid of something sneaking up on him. And maybe he was.

They eventually reached an open clearing. The Sheriff’s light focused on…

A cave. With a metal pole sticking into the ground in front of the entrance.

And scattered around the pole...

“Jesus Christ,” Felix said.

There were bones. Human bones. Dozens and dozens of them, littered about like the aftermath of a plane crash. Skulls and rib cages and pelvises. Femurs and spines. Some dark with age. Some still with strips of bloody flesh clinging to them.

“Shh,” the Sheriff whispered. “If Ronald is sleeping, you don’t wanna to wake him up.”

The Sheriff tapped Felix on the back of the head with his gun, trying to get him to move forward. Felix didn’t budge.

“Move it, boy.”

“No fucking way.”

Then Felix felt the Sheriff’s hand on his, grabbing three of his mangled fingers.

Oh, please no...

Felix heard the bones break before he felt them.

Snap snap snap.

Then the pain hit, making everything Felix had experienced that night pale by comparison.

He opened his mouth to scream, and just as it was leaving his throat the Sheriff forced something into his mouth.

A ball gag.

“That’s what you did to my brother, John,” the Sheriff said. “How’s it feel, boy? How’s it feel to break a man’s fingers when he can’t fight back?”

He grabbed Felix’s right hand and repeated the process.

Christ, no…

Snap snap snap.

Felix’s stomach was empty, but he dry-heaved anyway, bile coming up through his nose.

Using Felix’s fingers like a steering wheel, the Sheriff guided Felix to the metal pole. He quickly uncuffed his left hand, made Felix hug the pole, and cuffed him again.

“Have fun with Ronald, you sonofabitch.”

The Sheriff reared back and punched Felix in the gut. Felix dropped to his knees, sobbing, watching as the Sheriff scurried off, leaving him alone in the darkness.

Then Felix manuevered around to face the cave. Though the full moon was shining through the break in the canopy, Felix’s eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to the dark, and he couldn’t see anything. But he could smell it. A rank, foul odor. Spoiled meat and blood and feces and musk.

The smell of a predator.

The handcuff keys were still in Felix’s pocket. And with his hands now cuffed in front of him, they were within his reach.

Felix brought his right hand in front of his face. He didn’t want to look at it, but he had to assess the damage. Felix squinted in the darkness, saw his ring finger, middle finger, and index finger, all bent backwards at forty-five degree angles. The bloody bandages he’d put on earlier had begin to drip. Felix tried to move his hand, and a ripple of agony coursed through him, making him want to die to end the pain.

I’ll never be able to get those keys out of his pocket.

Then Felix looked up, and saw the dim silhouette of something coming out of the cave.

# # #

When Kelly opened her eyes, she was lying on dirt.

Am I outside? What’s going on?

It all rushed back to her in a flood of images. Going into the closet. Chasing JD. Talking to Alice.

No, not Alice. Alice was really a crazy, freaky man named Grover. He caught me because my finger was...

Then the pain hit. Kelly stared at her index finger, saw an ugly, serrated cut around the knuckle. She’d seen an injury like that once before. Back home, one of her classmate was helping his father set fox traps, and one snapped down on him. Kelly figured when she stuck her finger in the peep hole, Grover had put a fox trap on it to hold her there.

She bent the digit, wincing, feeling the tears well up but biting them back.

I’ll cry later. I need to figure out what’s going on.

She tore her eyes away from the injury and studied her surroundings.

Even though Kelly was on dirt, she wasn’t outside. She was in some kind of tiny, dark room. The walls were concrete. The door was metal. The only furnishings were a bucket and a water pump.

“Mom! Grandma!”

Her voice echoed around in the enclosed space. She got up and went to the door.

Locked.

“Mom!” Kelly yelled with all of her lung power.

“Who’s there?” someone said back. A man. Not far away.

“Help me! I’m locked in here!”

Kelly put her ear to the door.

“I’m locked in, too” the man answered. He didn’t sound like he was standing outside. More like he was from a room to the left. She walked over to the wall and cupped her hands together, putting them against her mouth as if she were about to shout. Then she pressed her hands to the wall and said, “Can you hear me?”

Kelly held her ear against the cold concrete and waited for a response.

“Yeah, I can hear you.” The man’s voice was quiet, but clear.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“We’re under the Rushmore Inn, being held in slave cells.”

“What do they want with us?”

“They’re sick. They want to use our blood for transfusions. And...”

Kelly didn’t like the way his voice trailed off, like he was about to tell her something and then changed his mind.

“And what?”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Kelly. You?”

“Cam. I came here with my sister’s fiancée, Felix. We’ve been looking for her for a year. We think she’s here.”

A year? They’ve been looking for a year?

Kelly shook her head.

No way. I couldn’t last a year here.

“Have you seen my mom or grandmother?” she asked, her voice getting higher as panic set in. “Letti and Florence Pillsbury?”

“I haven’t seen anyone. Just the guy who brought me down here. Ugly bastard with a split in his face. They need our blood because theirs is bad, or something like that.”

Kelly was horrified. “Our blood?”

“I’m O negative. So is my sister. It’s pretty rare.”

Kelly closed her eyes. She was O negative, too. So were Mom and Grandma.

“What else do they want us for?” she asked.

Cam didn’t answer.

“Cam, please, if you know something, tell me. I can handle it.”

“They... they kidnap women to make babies.”

Kelly knew she had to be brave. Mom told her that the best way to overcome bad situations was to fight the fear and keep a clear head. Emotions weren’t useful.

But Kelly felt the tears coming on anyway.

“Kelly? You okay?”

“I’m only twelve years old!” Kelly wailed.

“Jesus. Look, it will all be okay. We’ll get out of this. I promise.”

“How? What if they’ve already got Mom and Grandma? No one knows we’re here.”

“I’ve been in bad situations before, Kelly. We’ll make it.”

Kelly lost herself to tears, crying so hard her nose began to run. All the while she heard Cam saying, “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Over and over again.

She thought of Mom, who’d given the same lecture to Kelly since she was four years old and skinned her knee.

“Be strong. You won’t help your situation by crying. Focus on what you need to do to fix it.”

Mom was right. I can cry about the pain. Or I can deal with it.

Kelly blew her nose on her sleeve, then asked Cam, “What situations?”

“What?”

“You said you’ve been in bad situations before.”

“It’s… tough to talk about.”

Kelly pressed her ear to the wall. “Please, Cam. I feel like I’m going to crack up. Tell me something hopeful.”

Cam didn’t answer.

“Please.”

“It happened when I was a kid. I was playing in an abandoned house up the street, with my best friend. A man, a drifter, he grabbed us. I was locked in a closet. My friend... the man hurt him. Bad. For a long time. It was so bad, he died. I heard everything. But I managed to get away. I escaped back then, Kelly. I’ll escape again. We both will.”

“That’s... awful, Cam.”

“Nietzsche said what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. I’m strong, Kelly. And I bet you are too. We’re going to get out of this.”

“Be quiet!”

It was a new voice. A woman. Coming from the opposite wall.

“Who’s there?” Kelly yelled.

“Shut up!” the woman said. “We aren’t allowed to talk! They do things to us when we talk!”

“Who are you?” Kelly asked. “What’s your name?”

There was a clanging noise, followed by the woman saying, “No! I wasn’t talking! I was telling them not to talk! Please don’t hurt me! I’m carrying a baby!”

It was followed by a scream so raw, so horrifying, that it was the single most frightening thing Kelly had ever heard in her life.

What could make someone scream like that?

Kelly hugged her knees and watched the door. Her nose was running again, but she didn’t dare sniffle. She wasn’t going to make even the slightest sound.

Please, don’t come in.

Please go away.

Please please please go away...

# # #

When Mal opened his eyes, he was lying naked on a cold, stainless steel table. He recognized the type from his cop days. It was sturdy, able to hold up to five hundred pounds, and had gutters along the edges to catch bodily fluids.

A mortician’s table.

He tried to sit up, but there was a strap around his neck. His wrists and ankles were similarly bound, heavy leather and tight buckles.

Mal remembered the shower, the bloody shampoo, then someone grabbing him.

What the hell is going on?

He looked around the room. It was small, but brightly lit, with a large florescent lamp overhead. Concrete walls. Two doors. A TV and VCR, resting unevenly on a cardboard box. They were plugged into an extension cord that ran along the dirt floor under the closest door.

Next to the table was a cart, piled high with medical instruments, none of which looked clean. Knives. Saws. Scalpels. Drill bits. Clamps. Needles. And a bowl of white powder.

“The time is ten fifty-two pm. We’ll begin the operation shortly.”

Mal followed the voice, saw a man standing at the foot of the table.

It’s an honest-to-Christ hunchback.

The hunchback wore a filthy white lab coat, his gnarled spine protruding up through a split in the back. The man also had clubbed feet, and one leg was several inches longer than the other, as judged by the high, clunky soles of his orthopedic shoes. His skull was bulbous, misshapen, hairless, and his cheekbones were uneven.

“What’s going on?” Mal said. “Who are you?”

The hunchback raised a camcorder to his chest, pointing it at Mal. He smiled, revealing several missing teeth. “I’m Jimmy, your surgeon. It appears the patient is awake. Let’s make sure.”

Jimmy raised a scalpel in his free hand, and before Mal could protest, the hunchback poked him hard in the thigh. The pain was instant and awful.

“Fuck! What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Indeed, the patient is awake, and responsive to stimulus.”

Jimmy pulled the scalpel free.

“Let me up, you crazy fucker!”

Jimmy set down the camcorder between Mal’s legs, then hobbled over to the television. It was an old CRT model with a pull knob for an on switch. Snow appeared on the screen, with the accompanying static hiss.

“I understand your concerns,” Jimmy said. “Surgery can be a traumatic experience. This tape should answer some of your questions.”

Jimmy pressed play on the VCR. After a few seconds of white noise and vertical flipping, an image came on.

It showed a woman, strapped to the very same table Mal was lying on.

Jimmy was using a hacksaw to cut off her leg.

Though the sound was turned low, the woman’s screaming stabbed Mal in the ears.

The scene cut to a different angle of a different person. An older man. He was begging, beating his bound fists on the table, while Jimmy had a hand inside his stomach cavity.

Next came a close-up of a woman’s breast, being filleted off as she thrashed.

“This next one is my favorite,” Jimmy said.

On the screen, he was using a spoon to pluck out a man’s eyeball.

“Did you hear the pop sound when it came out? I can rewind it if you didn’t.”

Mal squeezed his own eyes closed.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

“It’s not over yet!” Jimmy whined. He stuck Mal with the scalpel again. “Keep watching!”

Mal forced his eyes open, one nightmarish image after another searing itself onto his brain. Amputations. Organ removals. Procedures that weren’t even remotely medical, like the one involving a power sander.

“Dermabrasion,” Jimmy said. “It removes acne.”

“You’re insane,” Mal said. “You’re fucking insane.”

Jimmy switched off the TV, then stared over Mal’s head.

“You have a potty mouth, Mr. Deiter.”

Mal looked up, saw Eleanor had walked into the room. She was wearing a robe and a hairnet, a frown creasing her ugly face.

“Eleanor, what the hell—”

Eleanor clamped a hand over his mouth. “Any more foul language and I’ll have Jimmy sew your lips together. Understand?”

Mal saw she was serious, and he nodded. Eleanor let her eyes, and her hand, trail down his naked body.

“I see that you keep in shape,” she said, drawing a circle around his belly button with her finger. “That’s good.” Then her hand brushed over his penis, which was almost as awful as being stabbed with the scalpel.

Mal swallowed, biting back fear. “If you want money...”

“We have all the money we need, Mr. Deiter. But thank you for offering.”

“Applying styptic to control bleeding,” Jimmy said. Mal watched him take a pinch of white powder and press it into his thigh wounds.

He uttered, “Son of a...” but managed to stop himself before bitch came out.

“Self-control,” Eleanor said, tying a medical face mask across her mouth and nose. “I admire that in a man.”

“What do you want?” Mal said through gritted teeth.

“What I want, Mr. Deiter, is the same thing I’ve wanted for forty years, from the first time I felt my eldest child George kick inside my womb.” She leaned in closer. “I want one of my sons to become President of the United States.”

Mal realized this wasn’t some sort of kidnapping scheme, or an attempt to frighten him. Eleanor wasn’t just eccentric. She was truly out of her goddamn mind.

“All forty-three of our Presidents carry the royal bloodline.” Eleanor said. “My family has the very same bloodline, Mr. Deiter. We’re Roosevelts. And one day, another Roosevelt will sit in the Oval Office.”

Mal pulled at his straps, hard as he could. They didn’t give an inch.

“Did you know the term blue blood was applied to nobility because those of royal descent tended to have fairer skin, which allowed blue veins to show through?” Eleanor asked. “While having royal blood makes someone like me genetically superior to someone like you, such purity does come with its particular challenges. Anemia and hemophilia are two of them. Phocomelia. Amelia. Porphyria. Achromia. Scoliosis. Alopecia. Thrombocytopenia.”

Insanity, Mal mentally added.

“These have plagued royal families for generations. My sons bear these burdens heroically, as nobility should. But they require regular transfusions in order to remain healthy. Y’all can’t buy blood at the corner market, Mr. Deiter. Especially not the rare type we need. When one of my boys becomes President, we’ll no doubt have unlimited access to the nation’s blood banks. In the meantime, the only way for me to get a regular supply of fresh blood is to acquire it myself.”

“You want my blood,” Mal stated.

“Goodness no, Mr. Deiter. Your lady friend, Deborah, has the type we require. Yours is no good to us. But you can still be useful. My son Jimmy doesn’t have any political aspirations, unfortunately. But he does hope to one day become a doctor. That’s a noble calling in itself. And for that, he needs a lot of practice.”

Jimmy stuck his face next to Mal’s. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot.

“Today I’m going to be practicing amputation. I’m gonna start with your left hand.”

For the first time in his adult life, Mal felt like whimpering. He managed to get out, “Please, don’t.”

“You’re a strong man, Mr. Deiter,” Eleanor said. “Jimmy’s patients don’t normally last for more than four or five operations. The record is nine. I bet a healthy young specimen such as you can beat that record.”

Jimmy picked up the bone saw from the cart of instruments. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any anesthetic.”

Jimmy pulled the face mask up over his nose. Then he put something in his ears. Eleanor did the same.

Ear plugs. To block out my screaming.

“Please,” Mal said, even though he wasn’t heard. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t forget your gloves, Jimmy!” Eleanor yelled. “We don’t want you accidentally cutting yourself!”

Jimmy nodded, putting on a pair of blood-stained oven mitts. Then he picked up a scalpel, barely able to grip it. Eleanor held the camcorder.

“Please...”

The blade touched Mal’s arm.

“Knock me out,” Mal said. “For god’s sake, knock me—”

Then the cutting began, and Mal didn’t say anything else coherent.

# # #

When Letti opened her eyes, she heard a man screaming.

What’s going on?

She looked around, saw she was in some sort of cell. Bare, concrete walls, like a basement. Dirt floor. Completely empty, except for a water pump and a filthy plastic bucket.

Letti sat up. “Kelly! Florence! Are you there!”

“Mom!”

“Kelly!”

Letti rushed to the metal door. Locked.

“Kelly! Are you okay?”

“Mom, we have to be quiet.”

“Kelly, what’s—”

“Please, Mom! Don’t talk anymore! They hurt you if you talk!”

Her daughter sounded terrified. And rightfully so, if she was locked up like Letti was.

The man’s screaming rose in pitch, until it became a single high note that Letti felt in her molars.

What are they doing to him?

“Kelly, hang in there, baby. I’m coming.”

Letti took a step back from the door. It looked formidable, but it also looked old. Letti could squat lift over five hundred pounds, and she had no doubt she could squat double that with her daughter in danger. She reared back, letting the urgency of the situation take her, and drove her bare foot into the door.

It clanged, and she felt the reverberation all the way to her coccyx.

Letti kicked it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The door wasn’t giving up, but neither was she. Letti took a few steps back, giving her leg a rest, getting ready to charge it with her shoulder.

Then the door swung open.

Standing there, in some kind of padded armor, was the biggest man Letti had ever seen. He was more than a foot taller than she was. Strands of long gray hair hung around his shoulders, and poked through the grill of the football helmet he wore.

Letti lowered her shoulder and charged him, aiming at the giant’s waist, grunting in satisfaction when she pushed him back several steps.

Just a bit more, and I’ll be out of the cell. Then—

Letti felt a knife stick her between the shoulder blades.

She dropped onto her face, crying out in agony. Then the pain stopped, and she realized it wasn’t a knife at all. The giant was pinning her down with something.

Letti craned her neck around. Saw the stick he held, blue electric sparks crackling at the tip.

A cattle prod.

“Youse a fighter,” the man said. He had a voice like steak sizzling on a hot pan. “I likes fighters.”

He juiced her again, and Letti clenched her teeth, refusing to cry out, refusing to let Kelly hear her pain.

Finally, mercifully, the current stopped. Letti could feel the burn mark on her spine. The giant bent down, resting his knee on her neck, forcing her face into the dirt.

“Now y’all better be quiet,” he said, “else I’ll stick this prod someplace you won’t like.”

Letti was hurt, but more angry than scared.

“I’ll kill you if you so much as touch my daughter...”

The giant laughed. “Touch your daughter? Little lady, I’m gonna use up both you and your daughter ‘till there ain’t nothin’ left. Ol’ Millard is gonna show you things you never done dreamed of. And you both gonna be mommas to some a’ my babies.”

With his free hand, the man scooped up dirt and forced it between Letti’s lips.

“I own y’all now,” he said. “’N I can do whatever I want with that which is my property. Now keep yer trap shut. I gotta go deal with somethin’.”

Millard got off her neck and walked out, so confident in his superiority he showed Letti his back. He locked the door when he left.

Letti sat up, spitting out dirt, clenching and unclenching her fists.

“One more chance, asshole,” she said to the empty cell. “Give me one more chance. You won’t knock me down again.”

# # #

When Maria opened her eyes, she was hugging the German Shepherd, burying her face in his muzzle. For the first time in a year, she had a sliver of hope.

However, the hope was fading fast. The door was the same as the one in her cell; solid metal with a heavy lock. Even if she had all day and a sledgehammer, she wouldn’t be able to get through it. Eleanor had once mentioned these underground rooms were once the slave quarters for a tobacco farm.

“Not a single slave ever escaped in the decades it operated. Those that tried were beaten, or punished with strappado.”

No, rather than focus on escaping, Maria needed to prepare herself when they came back for her. And they had to come back, eventually. They needed the transfusion machine to survive.

The machine.

Without it, they’ll die.

Maria let go of JD and stood up, staring at the infernal device. She unplugged it from the extension cord snaking under the door, then squatted down and grabbed the bottom. With a quick lift, she upended the device, grinning as the casing split open.

But she wasn’t finished. She pulled off the case and tore into its innards, pulling out parts and wires. Picking up a piece of the housing, she used it as a club, smashing and smashing until every single part was broken. Then she turned her fury on the chair, the one they strapped her and countless others onto in order to bleed them. Maria broke that into bits as well, half-crying and half-laughing and entirely hysterical.

When she finished, and it lay in ruins around her, she collapsed, hugging her knees, grinning even as the tears streamed down her face.

JD came over, offered his paw.

She held him again, the act of petting an animal allowing her to calm down, to come back to reality.

Then she heard the door lock snick open.

JD pulled from her arms, launching himself at the man as the door opened. Maria crab-walked backwards, looking for the cattle prod, hoping that the person at the door wasn’t—

Millard.

He was the biggest, and meanest, of all Eleanor’s children. At least seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and thick wrists. His hair was white, shoulder length, scraggly. And like the others, his eyes were bloodshot all the time, a symptom of one of his many conditions.

Millard went far beyond the casual sadism of George, Dwight, and Teddy, or the simple-minded brutishness of Harry, Grover, and Calvin. Millard was a psychotic animal. He enjoyed hurting things. He lived for it. So much so, that his brothers were all afraid of him. Maria had heard that Millard hunted deer with a knife, and then cut off their legs, one at a time, to see how far they could run. He was the only son Eleanor wouldn’t sleep with.

Maria had scars from Millard. She’d only given him three transfusions, and each time he’d come up with new ways to inflict pain during the procedure. Thumbtacks and witch hazel. Matches. A cheese grater and a salt shaker. Nothing that would harm her seriously, but would hurt worse than anything in the world.

As Millard stomped into the room, JD threw himself at the gigantic man, aiming for the cattle prod clenched in Millard’s hand. But Millard seemed fatter than usual, and Maria quickly spotted why.

He’s wearing the Ronald suit.

The Ronald suit was made of thick bands of foam. It was used when Millard was dealing with Ronald—no one else had the guts to. There was no way JD would be able to bite through the padding. Even Millard’s head was protected, in a black football helmet with a metal grid faceplate, crude white skulls painted on each side.

Maria glanced at her cattle prod, knowing it would be ineffective.

I can’t fight him. I have to run.

Millard lifted up his arm, and a hundred and twenty pounds of dog hung from his padded wrist, refusing to let go. The giant punched the Shepherd in the ribs, once, and again. But JD hung on like a champion.

Maria ran at them, holding the cattle prod in front of her like a fencing sword. She thrust it up high, connecting with Millard’s faceplate.

Sparks flew. Millard yanked the prod from her but stumbled to the side, allowing an open path to the doorway.

“JD! Come!”

On command JD released the giant’s arm. He shot through the door just as she was slamming it on Millard. Incredibly, the key was on a key ring and still in the lock—Millard must not have had any pockets in the Ronald suit. Maria turned the key, locking him in, and then backed away from the door.

It shook, but didn’t open. Millard was trapped.

“Nice job, JD. JD?”

Maria looked around. The dog had taken off.

“JD!” she called. “Come!”

Frantic thoughts invaded her mind.

Did I leave him in there with Millard?

No. He got out. I know he got out.

So where is he?

“JD!”

Maria had never seen the hallways down here; they always put a hood on her when she was out of her cell. The corridor walls were stone and concrete, crumbling with age. The floors were dirt. Light came from bare bulbs, hanging from the ceiling by extension cords. The hallway itself was actually more like a tunnel, curving left and right with no logical direction.

“JD!” Maria yelled again. She knew she was due for a complete mental breakdown. A physical one as well—having that freak blood in her always made her woozy afterward. But she had to stay strong, had to keep going. Had to capitalize on the opportunity.

“JD!” she implored, begging the universe for the dog to respond.

“Who’s calling for my dog?”

It was a woman’s voice, coming from farther down the hall. Maria moved slowly, listening for noises and constantly checking behind her. When she rounded a bend, she saw JD, scratching away at a cell door.

“JD! Good boy!” She patted him on the head.

“Who’s there?”

“I’m Maria,” she told the woman in the cell. “Is JD your dog?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“I’m a prisoner here. Like you. Hold on, let me find the right key.”

Maria fussed with Millard’s key ring, finding the one for the cell on the third try. Upon opening the door, the dog rushed in, licking at the woman’s legs.

She was tall, muscular. A bit dirty, but not a long-time guest.

“I owe your dog several steaks. He saved my—”

“Are those keys?”

Maria nodded. The woman pulled them from Maria’s hands and rushed past.

“Hold on,” Maria said, hurrying after her. “We need to talk.”

“I need to find my daughter. She’s locked up in one of these rooms.”

“We’ll find her,” Maria said. “But you need to know what we’re dealing with here.”

“I know what we’re dealing with. Some real sicko freaks. Kelly! Can you hear me?”

“Mom!”

Kelly’s mother rushed to the next cell door, fussing with the lock.

“Which key is it? Which goddamn key?”

Maria put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Lady, you need to calm down a bit.”

“Calm down? Do you know what these people have done to us?”

Maria rested her hand on the keys. “Look at me. I’ve been here a year. I know what these people can do. And if you don’t listen to me, we aren’t going to get out of here alive.”

The woman looked like she was about ready to throw a punch, and Maria wondered if she just should get the hell out of there, leave them behind.

But the punch didn’t come. Instead, the woman managed to calm herself down. “I’m Letti. Thank you for opening my door. Can you help me with this one?”

Maria nodded, finding the right key. When she unlocked it, there was an intense mother/daughter/dog reunion. Maria was touched. She hadn’t seen a normal person since she’d been abducted, and certainly hadn’t felt love like she was currently witnessing. But they needed to get going. There were other prisoners. And Eleanor had guns, and more psycho children.

A lot more.

“We need to go,” she said.

Letti seemed reluctant to break the embrace with her daughter, but she did so. “Kelly, this is Maria. She just saved out asses.”

“After JD saved mine,” Maria said.

Kelly offered Maria her hand. She looked a lot like her mother.

“There are others down here,” Kelly said. “A pregnant woman, and a boy named Cam. I think he’s your brother.”

Maria’s breath caught. “Did... did you say Cam?” Without waiting for an answer, Maria cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled, “Cam!”

“Maria!”

Sprinting across the hall, Maria unlocked the next cell door she came to. Seeing Cam—her brother Cam—standing there with a lopsided grin on his face, turned her tear ducts into faucets.

When she hugged him, it was so tight he yelped. Maria threatened to fall apart, the sensation was so overwhelming. For a moment this living nightmare faded away, replaced by happy, childhood memories of safety, security, and love.

“We found you,” Cam said. “Me and Felix. We’ve been looking all year.”

Maria held Cam at arm’s length, her eyes getting wide. “Felix? He’s here?”

“They took him to see a guy named Ronald.”

Ronald? Oh, no...

“Ronald’s not a guy,” Maria said. “He’s a—”

“Someone help me!”

The female voice came from one cell over. Maria reluctantly let go of Cam and hurried to the next door. The cell’s occupant was older, late thirties, dressed in a tattered house dress. Her hair was long, and just as matted as Maria guessed her own hair to be. The bump on her belly was large enough for her to be in her last trimester.

“Oh, thank God,” the woman said, falling to her knees and weeping. “I’ve been praying for so long to get rescued.”

But Maria wasn’t paying attention. She was thinking of Felix, with Ronald.

I need to get out of here. I need to help him.

“What’s your name?” Letti asked the woman.

“Sue Corall.”

“Are you alone, Sue? Are there other people with you?”

“My husband, Larry.”

“Is your husband here?”

Sue didn’t answer, but her eyes glazed over.

“Sue?”

“I... I think he’s in the next cell. Jimmy... the hunchback... he... he keeps...”

Letti took the keys from Maria, who was staring at the cell door across the hallway.

I know that one. That’s my cell.

I’ll die before I’ll let them put me in there again.

“Oh... Christ.” Letti turned away from the door she just opened. Sue came waddling over, but Letti grabbed her shoulders, refusing to let her see.

“He’s my husband!” Sue implored.

“Sue... you really don’t...”

“Let me go!”

Letti allowed the woman to pass, and Maria made the mistake of following her into the room. The odor hit her first; feces and urine and rot.

But seeing was worse than smelling.

“Whoa,” Cam said.

Sue’s husband was lying on the dirt floor.

At least, what was left of him was.

The man was missing one leg, his left hand, half of his right arm, an ear and an eye. Badly stitched wounds on his torso spoke of other missing parts. His shoulders were also dislocated, cocked out at odd angles.

Strappado. This poor bastard.

Sue shrieked, falling on her knees next to her husband, cradling his head. He moaned at the tender action.

His teeth are gone, too.

Larry said something. Even without teeth, Maria got the gist of it.

“Kill... me. Please... kill... me.”

“Help him,” Sue cried. “Someone help him.”

Maria felt terrible for both of them, but she didn’t see how they’d be able to get him out of there. Larry was in too much pain to even turn his head. Besides, Maria had to find Felix, and fast. It could already be too late.

“He wants to die.” Everyone looked at Cam, who had come into the room. He had an oddly serene look on his face.

Sue shook her head. “No. No no no.”

“Please... kill... me.”

“We can get you help,” Sue implored. “We can get out of here, and get you help. Get you doctors.” Sue patted her belly. “This is your baby, Larry. Yours. They think it’s theirs, but I was pregnant when we came here.”

“I... want... to... die. Please...”

Sue clenched her fists and beat them against her thighs, moaning.

Cam knelt next to Sue. “You love your husband.”

Sue could barely speak through her sobbing. “More... more than anything.”

“Then you have to let him go.”

“No. God, no.”

Letti put her arm around Sue’s shoulders. Cam stared down at the man. “You want to die?”

Larry nodded.

Maria’s stomach bottomed out. She didn’t like the direction this was heading.

She said, “Cam...?”

Cam touched Larry’s cheek, gave it a gentle caress. And then, with a quick, violent motion, Cam grabbed the man’s head and twisted it around 180 degrees.

The crack was so loud Maria could taste it.

Sue let out a wretched sound, somewhere between a scream and a sob. Kelly buried her face in Letti’s shoulder. JD hunkered down, his muzzle hair standing on edge, baring his teeth at Cam.

Maria was awestruck.

She thought about Cam’s past, his ordeal years ago when he and his friend were abducted by a pedophile. Cam hadn’t been the most stable child in the world before then, but afterwards he’d become withdrawn, and quite literally a danger to himself and others. He was committed into a psychiatric institution, given therapy and various drugs, but his condition never seemed to improve. While locked up, he was even accused of doing something unspeakable to another patient, even though it was never proven.

Could Cam—my dear, sweet, little brother Cam—be more disturbed than I ever imagined?

Or was he just being merciful when he snapped that poor man’s neck?

“We have to find Felix,” Cam said, standing up. “Sis, do you know how to get out of here?”

Maria simply stared at him, unable to reconcile his actions.

“Sis? We need to move before they come for us.”

“How many of them are there?” Letti asked.

Maria spoke in a monotone, keeping her eyes on Cam. “A lot. Eleanor, she names each one after a President.”

Kelly said, “There have been forty-three presidents, Mom.”

Letti put her hands on her hips. “Are you saying that crazy old bitch has forty-three crazy mutant children running around here?”

Maria thought of that old nursery rhyme, the one Eleanor was fond of repeating.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.

She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.

“I think she’s only had around twenty,” Maria said. “But she brings women in here. Gets them pregnant. Some of the babies don’t survive. Birth defects. And she kills the baby girls. Says no girl will ever be president.”

Letti gripped Maria’s arms. “How many are we talking here, Maria?”

“Including the children?” Maria said.

“Yes. Including the children.”

Maria closed her eyes, doing a mental count. “From what I’ve seen, there are more than fifty.”

# # #

Florence stared at the woman sitting on the floor of her closet—the women she’d just hit in the face—and instantly recognized who it was.

“You’re Deborah Novacek.”

Florence knew her because she was perhaps the most famous athlete competing in Iron Woman.

Deb looked like hell, filthy and frazzled, and now bleeding from her nose. She stared up at Florence, and then kicked out one of her prosthetic legs.

Florence side-stepped the kick and spread out her palms.

“Easy. Take it easy. I didn’t mean to hit you, but I didn’t expect you to be in my closet. My name is Florence Pillsbury. I’m a triathlete, too. Are you in trouble?”

Florence watched as Deb processed this. The poor girl was shaking all over. “Trap doors. Secret passages. Someone got into my room. A freak, with red eyes. He’s chasing me.”

Florence immediately helped the girl up.

“Are you hurt? Who got into your room, dear?”

“We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got to—”

The knock at the door cut Deb off. Both women stared at it.

Florence asked, “Who is it?”

“This is Sheriff Dwight, of the Monk Creek Police Department. Can you open up for a moment, ma’am?”

“Sher—”

Florence clamped her hand over Deb’s mouth, cutting her off. This didn’t feel right.

“Just a second,” Florence called. Then she whispered to Deb, “I’ve got a weird feeling. Go hide under the bed.”

Deb shook her head. “No way in hell.”

“The bathroom then.”

“He’s the Sheriff.”

“There’s something in his voice I don’t like. Please hide while I talk to him.”

Deb chewed her lower lip. Then she nodded and walked to the bathroom, bouncing on her curved prosthetics.

“Mrs. Pillsbury?” The Sheriff said, knocking again. “Please open the door. It’s about your granddaughter.”

When Florence saw Deb was locked in the bathroom, she went to answer her door.

The Sheriff was a tall man, plump, pasty, wearing an ill-fitting police uniform. His hat was askew on his head. There was also something funny about his eyes. The edges were bright red.

They’re bloodshot. He’s wearing contact lenses to hide it.

“What about my granddaughter, Sheriff?” Florence only opened the door a few inches, and kept her foot planted behind it, like a doorstop.

“You need to come with us.”

Us? But he’s alone. Unless...

Florence craned her neck back, trying to see around the Sheriff. She caught a glimpse of a man behind him. A tall man, in overalls. He had a large jaw, and a rounded forehead that came to a point. Having done missionary work around the world and seen countless impoverished and disabled people, Florence recognized the man’s condition as microcephaly. He was what circus sideshows called a pinhead.

Not a person normally associated with law enforcement.

Florence’s uneasy feeling about this inn quadrupled when Deb showed up in her closet, but now it was off the charts. She realized her whole family was in danger.

Okay, now that I know the threat, I can deal with it.

Florence took a deep breath, centered herself, then stepped away from the door.

The men burst in. The microcephalac clapped his hands together and giggled, and the Sheriff offered a mean grin, showing that dental hygiene wasn’t one of his top priorities.

“Granny, that was a big mistake.”

He hitched up his belt and rested his hand on the butt of his gun, striking a rehearsed pose that was probably meant to intimidate.

Florence wasn’t intimidated. With her right hand, she struck the Sheriff’s jaw, driving his head upward. With her left, she shoved his wrist away from his holster and snagged his gun.

“Don’t move,” she said, backing away. “Don’t either of you—”

“Get her, Grover!” the Sheriff yelled.

Grover either always followed orders, or he was mentally impaired and didn’t recognize the threat of a gun. It didn’t matter either way to Florence. The microcephalac was twice her weight, and if he grabbed her it was over.

She shot him twice in the chest, and he fell like a redwood, crashing into the floor with a thump almost as loud as the gunfire.

Then she turned the revolver on the Sheriff.

“Where’s my family?”

The Sheriff’s eyes got wide, revealing more of their red-rimmed edges.

“Granny, put down the gun.”

“My family. Or I shoot you like I shot him.”

The Sheriff cast a quick glance at his fallen partner.

“We got ‘em. Ain’t no way you gettin’ ‘em back.”

“How many people are holding them?”

He stayed silent. She pulled back the hammer on the revolver.

“How many?”

“A lot more than the four bullets you got left, Granny. You got no idea what’s goin’ on.”

From the bathroom, Deb screamed.

Then Grover grabbed Florence’s ankle.

# # #

Felix stared, slack-jawed, at the figure slinking out of the cave. Its golden eyes caught the moonlight and glinted.

Ronald isn’t a man. He’s a mountain lion.

A surge of adrenaline temporarily overrode the pain in Felix’s tortured fingers, and he pawed at his pocket, trying to get at the handcuff keys. He slipped his shattered index finger into his jeans, pushed down, and screamed when it bent the wrong way.

He withdrew the finger, his whole body shaking in raw agony.

Ronald cocked his head to the side and padded closer, in no obvious hurry. Felix knew he needed to focus on the keys, but he was transfixed by the cat as it approached. The musk smell got stronger, and Ronald’s tail—broken in several places and shaped like a jagged lightning bolt—swished back and forth. It was strangely beautiful, almost hypnotic.

Then the cougar hissed, revealing three inch fangs, snapping Felix back into reality.

Handcuffs. Focus on my handcuffs.

Felix tried his unbroken pinky. Wincing, he slid it into his pocket, but couldn’t get down deep enough to grab the keys. He could just barely touch the metal ring with his fingertip, but couldn’t hook his pinky around them.

Ronald stalked closer to Felix, head down, eyes shining. The beast was huge, easily over two hundred pounds. Each paw was bigger than Felix’s face.

Ignore the pain. Get the keys.

Grunting, Felix forced his pinky in deeper, bending his ring finger back, the broken phalange bones grinding against one another, his previous knife wound splitting open.

Almost… almost…

Too much. The pain overtook him, and the world swirled away. Felix’s vision dimmed at the edges, the darkness forming a tunnel that got smaller and smaller until he blacked out.

Felix awoke on his knees, hugging the pole, his face warm. He opened his eyes—

—and saw Ronald only inches away, his hot, feline breath blowing onto Felix’s face.

Felix felt the scream welling up, and then the cat’s massive paw shot out, catching his pelvis, spinning Felix around the pole by his cuffed wrists.

This seemed to amuse the cougar, because he batted Felix in the other direction, like a tetherball. Felix felt the rents in his hips, where the claws hooked flesh through the denim.

My hips?

Oh, no... my pocket...

He chanced a look down at his bloody, ripped jeans.

Are the keys still in there?

Felix patted the material, feeling warm blood and torn fabric. The pain was twofold, both his ruined fingers and the gouges in his hip seemed to be in a contest for which hurt more. But there, under the heel of his hand—

The keys. And they’re poking through the denim.

Using his pinky and his thumb, he pinched the protruding handcuff key—

—and Ronald bit into Felix’s foot.

The bite wasn’t full force, the cat’s teeth not even penetrating the shoe. But the pressure caused a muscle cramp.

He’s playing with me.

The cougar tugged Felix, pulling him across the ground, forcing his hand away from his pocket as his body extended.

Did I get the keys?

I can’t tell! I can’t see!

And then Felix was fully stretched out, his cuffs around the pole, his body pulled taught by Ronald’s grip.

Do I have the goddamn keys?!?!

He squinted into the darkness, saw the key ring wrapped around his thumb.

Ronald continued to pull. The cuffs cut into Felix’s wrists. The pressure on his foot got worse, twisting Felix’s ankle. His spine screamed, joints reaching their limits, sockets beginning to separate, cartilage threatening to tear.

He’s pulling me in half.

I’m so sorry, Maria. I tried. I love you so very much.

And then the cat released him.

Not stopping to celebrate his luck, Felix scrambled back to the pole, getting it between him and the mountain lion. Then, using his teeth and his lips and his two unbroken fingers, he managed to fit the key into handcuff lock—

—just as Ronald swiped at him again with his huge paw.

Felix’s world spun, and he rolled and rolled and came to rest on his back, staring up at the orange hunter’s moon. He wiped his sleeve across his face, clearing some blood from his eyes.

The cuffs. They’re off.

I’m free!

Felix didn’t bother to look for Ronald. He got to his feet, fighting ten different kinds of pain, and scrambled into the woods. When he left the clearing, the tree canopy covered the moon, making it impossible to see. Felix ran blind, his mangled fingers bumping off of trees, continuing forge ahead until he saw a light in the distance, a light coming up exceedingly fast.

It’s a tow truck.

That was Felix’s last thought before the truck plowed into him.

# # #

Mal stared at his hand. Jimmy was dangling it up over Mal’s face.

“The operation has been a success,” Jimmy said. “The patient has survived.”

Mal turned his head to see the stump of his wrist, one of the pointy bones still sticking out through the flesh. It wasn’t bleeding anymore—a quick dip in the white powder clotted the wound within seconds. But the pain was still there.

The pain went deeper than just Mal’s nerve endings firing off signals. The pain was also mental. The memory of what this monster had done to him—cutting the skin, snipping the muscles with scissors, using a hammer and chisel to get through the bone—that would haunt him for as long as he survived. Mal’s begging and pleading had devolved to incoherent bawling. Staring at the monster who had done this to him, the monster who gleefully held up his severed hand like a prize fish he’d just caught, was almost more agonizing than the physical hurt.

“Excellent work, my boy,” Eleanor said, setting down the camcorder. “Momma has to go check on the guests upstairs. But you might want to give your patient another examination.” Eleanor looked at Mal and smiled. “I think he may have some cancer in his feet.”

Eleanor patted Mal on the cheek, then waddled off, leaving through one of the operating room’s two doors.

“Foot cancer?” Jimmy said, his expression grim. “That’s a very serious condition. We’ll have to begin treatment immediately.”

Jimmy went to the instrument table, gripping a hacksaw in his oven mitt.

Mal cringed away, starting to babble again, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

And then his arm, bloody and missing a hand, slipped out of the leather strap binding his wrist.

Without thinking, Mal thrust his traumatized arm at Jimmy as he inspected his saw, jabbing his protruding unla bone into the hunchback’s neck.

The pain was otherworldly. But the bone—sharp as a splinter from the chisel—cut deep into Jimmy’s flesh.

Jimmy grunted, stumbling backward, pressing both mitts to his wound. The blood gushed right through them.

“Laceration... to the... internal jugular vein... Need... QuikClot... to stop the bleeding...”

Jimmy reached for the bowl of powder on the instrument cart. Mal, his vision red with agony, thrust out and knocked the bowl away, upending it onto the floor. A plume of white dust hung in the air, then settled.

“Gone...” Jimmy’s red eyes grew wide. He stared at Mal. “You... knocked it over... The styptic…”

One of the hunchback’s hands stayed pressed to his pumping neck wound. The other picked up a scalpel.

Mal watched him stagger forward, the scalpel raised.

“You’re a doctor!” Mal managed to say. “You can stitch yourself up!”

Jimmy halted his advance. “Stitch...?”

“You can do it! You can sew up your wound! There’s a needle on the cart!”

Jimmy looked at the scalpel again, and Mal was sure the crazy son of a bitch was going to plunge it right into his heart.

But Jimmy didn’t. He dropped the scalpel, shook off the oven mitts, and grabbed the large, curved, surgical suture. He lifted the needle up, the thread dangling down, and stared at it.

“Do it,” Mal said. “Stitch up your neck. You can fix it. You’re a doctor.”

Jimmy nodded several times. “I’m... a doctor.”

Then he pinched the wound closed with his free hand and gouged the needle into his skin.

“Keep going,” Mal said. “You can do it. In and out, just like that.”

Jimmy pierced his flesh, again and again, showing a fair amount of enthusiasm. But enthusiasm didn’t replace skill, and after six stitches the wound was still gushing.

He’d also sewn his fingers to his neck.

“That’s it!” Mal said. He felt both ready to laugh hysterically and sob at the same time. He shook away both emotions, forcing himself to stay in the moment. “You’re doing it, Dr. Jimmy! A few more stitches and you’re done!”

Jimmy lasted one more stitch. Then he dropped onto his face.

Mal let out a breath, his head resting back onto the table. He closed his eyes.

It’s over.

Now I need to get out of here.

Maybe I can escape.

Maybe I can even find a doctor to reattach my hand.

It’s over.

The worst is over.

Then his eyes went wide with panic when he heard the door open.

# # #

Deb stole a glance at the framed poster of Ulysses S. Grant facing the toilet as she hid in Florence’s bathroom. Like the poster in the Roosevelt room, it seemed to be looking right at her.

Then she stared at the door, straining to hear what was happening.

“Granny, that was a big mistake.”

Florence was in trouble.

What do I do? Go out there and try to help?

Anything is better than waiting in here for them to find me.

Deb flinched when she heard the gunshots. Two, in rapid succession.

Jesus, did they kill her?

“Hi there, girly girly.”

Deb spun around.

The poster of Grant was yawing open on hinges, and Teddy was slinking out into the bathroom through a hole in the wall.

He flopped onto the floor, reaching his hideous, double-thumbed hands for her, grabbing her prosthetics.

Deb cast a frantic look around, seek some kind of weapon. There was nothing. Just a sink, a toilet, and a shower. She lashed out at the poster, trying to break the glass.

Plastic. The covering is plastic.

Teddy began to pull himself up her artificial legs, groping at her underwear.

“How ‘bout you ‘n Teddy get familiar on the floor right here, girly?”

Deb felt herself losing balance, tipping forward. She reached for the toilet to steady herself, her hands slipping on the cistern cover.

The heavy, porcelain cistern cover.

She snatched it off the toilet tank, a flat slab of stone that weighed at least eight pounds. Without thinking, she slammed it down onto Teddy’s head.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

One the fourth strike, the cover cracked in half. Deb raised the broken piece, ready to bring it down again.

She didn’t have to. Teddy’s skull looked like a kicked pumpkin. His bloodshot eyes—popping from their sockets from the beating—stared at her accusingly. Deb pushed him aside, sliding his body across the spreading lake of blood, reaching for the door behind her, stumbling out of the bathroom to see—

BANG!

—a third gunshot, Florence shooting a man on the floor in the head—

BANG!

—the older woman fluidly bringing the pistol around and pulling the trigger as the Sheriff lunged at her, shooting him in the stomach. He dropped to his knees, clutching his gut.

“Deborah? Are you okay?” Florence asked, keeping her eyes on the Sheriff.

“Teddy... he got into the bathroom. He crawled through the walls. There are secret passages everywhere.”

“Come over here. I’ve got some jogging shorts and a sweater in my suitcase. Put them on.”

Deb looked at herself, half naked, and sought out the suitcase next to the bed, making sure she kept far away from the dust ruffle.

The Sheriff groaned. “Lordy, you got me good, granny.”

“The next one goes through your head, Sheriff. If you don’t want to end up like Grover here, tell me where my family is, and how many people are guarding them.”

The Sheriff shook his head. “Don’ matter none. I’m dead anyway. Wasted all my styptic on John.”

“That’s not a fatal wound.”

The Sheriff grinned. “It is for me. So you can take that gun and shove it up your ass, old woman. I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

Deb sat on the floor, fighting to get the shorts up over her Cheetahs.

When she heard the Sheriff yelp, she looked up and saw Florence grinding her heel into the man’s stomach wound.

“Let’s get something straight right now,” Florence said. “I’ve seen some terrible things in my life. Things I promised I’d never do, no matter how desperate I got. But if you keep me from my family, I’ll break that promise and make your last moments on earth absolutely unbearable. Now I’ll ask you once more, and then I’m going to stick my finger in that bullet hole and pull your guts out. Where is my family and how many people are guarding them?”

The Sheriff made a grunting noise. Wincing, he said, “Rot in hell, you old bag.”

Deb’s mouth fell open as she watched Florence drop to one knee and jab her index finger into the Sheriff’s stomach.

The Sheriff thrashed for a moment, and then made good on both of his promises; he refused to talk, and he died.

Florence’s eyes went wide. She felt his neck. “He shouldn’t be dead. I was a combat nurse. It wasn’t a fatal wound.”

“Look at all the blood,” Deb said, pointing.

There was a large pool of red on the floor around the Sheriff. Pints of the stuff. A similar amount surrounded Grover.

“Styptic,” Florence said. “That stops bleeding.” She wiped her finger off on the Sheriff’s sleeve. “They’re hemopheliacs. Their blood doesn’t clot on its own.”

“Teddy said something about needing my blood.”

Florence shot her a look. “Are you O negative?”

Deb nodded.

“So am I. So are my daughter and granddaughter. Did you get the room for free?”

“Yeah.”

Florence wiped her finger off on the Sheriff’s sleeve. “So did we. When we filled out the applications for Iron Woman, we listed our blood types. O negative is rare. Less than seven percent of the population has it.”

“What are you saying?”

“They lured us here for our blood.”

It was so ghastly, so unreal, Deb didn’t want to believe it.

Florence touched one of the Sheriff’s open eyes. She plucked off a contact lens, exposing an eyeball as bloodshot as Teddy’s.

“Besides hemophilia, they’re also anemic. They may have other blood disorders as well. Without regular transfusions, they’ll die.”

“That’s fine by me.” Deb tugged on a sweater. “Does he have any more bullets?”

Florence checked his belt. “No. But he’s got a knife.” Florence offered the switchblade to Deb.

“I’ve got one in my room. I need to go back upstairs to look for my friend, Mal.”

“I’m looking for my daughter and her daughter. Letti and Kelly. I’ll start on this floor, you start upstairs. If you find anything, yell.”

Deb nodded. “You do the same.”

Florence stood up. “Both of these men were big, strong. I’m guessing there are others. But a deep cut ought to stop them, even kill them.”

“Shouldn’t we call someone?”

Florence pointed at the Sheriff. “Who? The police?”

Deb had no answer for that. “Do you have a car?”

“No. Flat tire. But now I’m thinking they shot the tire out. It sounded like a gunshot.”

“Us too. That’s what Mal said. A gunshot.”

“When you find him, get out to the road, see if you can flag down a car for help. But be careful. We don’t know how many of them there are. Talking to Eleanor, I get the feeling there might be a lot. And she obviously has outside help, if she was able to see our triathlon applications.”

Deb nodded. “I know one of them. An asshole desk clerk back at the event hotel. He’s the one who sent me here.”

Florence frowned. “Maybe we should stick together.”

“We can cover more ground by splitting up. And we may not have a lot of time.”

Florence seemed to consider it, then held out her hand. “Good luck.”

Deb shook it. “You too.”

They held their grip for a moment, and Deb sensed a finality there. She wondered if she’d ever see the older woman again.

Then Deb walked out of Florence’s room. The hallway was empty, silent. She took the stairs slowly, holding the handrail. Previously, the inn had seemed kitschy and somewhat amusing. Now it was downright ominous. The floors, the walls, the ceilings—Deb could imagine secret passages and trap doors everywhere she looked. This entire building was a funhouse straight out of hell. Mal’s words of the many disappearances over the years kept echoing in Deb’s mind. Five hundred people had gone missing in this area, and this place was no doubt the reason why.

Eleanor and her family have been operating with impunity for decades.

How big has her clan become?

“So big it needed the blood of five hundred people,” Deb whispered to herself.

She made it down the stairs without any freaks popping out at her, and approached the Theodore Roosevelt room.

Will it be locked? I left my key inside.

The knob turned. She hesitated.

Is someone in my room?

Deb considered going back upstairs, asking Florence for help.

Just run in, grab the knife. It will only take three seconds.

Deb braced herself, bending her knees, leaning slightly forward.

I’ll go on three.

One...

Two...

Three!

She shoved open the door—the room looked empty—took four quick steps and ran to the bathroom—also empty—reached for her fanny pack on the sink—dug out her knife—flicked open the blade.

So far so good.

Next stop, the closet. Deb wasn’t going to leave her prosthetics in there. It would take weeks to get replacements made, and she needed to have spares on her in case something happened to the Cheetahs.

The closet door was closed. She approached it slowly, tightening her grip on the folding knife. Placing her ear against the door, she held her breath, listening for any sounds.

There was only silence.

She shifted from one leg to the other. Without her gel socks, the sockets on the prosthetics were starting to chafe, because they no longer had a perfect fit.

I’ll snag them after I grab my legs.

Deb opened the closet door.

Two naked men were sitting on the closet floor, going through her suitcase, throwing her clothes everywhere. They had bulbous, bald heads, and crooked mouths. One had three nostrils. The other had an empty hole where his nose should be. The whites of their eyes were stop-light red.

Before Deb was even able to gasp, three hands reached out at her, grabbing her Cheetahs, pulling them out from under her so she fell onto her ass.

Deb kicked out, trying to pull away, but the two men were already crawling on her, pawing at her thighs, her hips, her chest.

And that’s when Deb realized, to her horror, that it wasn’t two bodies on top of her.

It’s one body with two different heads.

# # #

Kelly felt sick. Sick and scared and hurt and overwhelmed and most of all, young. She felt more like a first-grader than a teenager.

She looked at Mom, who was in a heated conversation with Maria about which way to go. The pregnant woman, Sue, stood there like a zombie, completely zoned out. JD was sniffing around, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. The only one who seemed to be okay was Cam. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking vaguely bored.

I wish I could act more like him.

Kelly was wracked with worry. Even though she was out of that horrible cell, they were still trapped in these tunnels. And according to Maria, there were a lot of bad people who lived here. Kelly knew that even if they got away, they wouldn’t have anywhere to go. They were in the middle of the woods. The car didn’t work. Maria and Sue and Larry had been here for a long time, and hadn’t been able to escape.

What if we’re trapped here forever?

“Mom?” Kelly said.

“In a second, Kelly.”

Kelly wished Grandma was with them. Mom was strong, but Grandma was strong in a different kind of way. She was calmer, more rational. Though Kelly didn’t know her grandmother very well, she knew that if anyone could get them out of this situation, Grandma could.

“You okay?”

Kelly glanced up at Cam, who had moved next to her.

“Yeah,” she managed.

“You’re very brave,” Cam said.

“You think so?” Kelly hugged herself. “I’m scared out of my freakin’ mind.”

“We’re all scared, Kelly.”

“Even you?”

Cam nodded.

“Even when you... broke that man’s neck?”

Cam glanced away. “Yeah. That was scary. But he was hurting bad and wanted to die, so I did him a favor. Besides, death isn’t so bad.”

“How do you know?”

Cam took off one of his leather gloves and showed Kelly his wrist. It was covered with scars.

“After my friend died, I killed myself.”

“You mean you tried to kill yourself,” Kelly corrected.

“No. I succeeded. I was actually dead for two and a half minutes before they revived me.”

Cam held out his arm, so Kelly could touch it. They scars were creepy, but kind of cool, too. She ran a finger across one, surprised by how bumpy it was.

“What did it feel like?” she asked. “To die?”

Cam shrugged, tugging his glove back on. “It was like going to sleep.”

“It wasn’t scary?”

“There are a lot scarier things than dying, Kelly.”

“Like what?”

Cam stared at her. “Like living.”

Kelly decided she liked Cam. She liked his straight talk, and how open he was.

He’s also kind of cute.

“We’re going this way,” Mom said. “C’mon, Kelly.”

Kelly began to follow.

Cam thinks I’m brave. How do brave girls act around cute guys?

Without second-guessing herself, she reached out and took Cam’s hand.

When she felt him squeeze it back, Kelly wasn’t as scared as she was before.

# # #

As expected, Letti’s room was empty. Florence found the secret entrance in the back of Letti’s closet, and considered going in.

Not yet. I should check all the other rooms first.

Florence was still shaken up by what she’d done to the Sheriff. After witnessing suffering, misery, and man’s inhumanity to man on six continents, Florence would have bet her life she’d never do something so atrocious.

And yet, she’d done it without even hesitating.

Because they have my family.

It put things into perspective. In a big way.

If I’m ready to throw out my ideals and morals for the people I love, why did I spend so much of my life helping strangers?

For the first time ever, she understood why Letti was so mad at her for missing her husband’s funeral. The realization was like a splash of ice water in the face.

I blew it. I’m so sorry, Letti. I’ll make it up to you. I swear I will.

Exiting the Grover Cleveland room, she crept quietly down the hallway and moved one door over to Lyndon B. Johnson.

Never did care for LBJ. Let’s see if anyone is home.

She put her hand on the knob, and found it to be unlocked. Moments ago she’d double-checked the Sheriff’s Colt revolver, and made sure there were two bullets left, one under the hammer. Florence held it at her side and went into the room fast, putting both hands on the gun so it couldn’t be knocked away.

There wasn’t a bed. No desk or dresser, either. The room had an eerie, pink glow to it, coming from three china cabinets along the rear wall.

Florence had seen some things in her day. Some terrible things.

This was one of the worst.

Back when she was a child, a travelling carnival came to town. Her father paid a nickel extra so they could get into the freakshow tent. Florence cringed at the sight of deformed people, some of them real, some fake. A human torso. A woman with bird feathers. An ape man. A fellow who stuck skewers through his cheek and tongue. A woman who ate glass. But the thing that stood out the most in her juvenile brain—the thing that scared her more than anything else—was a jar.

“It’s a pickled punk,” her father had said.

Florence later learned that was a carny term for a baby with birth defects, preserved in formaldehyde. That particular child had four legs and a harelip.

Florence now faced an entire wall of deformed babies in jars, lit from behind. Traces of blood in the preservation fluid made the jars give off a soft, red glow.

My God. There are dozens of them.

Babies with multiple limbs. Babies with no limbs. Some had organs on the outside. Some had feet where the arms should be. Some had flippers like seals. Some were completely covered in fine hair. Some were tiny, their umbilical cords still attached, no more than embryos. Others filled their jars completely, their malformed little bodies crammed inside.

There were misshapen heads, distended bellies, twisted spines, shrunken limbs. Every way the human genome could be perverted was on display.

There were even a few that looked perfectly healthy.

Before Florence tore her eyes away, she noticed a commonality among them all. The overwhelming majority were females. Each jar had a handwritten label, listing names and birthdays.

They’re all named after First Ladies.

You poor, poor things.

Florence wondered how many of them died naturally and how many were killed on purpose. She brushed a tear from her eye, then left the room quietly, as if she might disturb them.

After taking a moment to compose herself, Florence pressed onward. The Warren G. Harding bedroom was next. Again, the door was open. Florence went in fast, entering a dark room. She paused, listening.

Snoring. Loud snoring.

Florence felt for the light switch along the wall, flipping it on.

“Ma?”

The man on the bed was massive. His head—double normal size—looked eerily similar to the Elephant Man’s from that black and white movie, his forehead bulging out in large bumps, his cheekbones uneven and making his mouth crooked. His torso and legs were also malformed, twisted and lumpy, as round as tree trunks.

Proteus Syndrome, Florence knew. She’d seen it in South Africa. His body won’t stop growing.

But unlike gigantism, where a person grew in relative proportion, Proteus meant that different parts grew at different speeds. The overall effect was like making a figure out of clay, then squeezing some parts and adding more clay to others.

“You ain’t Ma.”

Warren—Florence assumed that was his name—rolled out of bed with surprising speed. His bare feet, swollen as big as Thanksgiving turkeys, slammed onto the floor.

He had to weigh over four hundred pounds, and his gigantic head lolled to the side when he stood up. But Warren was able to walk.

And he was walking toward Florence.

She raised her pistol. “I need to know where my family is.”

He moved closer. With each step, the floor shook. He wore a bed sheet wrapped over his shoulder like a toga.

“Youse pretty.”

Warren stuck out his tongue, licking his huge, flabby lips. A line of drool slid down his crooked chin.

“Don’t come any closer.”

“Youse wanna make babies with Warren?”

Florence aimed at his head.

“One more step, I’ll shoot.”

Warren took one more step.

Florence made good on her threat.

The two shots hit him in his oversized forehead.

Warren lunged at her, moving so fast Florence barely had time to dive to the side.

His skull is too thick. The bullets bounced off the bone.

The giant turned around and faced her.

“Warren’s head hurts,” he said. Then his eyes got narrow. “Now Warren gonna make you hurt, too.”

# # #

Mal placed the pointed end of his exposed ulna against his throat, ready to kill himself before he let any more freaks operate on him.

But when the door opened, it wasn’t Eleanor or her monstrous brood.

It’s a dog.

A German Shepherd, tail wagging. It put its front paws on the embalming table and licked Mal’s face.

“JD! Oh, Jesus...”

Mal watched a blonde woman enter the room, followed by several others. The blonde wore a tee shirt, but no pants or shoes. A younger version of her—obviously her daughter—followed, holding hands with a boy wearing black leather gloves. A pregnant woman followed, clutching her belly with a thousand yard stare. The last person in was a woman in a tattered jogging outfit. She had limp hair and hollow eyes and looked like she’d lived through a war.

They immediately went about unstrapping him, bombarding him with multiple questions.

“Who are you?” “What happened?” “Are you okay?” “Where’s Eleanor?” “Where’s the exit?” “What’s your name?”

“I’m Mal,” he said. The pain in his wrist was bad, but bearable. He sat up, and the movement made him woozy. The older blonde put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“Do you know how to get out of here, Mal?”

“I think so. But I need a favor first.”

“What?”

“Your dog has something that belongs to me.”

The woman snapped her head around and pointed. “JD! Drop it!”

The German Shepherd opened his jaws, and Mal’s hand flopped onto the ground. The blonde picked it up without hesitation.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Mal said, “since we already seem to be shaking hands.”

The woman set the hand down next to Mal. Then she took a roll of gauze from the instrument tray and began to wrap it around Mal’s stump. “I’m Letti.”

“I know. I was supposed to interview you and your family.” Mal blinked twice, trying to keep it together. “Where’s Florence?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you seen a woman with no legs? Her name is Deb?”

Letti shook her head. Mal eyed the other people in the room. He recognized the girl, Letti’s daughter, and the thin woman. She was also an Iron Woman triathlete, a high-ranked contender who vanished last year before the competition. Maria somebody.

Apparently, I’ve discovered the reason for all the disappearances in the area.

Though close to being in shock, Mal was still enough of a reporter to recognize what a terrific story this would make.

If we get out of here alive.

“I think my clothes are in a pile over there.”

Kelly turned away while Letti and Maria helped him get off the table and dress. Mal’s cell phone was still in his pants pocket. He tried it.

No signal. And why would there be? We’re underground.

Letti found a plastic bag for his hand. She placed his severed appendage inside, and tied the bag to his belt.

“Thanks. There’s another door,” Mal said. “Far end of the room. That’s where Eleanor went. I think it’s the way out.”

Everyone loaded up on surgical tools—scalpels, knives, saws, cannulas—filling hands and pockets. Then they walked to the door, giving the corpse of Jimmy a wide berth. Letti let JD go through first.

“Clear,” she said.

They shuffled through the doorway, one by one. Rather than the exit, this was another room. It was large, a few hundred square feet. Concrete walls. Dirt floor, but muddy in parts. In the corner was a hole in the ground, several pipes leading into it. A pump and two water heaters stood next to the hole.

The rest of the room was packed, floor to ceiling, with cardboard boxes. Dozens and dozens of them, many of them crumbling and moldy.

Mal squinted at the nearest box.

DruTech Pharmaceuticals - Contergan.

He touched the cardboard and his finger went right through it, like tissue paper. Powder spilled out. Mal stared at the floor, and saw a great deal of the powder mixing with the dirt. Near the water pump, there was so much powder it had turned the mud a lighter color.

“What’s Distoval?” Kelly said, staring at a box.

“Distoval is another name for Contergan,” Mal said. He’d just read about this very subject when researching the history of Monk Creek. “It was a sedative, developed in the 1950s in Germany. They thought it was a wonder drug. DruTech was the company set to manufacture it in the US. But the FDA didn’t approve it. DruTech lost a fortune, and closed up their factory in town. They were supposed to dispose of their supply. I guess they paid off Eleanor, and it ended up here.”

“Why wasn’t it approved?” Letti asked.

“You probably know it by its other name. Billy Joel even mentioned it in a song.”

“Thalidomide,” Sue whispered.

Mal nodded, which made him slightly dizzy. He knew he was rambling, but it helped him feel grounded. “It caused massive birth defects. Real freaky stuff. Pregnant women taking it gave birth to children with some pretty terrible deformities.” Mal pointed to the well. “And it’s apparently gotten into the Inn’s water supply. The drugs have seeped into the ground. Anyone pregnant drinking from that well will... oh, shit.”

Mal’s addled brain remembered the woman who very obviously was with child.

“Are you saying,” the woman was gently rubbing her belly, “that my baby...”

“We don’t know that,” Letti went over to her. “We don’t know for sure, Sue. We’ll get you to a doctor when we get out of here.”

“But… this is Larry’s baby. It’s supposed to be normal.”

Letti patted Sue’s hair. “There’s nothing we can do about it now, Sue. Let’s focus on getting out of here.”

“I can’t have one of those freaks growing inside me. I can’t.”

Mal had been feeling pretty terrible before, but now he felt like curling up into a ball and dying.

“There’s the door,” Cam said. “Maybe that’s the way out.”

Cam led Kelly, by the hand, to the exit. Letti and JD followed.

“I’m so sorry,” Mal said to Sue.

“They did things to me,” Sue said. “Horrible things. I can’t have my baby be like that.”

“I’m sure it will be okay,” Mal lied.

Sue nodded. She and Mal walked toward the door, and then Sue broke off, heading for the well.

“Wait! Don’t!”

The pregnant woman gave him a sad, backward glance, then jumped into the hole. Two seconds later, there was a splash.

“Help!” Mal shouted. “Help us!”

Letti and Maria hurried over.

“She jumped in. She just jumped in.”

The three of them formed a ring around the well, staring down into the blackness.

“Sue!” Letti called.

Sue didn’t reply. There were no splashing noises. No sounds of struggling.

Just bubbles.

The bubbles of someone letting all the air out of her lungs and sinking.

Aw, Jesus, what have I done?

“It’s not your fault,” Letti said. “She would have found out eventually.”

Mal continued to stare into the well. Jumping in didn’t seem like a bad idea, actually.

“We need you,” Letti said, taking his good arm. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but we need to stick together to get out of here.”

“We can’t,” Mal said. “We can’t get away.”

“Yes we can.”

Mal pulled away. “They’ve been killing people for over forty years. More than five hundred people. No one has ever escaped to tell the world about it.”

“Then we’ll be the first.”

Mal stared into Letti’s eyes. They were strong, determined. Like Deb’s eyes.

Deb.

I have to find Deb.

“I guess I could lend a hand,” Mal said. “One, at least.”

He allowed Letti and Maria to lead him to the door. The next room was another storage area, thalidomide boxes stacked everywhere. There were three other doors, not including the one they came through.

“Kelly?” Letti said, looking around. “Kelly!”

But Kelly, the dog, and the boy were gone.

# # #

Felix opened his eyes to blurry, swirling lights. He took a breath and winced—add several broken ribs to his grocery list of things that hurt. Blinking, he realized he was on his back, lying in the woods. The two lights he saw were headlights, coming from a vehicle a dozen yards away.

The memories came to him in snippets.

...accidentally shooting John in the head...

...being taken here in a police car...

...the cougar attack...

...getting hit by the tow truck...

The tow truck.

Felix knew the tow truck was part of this whole nightmare. He needed to get away from it. Far away.

Biting his lower lip so the whimpering wasn’t too loud, Felix managed to turn onto his side. There wasn’t a single part of his body that didn’t throb.

A stick broke, nearby. Someone walking through the underbrush.

Ronald? Or the tow truck driver, Ulysses?

Felix looked around, saw he was near a depression in the ground filled with dead leaves and pine needles. He rolled to it, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain, coming to a rest on his back because he couldn’t breathe while on his stomach with his ribs hurting so badly. Then he put a stick in his mouth to bite down on, and used his mangled hands to scoop dirt and dead foliage onto himself, trying to cover his body completely.

The sound got closer. It was steady, rhythmic.

Footsteps.

If Felix had any doubt it was Ulysses coming for him, those doubts were laid to rest when he heard, “Don’ make me come find you, little man. You make me hunt around, it’ll be worse on ya.”

If Felix had any sense of humor left, he might have laughed at the irony.

Like things could get worse.

The footsteps got closer. Felix peeked up through the pine needles on his face, waiting for Ulysses to approach.

That’s when he noticed his cell phone.

He’d had it in his jeans pocket. It must have come out when he was hit by the truck, or when he was rolling. The tiny green light, indicating the phone was on, blinked like a homing beacon.

If Ulysses sees that phone...

Just then, Ulysses walked into the clearing.

He was big, every bit as big as John. Thick in the shoulders and the chest. A head as massive as a tree stump. Felix could only make out his silhouette in the moonlight, but he could see Ulysses was carrying something long and curved.

A crowbar.

Felix quickly reached out his hand, slapping his palm over his cell phone, covering the green light.

Then there was a burst of red. Ulysses had lit a flare.

The red glow illuminated the large man’s facial deformity. The right side of his face bulged out like he had a baseball under his skin. This stretched out his mouth, making it almost twice as wide as normal. Ulysses looked like he could swallow an orange, whole.

Felix stared, impotent, as the man stalked closer. Soon he was three steps away...

Two steps...

One step.

Please no oh please don’t step on...

MY HAND!

Ulysses’s work boot crunched down on Felix’s broken hand, prompting a pain so intense Felix had to gnash his teeth so he didn’t scream.

“Y’all put a dent in my truck,” Ulysses said, staring into the woods.

Get off my hand! Get off!

“When I find you, I’m gonna beat out that dent with your skull.”

GETOFFGETOFFGETOFF!!!

Ulysses hacked and spat, hitting Felix on the cheek. Felix squeezed his eyes shut, feeling it slide down into his ear, knowing he couldn’t hold the scream in any longer.

Then Ulysses abruptly walked on, into the forest, the red flare growing dimmer and eventually disappearing.

With tremendous effort, Felix got up onto his knees, and shoved the cell phone back into his pocket using his thumb and pinky.

The Inn. I need to go back to the Inn and find Maria.

But with his mangled hands, he knew he was practically useless. He couldn’t hold a weapon. He couldn’t even open a door.

Are my fingers broken? Or just dislocated?

Squinting in the moonlight, he studied his bent digits. The bends and twists were primarily around the knuckles. But, incredibly, the two of the fingers Ulysses had steeped on looked better than before.

Maybe I can bend them all back.

He brought his right hand up to his mouth, ready to stick his finger inside.

Just bite down, and let gravity do the rest.

But Felix didn’t bite down. On the list of things he didn’t want to do, trying to fix his fingers ranked slightly above pouring gasoline on his head and setting his hair on fire.

Just do it.

Felix didn’t move.

Do it! For Maria!