Trapped

When Edward Prendick was a little boy, he wanted to be rich.

He didn’t want it for himself, though better clothes and new toys would have been nice. He wanted the money for his mother.

His father died in a car accident three days after he was born. Since the day Prendick learned to crawl he’d listened to his mother talk about making ends meet and pinching pennies and buying happiness and the root of all evil. Money made the world go around, and the Prendicks never seemed to have any.

Mom worked in a snack cake factory. She made barely enough to get by, so when Prendick was old enough he helped supplement her income by taking whatever work he could get. Supermarkets, fast food, construction, retail, delivery, landscaping—Prendick had done it all. Most of the money went to Mom. The rest went into a savings account.

When he was in his thirties, he had enough for a down payment on a boat. Finally self-employed after a lifetime of working for others, he was able to earn enough to help Mom even more, and she retired to Social Security, a decent pension, and regular checks from her son.

Then the economy tanked. Mom’s former employer went bankrupt, taking her pension with it. Prendick’s business also took a hit, and he was barely able to make payments on his boat, let alone help Mom.

Two weeks after Medicare dropped her for missing a payment, Mom was diagnosed with cancer. Prendick had no way to pay for her treatment. Even if he sold his boat, it wouldn’t be enough to cover the surgery, let alone the chemotherapy and radiation.

Prendick vowed to do whatever he could to help his mother. He let the word get out that he would use his boat for any purpose at all, no questions asked.

That’s how he got hooked up with Dr. Plincer. And now Prendick was in so deep, he didn’t see how he could ever get unhooked.

Captain Prendick hated doing this, but the thought of Mom at home, needing her next chemo treatment, steeled his resolve.

“Drop the flare gun, Mrs. Randhurst.”

“Captain, what are—”

He fired. The bullet went high over Sara’s head, but the sound was so loud she staggered backward.

“Drop it. I have orders to take you to the prison. If you don’t want to come willingly, I was told to shoot you in the leg and leave you for the ferals.”

Sara dropped the flare gun. “You work for Dr. Plincer.”

Prendick tried to sound tougher than he felt. “I’m his supply man. He needs something, he pays me to get it for him. Now start heading up the shore. Anyone tries to run, they’re a cannibal snack.”

“What do we do?” Cindy whispered.

Sara, whom Prendrick recalled was so lovely on the trip over, now looked like she’d been chewed on and spat out. “Do what he says, Cindy.”

They began to march back the way they came. Again, Prendick felt a pang of remorse. Again, he thought about his mother and pushed the remorse down.

“You know you’re taking us to our deaths,” Sara said, over her shoulder.

“Maybe. Of maybe you’ll just wind up crazy with a taste for other people.”

“If it’s money you want…”

Prendick hesitated. They always wound up trying to bribe him. If only they could.

“I’ll listen to any offer, but the problem is the pay-off. You can promise me money, but then go to the police when we get back to the mainland.”

“I could make a bank transfer. All I need is a working phone.”

“Again, what’s to stop you from going to the authorities? I’d love to take your money, really I would, Mrs. Randhurst. But I can’t figure out how to make it work.”

Even if he somehow managed to take it after she died, it could still be traced back to him. And with Prendick in jail, what would happen to Mom?

Sara stopped walking and stared at Prendick. She pushed her hair behind her ear.

“Maybe, maybe I can offer you something else.”

He sighed, feeling bad for her. “I get that offer a lot, too. But there’s still the law thing. If I let you go, I’ll get in trouble. Plus, I really do need the money.” He paused, not expecting sympathy, but feeling the need to unburden himself. “It’s for my mother. She needs cancer treatment.”

Sara took another look at the water, then began to walk slowly toward Prendick.

“I’m sorry about your mother, Captain. Maybe I can convince you I won’t say anything.”

Prendick shook his head. “You’re an attractive lady, Mrs. Randhurst. But I wouldn’t feel right about it. Besides, having to hold a gun on a woman while I make love to her isn’t exactly a turn on.”

“I’ll hold it for you,” Tyrone said.

“Nice try, kid. But the answer is no. Besides, I don’t want you thinking that you just need to stall me until the Coast guard gets here.” Prendick pinched his nostrils together. “Mrs. Randhurst, this is the Coast Guard. We have been informed of your situation. Estimated time of arrival is nineteen minutes.”

Prendick watched Sara deflate.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Prendick said. “The radio I gave you was broken. Only worked on my frequency. If it matters any, I’m sorry. I wish there was some other way.”

In a burst of anger, Sara unclipped the walkie-talkie from her belt and pitched it at him. She missed by two feet. He bent down and picked it up, keeping the gun on her the whole time.

“I told you to pick another island, Mrs. Randhurst. I tried to insist. But you wanted to come here. Now turn around and get to walking. Please.”

“You’re a bastard,” Sara said, her words dripping venom.

“True. But I love my mother, and I promised I’d do anything for her.”

“You think this is what she’d want?” Sara said. “You killing people?”

“I don’t do any of the killing. I’m just a delivery man, and I think, deep down, I’m a good person. But I will shoot you and leave you here if you don’t keep walking. Point the flashlight forward, and keep your mouth shut.”

They were pretty much quiet after that. Prendick had walked this route enough times that he didn’t need a compass, even at night. But he did keep his eyes and ears peeled for the feral people. Those primitives seemed to respect his guns, but they’d been getting bolder lately, sometimes even following him from only a few yards away. They scared the crap out of Prendick. He’d seen the aftermath of some of their feasts. The nightmares were so bad he had to borrow Mom’s prescription sleep medication.

But from what Prendick could gather, the things that went on at Doctor Plincer’s prison were a thousand times worse.

When they arrived at the entrance to the prison, Prendick tossed the girl his key, instructing her to put it in the lock. It took both women, and the boy, to tug the heavy iron door open.

The hinges squealed, the equivalent of a lunch bell for the cannibals. Prendick quickly scanned the forest for movement, then ushered the group inside. It was dark, quiet.

“Point the flashlight to your right, Mrs. Randhurst. See those first three cells? Each of you get in one.”

They followed orders. Prendick wondered why the people he took here were always so docile. None of them ever fought back, or tried to run. Maybe because they truly didn’t believe this was going to be the end. Or maybe because the prison was old and scary, and the cells seemed like a safer alternative to running off alone into the darkness. Or perhaps they were just tired of fighting and had accepted their fate. Like cows marching into the slaughterhouse.

Prendick checked each cell door, made sure they were locked.

“Can’t you at least let the kids go?” Sara said, barely whispering.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Randhurst.”

“You’re a monster. Your mother would be so ashamed of you.”

Prendick didn’t have a reply to that. He tucked the gun into his pants and left the prison, tugging the huge door closed behind him.

A monster? Me? No. I’m just an average guy, doing the best I can.

Those things in the woods? They’re the monsters.

Halfway back to the beach, Prendick heard something in the woods. He stopped, listening, and there was only the sound of crickets. But when he started to walk again, the sound repeated.

Those damn wild people?

Last time he’d dropped off supplies, two of them had come right up to him, waving sticks and hooting like monkeys. He shot at them a few times, scared them off.

If they were following him now, he’d do the same thing. Or something even more serious. Prendick had never taken a life, but he would if he had to. He wasn’t some rube, unable to defend himself. If cornered, he knew he could fight back.

He gripped his pistol and dared those bastards to try something.

There was no way in hell any cannibals were going to get the jump on him. Guaranteed.

Tyrone kicked the iron bars again. That made fifty-eight times. Each impact made his right hand throb. He lifted his leg once more, going for fifty-nine.

He’d never seen a prison like this before, and Tyrone had some jail experience. These cells were the size of his walk-in shower at his mom’s house. There were dozens of them, all lined up next to each other, in a large room that smelled like a basement where the sewer line backed up.

Cindy was in the cage to his right. Sara to his immediate left. There was also someone else locked up, a few rows back. Tyrone could hear rough breathing, see the outline of a person curled up on the floor of the cell, but it was too dark to see who it was, and Sara’s mini-flashlight beam didn’t reach that far. Repeated calls to the mystery figure provoked no response.

The bars, and the locks, looked older than hell. This was probably the civil war prison Martin had talked about in his campfire story. Regardless of age, the iron was still solid, and the bars didn’t budge an inch, even after kicking on them for half an hour.

And if this place wasn’t dank and scary enough, somewhere else in the building, someone was screaming like mad. He was pretty sure it was Laneesha.

Tyrone tried hard not to think about what was happening to Laneesha, what they were doing to her. But as bad as Tyrone felt for his friend, what terrified him even more was the thought that he and Cindy would be next in line for the same treatment.

He kicked the door again, feeling the shock run up his leg and jar his burned hand, the clang reverberating across the room and fading away.

“It’ll be dawn soon,” Cindy said. “It’s getting brighter.”

Tyrone stared through the bars to a window in the brick wall. It was open to the outside, and had more iron bars set in it, like an old-fashioned Wild West jail. Still looked pretty dark out, but he could make out the barest glimmer of pink.

Sara hadn’t said anything since the captain left. Before then she was all spit and fire, ready to throw down. Now she looked like a beat dog. Tyrone wondered if his court-appointed caregiver had finally reached the limits of her endurance.

He used the mini-flashlight to check the bars again. No progress.

All things considered, this was turning out to be a pretty shitty camping trip.

Tyrone reared back to kick again when someone mumbled, “Lester…”

It was a male voice, coming from across the room. The person in the cell.

“Hey!” Cindy shouted. “Who are you?”

Tyrone shushed her. While he was curious who this guy was, he didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention. And this island seemed to be full of folks looking to pay unwanted attention.

“Martin…” the man said again.

That single word seemed to rouse Sara from her stupor. She stood up and gripped the bars.

“Martin? Is that you, Martin?”

“Sara? Frick…where am I?”

Tyrone recognized the voice. Tom.

“Tom, we’re in a civil war prison. Are you okay?”

“I’m…sleepy. Everything is all weird looking. Tilted-like.”

“Can you remember how you got here? You mentioned Martin. Was he with you?” Sara’s voice sounded awfully desperate.

“I don’t know. It’s fuzzy. I remember…I was with Lester…aw, frick! My frickin’ finger!”

Tom began to whimper. Tyrone had no idea what Tom had been through, but he didn’t feel much sympathy for him. That kid needed to man up.

“Tom, please, tell me what happened. Do you know where Martin and Jack are?”

“Martin.” Sniffle. “Martin saved me.” Sniffle. “From Lester. Poor little Jack.”

“Where’s Jack, Tom?”

“I dunno.”

“How did you get here, Tom?”

“We were… we were looking for you. Followed those orange thingies—the ribbons—on the trees. To get back to camp. But then we found these huge piles of bones.”

The lights went on, surprising Tyrone and making him flinch. Footsteps echoed across the concrete floors, and Tyrone followed the sound, his eyes finally landing on—

“Martin!” Sara made a happy, squealing noise, reaching through her bars for her husband. Martin rushed to her, holding her arms.

“Sara!” Tom yelled.

Tyrone watched, unable to do anything, as Martin dug a syringe out of his pocket, jabbed it into Sara’s arm, and pressed the plunger.

“Martin? Wha…”

Sara fell to her knees, then onto her side.

Cindy said, “Martin? What are you doing?”

But Tyrone knew. He knew in his gut.

“You one of the bad guys, ain’t you?”

Martin smiled at Tyrone, walked over to him. “Bad as they come, brutha.”

Tyrone lunged at Martin, his left hand slipping through the bars, trying to grab the man’s neck. Martin stood just out of reach.

“You need to save your strength, Tyrone. Trust me. You’ll need it.”

“You son of a bitch.”

Martin turned away, taking a key from his pocket and unlocking Sara’s cell.

“He did that to me, too,” Tom whined. “Jabbed me with a needle and knocked me out.”

“Too little too late, dumb ass,” Tyrone said.

Martin crouched down, pulled Sara’s arm over his shoulder, then hefted her up in a fireman’s carry.

“Martin?” Cindy’s voice was meek, disbelieving.

Martin glanced at her. “Let me say what a distinct displeasure it has been working with you pathetic little fuck-ups. You’re going to die today. Die in more pain than you can possibly imagine. And you know what, Cindy? Not a single person in the world is going to care.”

Martin winked, then carried Sara out of the room.

Cindy began to cry. Tyrone had no idea what to do. So he reached through the bars with his left hand, held Cindy’s, and squeezed.

“I care,” he said.

But for some reason that made her cry even harder.

Sara opened her eyes. Her head was muddled, thoughts groggy, her brain floating in a state between sleep and awareness.

Then she remembered Martin stabbing her with that needle, and all at once she was on full alert, processing her situation. She was on her side, on an old cot that smelled like mildew and dried sweat. Sara tried to sit up, but discovered she was hogtied; hands behind her back, the same rope snaking down her legs and securing her ankles.

Sara looked around. She was in a room, well lit and relatively warm, with a lingering scent of lemon air freshener masking something rank. The gray stone walls told her she was still in the prison, and the nearest wall had shackles hanging from it by a large metal bolt.

The wall was covered with reddish-brown stains.

Near the far wall was a wooden dresser with eight drawers. Next to that was a table. Sara craned her neck to see what was on top, and saw a variety of power tools, including a portable drill with a large bit.

On the other side of the room, there was a wheelchair, and a pegboard, on which a wicked assortment of knives and saws hung. Next to that…

An old wooden chest, with Jack’s baby sling resting on top.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Martin walked into view. He looked happier than he had in a long time.

“Martin, where’s Jack? What’s going—”

His hand lashed out, hard and fast, slapping Sara on her right cheek and rocking her head back. Sara felt the blood rush to her face, then the inevitable sting.

“Don’t be stupid, Sara. You must have figured it out by now.”

Sara took a moment, until she was sure she could speak without breaking down. The betrayal was so unexpected, so absolute, she felt she had to make sense of it.

It hit her all at once, and she understood.

“I see it in your eyes,” Martin said. “You finally get it. Please. Enlighten me.”

Her voice was soft, and sounded hollow. “When Joe went missing. You were with him, on his boat. You came here. Martin… where’s our son?”

“Finish the story, then I’ll tell you.”

Sara felt like she was listening to someone else talk, even though the words came from her mouth. “Plincer must have gotten you both. The cannibals brought you to him.”

“Lester got us, actually. Back then there weren’t nearly as many of the ferals, and they weren’t organized.”

Martin pulled up a folding chair, set it up near the bed.

“Did you know it was Plincer’s Island?” Sara felt like she was teeter-tottering between depression and hysteria.

“No. What I said in my campfire story was true. Joe and I and six others. You were actually supposed to come with, do you remember? We were dating at the time, but you were under the weather. But I swear, I do hold that against you.”

He sat down. Sara said nothing. This was too much, too fast.

“One of the women actually did get seasick. And we did beach the boat. And the cannibals did attack. Joe and I got away, but Lester found us. Took us back to the Doc.”

Martin rubbed his eyes. They were tinged with red, like they always got without his Goniosol medication. The holes in his cheeks had stitches in them.

“Plincer made you evil,” she whispered.

“That’s not quite how it works. The procedure enhances the parts of the brain that process aggression. The doctor simply enlarged these portions, making violent acts not only more appealing, but necessary. Sort of like the sex drive, except this is the violence drive.”

Martin lashed out again, slapping her harder this time. Sara’s cheek burned.

“Doing that to you, it gave me a huge rush. I can feel the serotonin spike, my dopamine receptors feasting on it. Better than any high I’ve ever known. And especially sweet, since I’ve wanted to do that to you since the day we married.”

Sara couldn’t help the tears now, but she managed to keep from sobbing.

“The orange ribbons on the trees…”

Martin nodded. “That was me. After I did my disappearing act at the campsite, I changed the ribbons to lead us to the prison. The next morning, I was going to lead everyone there, and we’d be met by Lester and Prendick. It was supposed to be nice and easy. No running around in the dark. Nobody dying until they had to. But those feral fuckers got the jump on me. I was so caught up in playing Mr. Nice Guy Martin, telling scary stories, I forgot to take the gun in my backpack. You really did save my life, Sara. Allow me to thank you for that.”

He hit her again, this time with a closed fist. Sara had been expecting it, though, and turned her head in time, so his knuckles met the top of her skull.

“Bitch,” he said, shaking his hand and then blowing on his knuckles. Then he laughed. “I’d feel that if I wasn’t on painkillers. You’re going to pay for that.”

Sara’s eyes blurred with tears, her nose ran like a faucet, and her voice was a pitiful wail. Even though she didn’t want to, she glanced again at the trunk, Jack’s sling draped across the lid.

“Where’s Jack, Martin? What have you done with our son?”

“Our precious little Jack? Are you worried you’ll never hold him again? Never gaze into his adorable little face and tickle him to make him laugh?”

Martin leaned over, his face inches from hers.

“Maybe later I’ll let you hold his tiny little corpse.”

Sara looked for the lie in his eyes. All she saw was malice and glee.

Something inside her shattered.

“You didn’t… Martin… no…”

“You want to hear what happened to the others? Plincer gave Laneesha to Subject 33. He’s had her for a while now. I doubt there’s very much left of her. He’s got some sort of device he uses on them. Personally, it gives me the creeps. And Georgia? Bad girl, that one. We both knew she was faking her remorse. I think she was hiding more than that. We’re taking good care of her.”

“Martin,” Sara was only mouthing her words now, without any sound coming out. “Why?”

“Why do you think I married you so soon after Joe’s disappearance? Love? I never loved you. I used you as a cover. Marrying you was the perfect way to indulge in my particular tastes without being detected.” He winked. “Plus, I couldn’t have opened the Center without you.”

Sara realized where this was going, and she shook her head. “No…”

Martin smiled. “Do you really think we’ve had eleven runaways? Wasn’t that statistically high?”

He stood, walking over to the dresser. Keeping his eyes on Sara, he opened the top drawer.

“Remember Chereese Graves? One of our first court-appointed cases at the Center. Also our first runaway.”

Martin reached into the drawer. Sara didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t turn away. He pulled out what looked like a brown shirt. But then he held it up, letting it unroll to full length.

Sara gagged, throwing up on the cot mattress.

“Not my best work,” Martin said. “Skinning isn’t easy. Especially when the person is still alive. All that flinching and bleeding. That’s why there are all the holes on this one. Take a look.”

Martin tossed the skin across the room. It glided, almost like a kite, then landed on Sara.

The hair was still attached, and it fell on Sara’s chest. She shook it away, and it slid across her neck. The texture was stiff, rough, not unlike burlap, and it carried an odor of salt and beef jerky. Gravity took the hide over the edge of the bed, and Sara tried to twist away from it, watching as the legs and feet—complete with toenails—fell onto the floor.

“Poorly done. I know. But I got better, as time went on. Here’s Jenna Hamilton.”

Martin tossed another skin at her. “And Rich Ardmore.” He threw that too.

Sara managed to dodge the first, squirming backward on the cot, but Rich landed directly on her face. She screamed, shaking her head back and forth, able to see Martin through a hole that was actually Rich’s mouth.

Martin tossed another at her.

“Here’s Miranda Walker.” The skin landed on Sara’s legs. “And remember Henry Perez, liked to start fires? I gave him a nice, charred finish.”

Sara freed herself of Rich, only to have Henry smack her in the head. He smelled like burned bacon. She managed to scootch back into the corner of the bed and get onto her knees. The skins piled up around her like tangled sheets.

“Here’s one you were particularly fond of, from just last month. Tonya Johnson. All set to straighten out her life, start fresh. Then I brought her here. She doesn’t smell so fresh now.”

Tonya’s skin hit Sara hard, with a slapping sound. It was still moist, and left a pink, wet splotch on Sara’s sweater.

“Martin… no more…”

“No more? But we’re just getting started, Sara honey. I’ve been forced to live a lie with you these past few years. Ever since the procedure, do you know how difficult it has been to restrain myself? To push down my urges? I had to pretend to be a responsible, upstanding adult, a caring psychologist, and a decent husband, while all the time thirsting for my next opportunity to cut someone apart.”

Martin rushed at her, making Sara cringe.

“I… I love you, Martin.”

His smile was demonic. “And I hate you, Sara. Hate you with every fiber in my body. Hate you so much, in fact, that I’ve got something really special planned for you. Remember your summer at Aunt Alison’s?”

The memories came hurtling back. Being nine years old, locked in that horrible trunk.

“It took a while to find the right one, but you told me the details of the story so many times I think I found a pretty good approximation.”

Martin grabbed her with both hands, one tangling up in her hair, the other tugging on her sweater. He yanked her off the bed, and she hit the floor on her knees, hard. Then he began to drag her toward—

“Martin... oh no… please don’t...”

“It’ll be just like old times, Sara. A blast from the past.”

He pulled her to the old chest in the corner of the room, and popped open the top.

Sara didn’t want to look, afraid to see her child dead inside. The trunk was empty.

And for her, that was just as terrifying.

“Nice and dark in there. Dark and cramped.”

Sara struggled, contorting her body, not letting him get a firm grip. But he did, yanking the rope so hard her shoulders felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets, lifting her up, and—oh jesus, oh god no—dumping her face-first into the trunk.

The lid closed, catapulting Sara into absolute darkness.

She screamed; a muffled, constricted sound that was so intimately familiar to her.

Martin knocked on the top of the trunk.

“So here’s what’s going to happen, Sara. I’m going to leave you in there. I don’t know for how long. Maybe a few days. I’m going to make you wait for so long that you’ll be happy when I finally open it up to kill you. That’s what you used to tell me, those nights when you couldn’t get to sleep. You told me you were so scared you wanted to die rather than stay in there any longer. How fucked up is that?”

Sara looked all around, seeking a crack in the chest, a seam, something that might allow a sliver of light in. But there was only darkness.

“I’m going to make you wait even longer, Sara.”

No. Please not that.

“Then when I finally take you out, I’m going to show you my knife collection. Do you remember Cousin Timmy?”

Sara felt like the world was spinning. She found it hard to breathe.

“Remember the knife he had? The hunting knife, with the jagged back? I’ve got one of those, too. Can you picture it, Sara? You used to get woozy when you saw a steak knife whenever we went out to eat. Can you imagine Timmy’s big ole survival knife?”

Sara could imagine it. It was the only thing in her head, blocking out everything else.

“Well, no need to answer me right now. You’ve got plenty of time to think about it. And then, later, much later, you can tell me how it feels when I try it on you.”

“Please,” Sara whispered.

“Did you say something, hon?”

“Please. Martin. Don’t leave me in here.”

“Would you prefer I let you out, get started on you right now?”

Sara couldn’t believe her response, but the word left her mouth. “Yes.”

She waited for Martin to answer. The seconds ticked away.

“Martin?”

There was only silence. Silence, and smothering darkness.

“Martin!”

But just like Cousin Timmy, he was gone.

Georgia opened her eyes. They were dry, raw, like someone had rubbed sand into her tear ducts. She closed them again, touching her eyelids, and that made her realize the paralysis had worn off.

She was in a warm bed, beneath a thick blanket. With a yawn she sat up, the blanket falling away, exposing her bare breasts. Georgia saw she was naked. It didn’t bother her at all, and she wondered why. Much as she tried to delude herself, Georgia knew she had body image problems. She didn’t want anyone to see her without clothes on.

But her appearance no longer mattered to her. In fact, for the first time ever, she felt proud of her body. She slipped out from under the covers and padded over to the window. Dawn had come, flooding the outdoors with light. Georgia walked past, coming to a dresser with a mirror on top. She stopped, stared at her saggy belly, her large hips.

But instead of shame, Georgia felt strangely proud. More than proud. She felt strong, powerful. Like a completely new person, one who could conquer the world. It was as if something dormant inside her had opened its eyes and awoken. She let the fantasy take hold, Georgia sitting on a throne perched up on top of a mountain, and beneath her on all sides, crosses. Crosses with people nailed to them, screaming and begging for mercy. Crucifixions as far as she could see. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions.

Then the fantasy switched. The crucified morphed into the impaled. Georgia remembered reading about Vlad the Impaler, how he would place people on tall wooden stakes. Gravity, and struggling, would cause his victims to slide down the pole, piercing organs and tissue until it eventually came out of their mouths.

The image made her tingle all over.

Power was something she’d always aspired to. She had mastered its younger sibling, control. Georgia’s whole life had been about control. Controlling her emotions, manipulating others, keeping secrets.

But power felt better than control. A million times better. While control was about maintaining order, power was about being invincible. The old Georgia was a weakling. This new Georgia was unstoppable.

She rubbed her eyes again, considered the procedure Doctor Plincer had performed on her. Not a pleasant memory, but the pain was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of self. With this newfound feeling of absolute power came an overwhelming urge to hurt somebody. Anybody. Hurt them horribly.

Georgia walked to the metal door. Locked. She scowled, irritated that she was stuck there, unable to indulge in her newfound desire. Then she noticed the package next to the door.

It was the size of a shoe box, wrapped like a birthday present in bright red paper with a big white bow on top. Next to it was a smaller box, wrapped in the same paper. A card taped to the top of the larger present read:

TO GEORGIA GIRL

FROM LESTER

Georgia plucked off the bow and tore into the large package first, revealing a steel cage. Inside, complete with matted gray fur and tiny black eyes, was the biggest rat she’d ever seen.

Rather than flinch, which is something the old Georgia would have done, the new Georgia eyed the creature with something akin to hunger. It was so weak. So vulnerable.

She opened the slim package next. Inside were a roll of duct tape and a pair of long, sharp scissors. There was another note at the bottom of the box.

HAVE FUN

Georgia smiled.

How did Lester know this was just what I needed? What a thoughtful man.

A rat this large wouldn’t die right away. If Georgia restrained herself, it would be good for a few hours of entertainment.

“Hello, little friend,” Georgia told the rat, reaching for the latch with greedy fingers. “Would you like to play?”

Cindy opened her eyes. She hadn’t been asleep. Just sitting with her back against the bars, resting, conserving her energy. Exhausted as she was, Cindy didn’t know if she would ever be able to sleep again.

Or if she’d have the chance to.

There was light coming in through the window, enough to illuminate the cells. She glanced over at Tyrone, who was staring at her. They were still holding hands.

“How you doin’?” he asked.

“This motel sucks. No room service. No cable TV. And the bathroom is seriously lacking.”

“You need to pee, I can turn away.”

She shifted her bad shoulder and gave his left hand a squeeze, regretting it when she saw him grimace.

“I’m okay. You wanna hear something funny?”

“Hells yeah. Could use somethin’ funny right about now.”

“I haven’t thought about meth in hours. This is the first time, for as long as I can remember, that I haven’t had any urge to get high.”

“Cool. Sounds like you beat it.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. You’re strong. I always knew that about you.”

Cindy felt herself blush, but it was a good feeling, not an embarrassing one.

“How’s your other hand?”

“Hurts. It started to scab over, but now every time I move it, starts to bleed again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Won’t stop me from beatin’ the fuck out of whoever opens my cell door.”

Cindy smiled, gave his hand a much gentler squeeze.

“We gonna get outta here, Cindy. I promise.”

“Good morning.”

Cindy and Tyrone looked toward the staircase at the far end of the room, following the sound of that familiar, effeminate voice.

Tom noticed too, and began to make a high pitched, keening sound.

Lester strolled up to them slowly, casually. He was holding a broomstick in his left hand. His right hand—the one he’d bitten earlier—was wrapped in a bandage.

“Today is a big day. The meeting with the important people. Lester needs the boys and the girl to behave.”

He reached into his bib overalls and removed a pair of handcuffs.

“Lester wants to know the black boy’s name.”

Tyrone said nothing. Lester raised up his broomstick, and Cindy saw it had a nail sticking out of the end. He aimed it at Tyrone.

“His name is Tyrone,” she quickly said. “He’s Tyrone, I’m Cindy.”

Lester tossed the handcuffs into Tyrone’s cell. They made a jingling sound when they hit the floor.

“The Tyrone boy needs to put the handcuffs on, behind his back.”

“Fuck you, you ugly, rat-toothed mutha fucker.”

Before Cindy had a chance to yell, “No!” Lester had jabbed Tyrone on the hip with the nail. Tyrone recoiled, making a small grunting noise.

“The Tyrone boy will put on the handcuffs.”

“You hear me the first time?” Tyrone said through his teeth. “Fuck. You.”

Lester jabbed him again, this time aiming for Tyrone’s crotch. The teen shifted and managed to deflect the strike, instead getting pierced in the thigh.

“Tyrone, baby, honey, please put them on.” Cindy ran her hand over his head, willing him to listen. “Please, Tyrone, for me, just do it.”

Lester raised the stick again. Tyrone scowled at him, then reached for the handcuffs.

“I’ll help you.” Cindy put her arms through the bars, cinching the cuffs loosely on his wrists.

“Now the Cindy girl will put on the handcuffs.”

Lester tossed her a pair, and she dutifully snicked them on behind her back.

“Let Lester see.”

She scooted over, showing him. Lester walked off, moving to Tom’s cell.

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

The cuffs jangled the concrete floor.

“My finger, it’s, it’s all messed up,” Tom said. He had the hiccups. “I can’t put them on.”

Lester thrust out the broomstick, poking Tom in the stomach.

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

“Jesus! Stop it! I can’t do it!”

Lester jabbed him again, this time in the leg.

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

Tom reached for the cuffs, then moaned. “I can’t get them open.”

Lester hit him in the ribs this time.

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

“Tom!” Cindy had her face pressed to the bars. “Tom, just put them on!”

“I’m trying.” Hic. “I… I can’t.”

Lester stabbed Tom in the ribs, and he made a sound like tires screeching.

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

“Tom, for God’s sake!” Cindy yelled. “Put on the goddamn cuffs!”

Slowly, painfully slowly, Tom managed to lock one bracelet across his left wrist, and get his hands behind his back. Cindy watched, intent but also repulsed at the site of his damaged finger.

“You can do it, Tom,” she urged. “Don’t give up.”

Tom was shaking like mad, still hiccupping, but he managed to finesse the second cuff on.

“Show Lester.”

Tom got to his knees, letting the man see his hands. Lester raised the stick again.

“No!” Cindy cried.

In rapid succession, Lester jabbed Tom four more times. He was raising back for a fifth when Cindy said, “Lester.”

Lester turned to look at her. He was grinning, a thin streak of drool running down his chin.

“Don’t,” Tyrone told Cindy under his breath.

But it was too late. Lester was coming over.

“Is the Cindy girl jealous that the Tom boy is getting all the attention?”

Cindy looked at Lester, then at the nail on the stick, which was glistening with Tom’s blood.

“I just, uh, had a question, Lester. You said we’re meeting important people today. Who are we meeting?”

“It’s a surprise,” Lester said.

“But these people are important?”

“Very important.”

“And you said we need to behave. But if you keep poking us with that stick, we won’t be able to behave. We won’t even be able to move. Is that what you want?”

Lester seemed to think about it, then slowly shook his head.

“No. That wouldn’t be good.”

Then, lightening quick, he thrust out the stick, stabbing Cindy in the arm.

“But one little poke can’t hurt,” Lester said.

Then the giant walked away, across the room, back up the stairs.

Cindy clutched her arm, which felt like she’d been kicked by a mule, and stared out the window fully believing that this was going to be the last sunrise she ever saw.

Dr. Plincer opened his eyes. He stretched, yawned, removed his earplugs, put on his glasses, and then forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where he sat down on the toilet to urinate. Running water and electricity were the only two utilities on the island, and both were limited. There were only three toilets and four sinks in the entire prison, and the water they used was rust-colored and tasted muddy.

It was a big day today, so he showered. The electric generator used a lot of gasoline, and one of the biggest power hogs was the water heater, which Plincer kept on the lowest setting. The doctor stoically braved the lukewarm water, toweled off quickly, and then stood in front of the mirror to put on his face.

First he shaved, never an easy task because of the extra bumps and divots. Then he spent ten minutes building up layers of scar putty, filling in holes and smoothing over rough edges. When he was finished, a bit of pancake make-up to blend. He checked his profile, found it to be suitable, and then dressed in slacks, a fresh shirt, and a clean lab coat.

The dart gun was a pistol model, not accurate more than five feet, but able to be fired using just one hand. Plincer made sure it was loaded, and he put in a fresh CO2 cartridge. Then it was off to make breakfast.

The prison hallway was scream-free. Either Subject 33 had been unable to restrain himself and had killed his playmate too soon, or he was having a rest. Plincer was grateful for the silence. There was no better way to start a day than a cup of hot coffee and some quiet contemplation.

He used bottled water for the coffee, and while it brewed he scrambled ten eggs in a large bowl. Plincer then took a loaf of bread out of the freezer, microwaved it until thawed, and dumped the slices into the eggs. As the bread soaked, he heated up the large cast iron skillet on the stove top.

The secret to perfect French toast was timing. Timing, and just a dash of cinnamon and sugar. When the skillet was hot enough, he gave it a spritz of non-stick spray, then arranged the first four slices on the pan using a spatula. He flipped them at the exact right time, and took them off the heat when both sides were golden brown but the insides still soft. Plincer repeated this process, sipping coffee and musing about a neighbor he once had, a bitter old man who used to yell whenever anyone stepped on his lawn. Perhaps if the neighbor had taken pleasure from the simple things in life, such as making a nice breakfast, he wouldn’t have been so unpleasant.

Doctor Plincer stocked the cart with the tray of toast, plates, glasses, a carton of orange juice, napkins, some plastic knives and forks, tiny carafes of maple syrup, and some dog biscuits.

Getting it up the spiral staircase was a slow affair, one step at a time, making sure nothing fell off, but Plincer looked forward to it. Frankly, it was the only exercise he got during the day.

He pushed the cart to Subject 33’s room at the end of the hallway, checked the slot to make sure he wasn’t in the antechamber, and took the dart pistol out of his lab coat.

“Good morning. Breakfast is here.”

Plincer waited, and as the seconds ticked away he tried to recall Subject 33’s name. It would have been on the tip of Plincer’s tongue, if Lester hadn’t bitten that off. Something beginning with the letter T…

Thomspson, maybe? No, that was the neighbor’s name, the one so overprotective of his lawn.

After a minute or so, Subject 33 put his hands through the slot in the second door. They were caked with dried blood.

“One plate or two?”

Subject 33 held out two fingers.

“Excellent.”

Doctor Plincer filled two plates with French toast, and set them on the floor of the antechamber, along with two glasses of OJ, forks, and syrup.

Taylor! That’s his name. Some sort of former special op soldier.

Plincer chuckled, pleased to have remembered. After locking up, he pushed the cart down the hall to Martin’s room.

Neither Martin, nor his guest, was in. Scratch that—Plincer heard someone whimpering inside the chest. A part of him wanted to open the chest, because he so rarely prepared meals for guests and a small part of him wanted to hear a bit of praise for his cooking. But whatever Martin was doing to her was Martin’s business, and the doctor wasn’t going to interfere.

Subject 33 was enhanced to the point where he was impossible to control. Plincer was able to control Lester somewhat since his enhancement, but the alterations he’d made to his teeth, along with his freakish height, made it difficult for him to blend in to the general populace. But Martin; Martin was the embodiment of everything Plincer was trying to do.

The doctor had taken a normal man and made him into a psychopath. Martin was truly evil, but also able to keep his tastes hidden and function within society. Function at a very high level. He’d been successful in maintaining both a job and a marriage, while keeping his killing secret.

Plincer didn’t want to do anything to annoy Martin, so he moved along.

Next it was on to Lester’s room. The tall man was sleeping, as was his pet.

“Lester, my friend. It’s time to start your day. We’ve got a big one ahead of us.”

In one fluid motion Lester levered himself out of bed and picked up the box of dog biscuits. He threw two into the pet crate, and popped one into his own mouth.

“Lester, I made French toast. I wish you wouldn’t ruin your appetite with those things.”

“The biscuits help support healthy teeth and bones,” Lester said, quoting the line on the box. “Lester likes healthy teeth.”

“Do you have any idea where Martin is?”

Lester shook his head.

“After breakfast, meet me in the lab. We have to go over a few last minute things. And perhaps it’s time to change your pet’s hay. I believe it’s getting a bit stinky in here.”

Doctor Plincer rolled the cart further down the hallway, to Georgia’s room. He paused, fearful that he’d set his hopes too high. If the procedure had been successful, Plincer could brag that he’d finally perfected the formula. If not, the afternoon meeting would require a bit more finesse.

Time to find out.

He placed his ear to the door, and heard a high-pitched screeching. A good sign, or perhaps not. If Georgia was tormenting the rat Lester had given her, she’d been properly enhanced. If, however, she was eating the rat, she would have to be tranquilized and left out with the feral people.

Plincer didn’t knock. He unlocked the metal security door and pushed it open with one hand, aiming the gun with the other.

Georgia was naked. The squirming, duct-taped rat in one hand. The scissors in the other. Blood was spattered on her bare breasts.

The procedure had been a success.

He pocketed the key and pulled the cart inside, the door closing behind him and locking automatically.

“Good morning. I made French toast.”

Georgia stared at him, neither hostile nor fearful.

“Thank you,” she said. “And thanks for what you’ve done to me.”

If Plincer could still blush, he might have. “Yes, well, you were a perfect candidate for it, and an excellent subject. What you’re doing right now, with the rodent there, do you think you might enjoy doing that same thing to a person?”

Georgia’s eyes lit up. “When?”

“Sometime after breakfast. I’ll come to collect you. I’m assuming it doesn’t matter that you’d be doing it to one of your friends that you came to the island with.”

“Those aren’t my friends.”

“Yes, excellent, it’s a date then. Might I ask, do you like orange juice?”

“Sure.”

Georgia moved slowly toward him, swaying her hips. Rather than be embarrassed by her nudity, she seemed to flaunt it. One of the added benefits of the procedure. Grandiose narcissism. Plincer raised the dart gun.

“I must ask you, tell you, to stay back. We need to establish some mutual trust first. You understand. The metaphorical roadblocks have been taken off your morals, which can lead to episodes of, overindulgence. Until I see you’re able to control the appetites my procedure has enhanced, you need to keep your distance.”

She nodded, running her tongue across her upper lip. “My eyes itch.”

“There is a bottle of artificial tears in the bathroom, above the sink. That should relieve the redness. Let me set down your food.”

He quickly made a plate for her, placing everything on the dresser.

“The door is locked,” Georgia said. “Am I a prisoner?”

“It’s for your own protection,” Plincer said, adding and mine too in his head. “Once we’re sure you’ve been successfully enhanced, you’ll be able to roam freely.”

Georgia made an exaggerated pout. “Don’t you trust me, Dr. Plincer?”

Plincer didn’t go there. “Enjoy the meal. I’ll be back later.”

He fumbled to put the key in the lock, glancing back at Georgia several times to make sure she wasn’t sneaking up. When he finally got the door open, the girl was standing right next to him.

The doctor yelped, surprised, and tried to aim the dart gun. But Georgia had already caught his wrist, and she was strong for her size.

“Relax, Doctor. I was just going to hold open the door while you pushed out the cart.”

She stood next to him, her palm on the door. Plincer thanked her and quickly hustled out of there, the door closing and locking behind him.

Doctor Plincer again faced the staircase, but going down was always easier, and the cart was considerably lighter. Then it was back to the kitchen where he set a plate for himself.

Eating was an arduous process that took some time, but Plincer enjoyed it as best he could. Food, and thumbing his nose at the scientific community with his experiments, were the only pleasures he had in life.

He cut the toast into very tiny squares, but still needed to manipulate his jaw with the hand to get it chewed enough to swallow. As he ate, he reflected on his life. Doctor Plincer believed creating psychotics was an appropriate way of saying fuck you to the world that had abandoned him. Money, too, played a part. Pure research was the most rewarding part of science, and his enhancement procedures were going to keep him well-heeled for the rest of his life.

But Plincer was a man of science, and he couldn’t discount the possibility that vengeance, monetary concerns, and a thirst for knowledge were his only motivators. He knew, after his ordeal with Lester, that something had snapped inside of him.

At the end of the day, Plincer mused, it might just come down to the fact that I’m insane.

Not that it really mattered.

There were many pieces of French toast left, but no one on hand to eat them. He supposed he could toss them out a window, let the ferals find them. Or maybe give them to the children in the cells downstairs.

No. Bad idea. He didn’t want them throwing up in front of the company.

In Dr. Plincer’s experience, people in terrible pain sometimes threw up.

Since French toast didn’t reheat well, he went with the simplest solution and tossed the leftovers into the garbage.

Such a shame, such a waste.

When the last slice hit the can, he changed his mind and fished out all the food he’d thrown away. Piling it onto a paper plate, he went to the window and tossed it through the bars.

Throwing perfectly good food away was wrong, and Plincer didn’t want that on his conscience.

Captain Prendick opened his eyes. For a moment he thought he was asleep on his boat, but then the headache hit, followed swiftly by the memory of how he received it.

He’d just locked up the Randhurst woman and the two kids in Doc Plincer’s prison; something he would be getting a large bonus for. Martin had asked him to stay close and ready, just in case. Prendick understood why. He hated coming to the island. When he did his monthly supply drop-off, it was during the day. Being here at night really upped the danger quotient.

He hadn’t seen a single feral on his walk back to the beach. He’d heard things, but figured they feared him too much to try anything.

Then, when he was reaching into the bushes to drag out his dinghy, he got whacked from behind.

Now he was naked, lying on his back and locked in some kind of strange cage. It was in a clearing, and to his right was a bed of coals, glowing orange. Prendick had no illusions what those coals were for. He checked the other side, and could see his clothes in a pile just a few feet away on his left.

Was my gun in the pile as well?

He couldn’t tell, and couldn’t reach. The cage gave him no freedom to move, the bars crisscrossing his chest and back. It was sort of like being the meat in an iron sandwich.

Pendrick knew it was the ferals. It had to be. But he didn’t see any of them around so he was able to control his panic. This cage had to have some kind of locking mechanism, something that didn’t involve any kind of key, because those cannibals wouldn’t have keys. That meant a crossbar, or some sort of lever set-up. He began to explore the bars with his fingers, seeking out the hinges. They were covered with a thick layer of charred grease.

“Hello, Prendick.”

Someone was standing over him, but Prendick couldn’t crane his neck back far enough to see who it was.

“Who is it? Christ, you gotta help me. Those goddamn savages are going to roast me alive. See if there’s a latch on this cage.”

Movement, to his right. He looked, and saw the figure walk next to him and crouch down. His face was bathed in the soft, orange light from the coals, and Prendick sighed in relief when he recognized Martin.

“It’s not a cage. It’s a gridiron.”

“I don’t give a shit what it’s called, Martin. Get me out of this thing.”

Martin smiled. “Now that would be counter-productive. Who do you think put you in this thing in the first place?”

Prendick didn’t think that was funny at all. He knew Martin was a killer. What else could explain the many trips Martin took to the island with a companion, only to be alone when Prendick picked him up? But he also knew Martin needed him. There weren’t too many don’t ask/don’t tell captains on Lake Huron.

“Seriously, Martin. Let me out before those freaks come back.”

“Seriously, Captain Prendick. I’m the one who hit you on the head, carried you here, and put you in the gridiron. Both Doctor Plincer and I have grown tired of your escalating prices. So we decided that I would be the supplier from now on. I’ll need your boat, of course. I’m assuming it’s paid for, with all the money we’ve given you over the years. Where’s the title on that, by the way?”

Prendick read Martin’s face, looking for the joke, the lie. But the man looked serious.

“I haven’t bought the boat yet. Most of the money the doctor gives me goes to my mother. She has cancer, and I pay for the treatment. Seriously, you have to believe me.”

Martin stared at him. Prendick felt sweat break out over his entire body, despite the cool morning air.

“Martin, if you think the cost of my services is too high, I’m happy to renegotiate. Hell, I’ll even throw in some freebies. Sort of like frequent flyer miles. You’ve been a great customer, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Martin moved closer. Prendick saw a glint in his blue eyes.

“Where’s the title to the boat, Captain Prendick?”

“I haven’t paid it off yet. I swear.”

“I see. Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Martin reached down, grabbing the bottom bar of the cage. He kept his back straight and lifted with his legs, tilting the gridiron, and Prendick, onto the side. Prendick eyed the hot coals, just a simple push away.

“Martin! Wait! We can talk this out!”

“I built this gridiron myself. Always was curious to try one, after reading about them.

While it delivers some deliciously slow and agonizing deaths, it wasn’t hands-on enough for my taste. So I gave it to the ferals. They’ve discovered a benefit beyond its intended purpose. Cooking their food. I find the whole thing rather distasteful, really. But who am I to look down my nose at their cuisine? There isn’t much else to eat on this island.”

Prendick felt hysteria creeping up his spine. He fought to maintain control. “Martin, please, I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”

“Where’s that boat title, captain?”

“If I tell you, will you promise not to push me onto those coals?”

“Of course.”

“Do I have your word?”

“Cross my heart.”

Prendick could feel the heat rising from the coal bed. The thought of being pressed against them, unable to pull away, was the most terrifying prospect he’d ever considered.

“Behind Goldie’s tank, in the safe. The combination is my birthday, three, twenty-nine, seventy. I’ll even sign the title over to you.”

“How gracious of you. But that won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can adequately forge your signature.”

Prendick felt the gridiron shift.

“Martin!” he impotently cried. “You promised!”

“I’m a killer, Captain Prendick. Certainly you could have guessed I’m a liar as well.”

Prendick screamed as the gridiron tipped over, dropping him face-first onto the burning coals.

General Alton Tope opened his eyes and shut off his alarm. He’d gotten exactly two hours of sleep. Not ideal, but it would do. He rolled out of bed and went into the toilet, still a bit wobbly from the scotch.

He brushed his teeth, shaved, combed his hair, and dressed in his uniform, perfectly timing the completion of the Windsor knot on his tie with the knock at the door.

The men he allowed into his room were under Tope’s command, but the delivery they’d brought him was unofficial. In fact, records would show that both men were currently stationed at another base.

General Tope didn’t like to play it this way, but his hands were tied. He’d made a mistake recently—a minor one at that—and in order to do what was right it had to be under the radar.

“Show me,” Tope ordered.

One of the men placed a metal briefcase on the bed, popped the latches, and opened the lid.

Tope stared. He didn’t so much as flinch, but he was shocked that something worth so much money was so small. The General told his men to leave, so entranced by what was on the bed that he wasn’t even aware he’d used the word please, as if making a request rather than a command.

The men saluted, then turned on their heels. Tope paid them no mind as they left. There were also papers in the briefcase, but the General didn’t bother checking them, knowing they were in order. He closed the lid and shook his head, marveling at what some people considered valuable.

But then, there were few things in the world that were portable, legally obtainable, easily salable, and were worth twenty-five million dollars.

General Tope didn’t bother checking his watch because he already knew the time in his head. His plane would be leaving a little over two hours, enough time for him to carry out the legitimate orders he’d been given for the day.

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

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

That was because her eyeballs were gone.

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

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

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

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

letmediepleasegodletmedieplease…

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

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

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

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

And Jack had to be alive. He had to. As monstrous as Martin was, he wouldn’t kill his son.

She had to escape.

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

Should have let the bastard hang there.

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

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

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

Small, but packed full of hope.

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

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

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

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

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

Keep cool. Stay focused. You can do this.

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

I’m free.

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

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

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

He wasn’t. The room was empty.

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

She recoiled. Martin had found a match for Timmy’s knife, the one that haunted Sara’s imagination. It was horrible looking, with a seven inch blade, and a serrated back that seemed capable of sawing through wood.

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

Now to go get my kids.

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

One came from behind her. A toilet flush.

Sara hurried into the nearest room. It looked a lot like Martin’s, with a bed and a table piled high with gore-stained tools. Along the wall were dozens of pictures, taped there. Pictures of people. Of victims. Some of them kids form the Center. Alongside the wall was a large wooden crate.

Footsteps, from the hall. Getting closer.

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

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

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

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

“Uuuuuuhhhhnnnn,” it said.

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

“Uuuuuuuhhhhhnn.”

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

The thing wiggled. “Uhhhhhnnnnnn.”

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

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

Familiar.

“Uhhhhhhhhhnnn.”

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

My god. It’s Martin’s brother, Joe.

“Lester will change the bedding later. Be quiet, or Lester will get angry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, Joe,” she whispered.

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

Sara ran to the hallway, focusing on the task ahead rather than dwelling on what she’d just done. Seeing Lester disappear around a corner, Sara went in the opposite direction, finding another door.

Dark in the room. Dark and quiet.

She squinted in the darkness, making out a square shape in the corner.

Another crate? Jesus… another trunk?

Sara wanted out of the room, but she knew she had to check it out. She inched closer, grasping the bloody utility knife, letting her eyes adjust to the dim.

No, not a trunk.

A crib.

She rushed toward it, still frightened but needing to know. Hands on the railing, she stared down at the tangle of blankets, hoping against all hope…

Jack’s eyes were closed, his little chest moving up and down as he slept.

Crying silently, Sara pressed her son to her chest, kissing his head, inhaling his beautiful baby smell. She tucked him into his sling on her belly, adjusted the straps and belt, and crept back into the hallway, heading for the stairs.

Sara froze, hearing the footsteps echoing up at her, drawing closer. She went the other way, down the long corridor, which dead-ended at a door. A large, iron door, with a slot in the center and a bar across it.

“Here comes Lester, and Lester is angry.”

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

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

There was nothing to hear.

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

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

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

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

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

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

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

A bathroom? A closet?

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

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

It’s coming from the bureau.

She paused, moving closer, her arms wrapped protectively around Jack.

The bureau rattled.

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

And someone was inside.

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

Martin said a goodbye that probably wasn’t even heard, then took off. He was anxious to get started on Sara. He also needed another Vicodin—his cheeks really stung.

Gun cocked and eyes scanning the trees for ferals, Martin headed back to the prison.

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

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

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

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

“Tom. Tom, you awake, dog?”

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

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

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

“Tommy boy, I think it’s a key.”

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

“Can you reach it?”

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

“Try your legs, man.”

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

“Try turning on an angle, Tom.”

“No duh.”

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

“Careful, Tom.”

“I know what I’m doing, Tyrone.”

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

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

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

Then the lights came on.

“Tommy. Someone’s coming.”

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

“I found it.”

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

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

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

See? I can focus when I have to.

“Hello, Tom. What is this?”

Frick. Martin.

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

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

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

Tom howled, sitting up. Martin leaned forward and frowned, feigning concern.

“I sense a bit of distress, Tom.”

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

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

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

“Leave him alone,” Tyrone said.

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t last two minutes in my hood.”

“That’s because I wouldn’t ever go to your hood, Tyrone. It’s full of losers. That’s what you are. Born a loser, die a loser. You’re a statistic, Tyrone. And you know what else? You’re not tough at all. When we’re finished with you, you’re going to be crying like a little baby.”

“Hells no.”

“Hells yeah,” Martin mocked.

Martin spread out his hands, as if welcoming a big group of people.

“You still don’t know why I brought you here. Of course, why should you? You’re not the best and brightest of our nation’s youth. You’re not even in the top ninety-eight percent. So I’m going to be a nice guy and tell you what’s going to happen. A man is coming to the island. A very important man, who is going to change the world. But he’s going to need to be convinced. So you’re going to help convince him.”

Martin smiled, and it scared Tom to his core.

“He’s going to tell us what to do to you, and we’re going to do it. Happily, I might add. Painful things. Bloody things.”

Tom couldn’t help it. He started to cry.

“No tears yet, Tom. Save them for later. Besides, you three should actually feel pretty good about yourselves. You’ve defied all expectations, and done something productive with your lives. Something useful. Society always figured you would amount to nothing, but you’re the final pieces in this wonderful puzzle. Every ritual needs sacrificial lambs.”

Martin’s eyes drilled into Tom, and the man who counseled him, mentored him, taught him, and pretended to actually give a shit about him, winked.

“Now if you kids will excuse me, I have to go upstairs and torture my wife.”

The bureau was Sara’s height. It was black, which made the dark red sketch on the front hard to see, but as Sara got closer, she could make it out.

A human outline.

Scrawled on the side, in chalk, were the words:

Taylor’s Magic Box

In fact, it looked like one of those magician’s cabinets, the kind where a woman went in and then was pierced with swords and cut into thirds.

It also had the same little doors on the front, so the audience could see different parts of the woman’s body, to prove she was still in there.

But Sara didn’t think this was an illusion. And a sickening sinking feeling in her gut told her who was probably inside.

She reached for the top door, the one that would expose the face, but she stopped inches from touching it.

All across the surface of the cabinet were round black knobs. Dozens of them. They were also on the sides, and the back, from top to bottom. Sara touched one, gently.

Someone inside the box screamed, making Sara flinch.

What the hell were these things?

She looked around, stared down at the umbrella stand next to the cabinet.

But it wasn’t filled with umbrellas. It was filled with long things that ended in black knobs.

Suddenly understanding what they were, Sara grabbed the end of a knob in the middle of the cabinet and pulled.

Just like the magician’s trick, Sara removed a six inch metal skewer from the box.

Unlike the magician’s trick, this skewer was slick with blood.

“Oh, Jesus. Laneesha.”

Sara knew Lester was coming. Martin would be back soon, too. She and Jack had to get out of there. But she wasn’t going to leave Laneesha here with these monsters.

That posed a problem. There were dozens—perhaps over a hundred—of these skewers sticking in the cabinet. Did Sara even have time to remove all of them? And if she did, would Laneesha bleed to death?

She looked around for an answer, and saw two things on the floor that made her stomach churn. A car battery with jumper cables, and a handheld blowtorch.

She had to get Laneesha out of there.

“Laneesha, honey, it’s Sara. I’m going to help you, okay? I need to get these things out of your face first. Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…”

Sara lifted her hands, hesitated, reached closer, hesitated, and then pulled the six skewers out of the outline of the head as fast as she could, Laneesha’s cries of pain scarring her soul. Then she opened the door to view Laneesha’s face.

“Kill me,” Laneesha croaked.

Sara recoiled in horror. The blood. The damage. The agony the girl must be in.

That’s when Sara sensed someone behind her.

She didn’t hear it. She sensed it. Like feeling a glance from across a room. Since the door Sara came through hadn’t opened, the person must have come from the other door in the room.

Not Lester. Not Martin. This was the one who had done this to Laneesha. This had to be Taylor, the owner of the Magic Box.

Sara spun around, tugging the utility knife out of her jeans, ready to stab.

It was a man. A fat, scarred man, naked except a black rubber apron that stretched from his chest to his thighs. He’d come out of the door—the bathroom door—Sara had been about to open. His greasy hair was shoulder-length. His pocked cheeks glistened with sweat over several days’ worth of stubble. His patchwork skin was lined with long, parallel scabs, like stripes, some of them still bleeding.

And in his crippled right hand he was clenching a meat hook.

Lester’s rage was a diesel engine in his chest, pumping and burning and threatening to blow. The pet was special to Lester. He came to the island with Martin, and Lester had bitten off some of his sensitive parts, but left him mostly untouched. He liked the funny uhhhnnnnnn sound the pet made. But he didn’t care for the begging, or the attempts to get away. So Doctor fixed him for Lester. Fixed his brain so he stopped talking. Fixed his arms and legs so he couldn’t run or fight back.

For years, Lester had taken good care of the pet. He was Lester’s friend.

But now someone had killed him.

The doctor was in the lab. Martin was out. The stairs were the only way up to Lester’s room, and he didn’t pass anyone while bringing the hay.

That left one person. The only other person on the second floor.

Subject 33.

Lester looked around for a weapon, wrapping his large hand around a filet knife. Razor sharp. Perfect for detail work.

He stormed out his room, heading down the corridor.

When Marshal Otis Taylor was a little boy, he wanted to kill people when he grew up. If his parents had known any abnormal psychology, they would have noted little Taylor wet the bed, started fires, and liked to hurt animals. These behaviors were documented precursors to psychopathy.

But they were too busy physically and sexually abusing Taylor to notice that he might be a little off-kilter.

Perhaps they should have paid more attention, because when Taylor turned twelve he turned on the gas stove, blew out the flame, and waited in the back yard while the carbon monoxide filled the house and poisoned them to death.

It was deemed an accident, and the neighbors corroborated that Taylor was a handful and his parents sometimes made him sleep outside.

Taylor did the foster home shuffle for several years, eventually running away at fifteen and joining a travelling carnival. He learned how to be charming there, and how charm was the key to deception. He was taught street magic, and the art of the hustle, and may other carny tricks. He also learned how to drive the double-clutch eighteen-wheelers used for hauling equipment from town to town.

By age nineteen his boyish good looks had bloomed into masculinity, and he’d saved and swindled enough money to buy his own truck.

The truck-stop hookers thought he was so cute, they often gave him freebies.

He killed his first one in Wisconsin. His second in Nebraska.

Over the years, Taylor’s route, and his hunting ground, encompassed the entire lower forty-eight. He killed one in every state, and after that lost count.

When they finally caught him, he was only charged with twenty murders, which wasn’t even a third of them.

Taylor received the death sentence, and he had memories of being strapped to the table, the prison doctor hooking up the IV that contained the lethal injection.

Then his memories got fuzzy.

He remembered snippets of things. Some sort of military training. A special forces unit. Foreign countries. Missions that involved even more killing. Screaming people. Lots and lots of screaming people.

And coyotes. Taylor remembered the coyotes, eating him alive while he was unable to fight back.

Then somehow, well over a year ago, sewn back together like a crazy-quilt, Taylor had wound up here.

He wasn’t even sure where here was.

His good looks were ruined. His body didn’t work like it should have, due to muscle loss, his voice was gone, and his fingers jutted out at odd angles and were barely functional. The insane doctor who kept him here—Doctor Plincer—had tinkered with Taylor’s brain.

Before the tinkering, Taylor had enjoyed causing others pain.

After the tinkering, causing pain was the only think Taylor lived for.

It was an addiction, stronger than any drug.

And the doctor fed his addiction, for the most part, supplying him with a steady stream of victims.

Of course, the one victim Taylor longed for most was the doctor himself.

He just had to get the bastard in his Magic Box.

The box was based on months of testing and experimenting. Every skewer positioned and angled so it wouldn’t hit anything vital. Taylor’s biggest wish was to get the doctor in there, and make him suffer for weeks.

But until that day came, he had other victims to play with.

Like this tender little morsel clutching a baby.

The woman was cute. Cute ones were so sexy when they screamed.

But the baby…

Taylor had never done a baby before.

It sounded like a lot of fun.

Sara was paralyzed with fear. A tiny part of her brain recognized what a cliché that was. But it was true. She was so terrified, so overwhelmed by dread, she couldn’t move.

Taylor stared at her. Through her. Sara knew he could read her thoughts, sense her helplessness.

He lowered the meat hook and gave her a lopsided grin. Then he limped slowly to Sara’s left, his gait wobbly and twisted, like he had a degenerative muscle disease. But Sara noticed it wasn’t a disease—beneath his scarred skin, some of his muscles were simply gone.

Taylor stopped at a dresser, his bloodshot gaze drilling into her.

Run! Sara yelled at herself. Get out of there!

But her feet remained planted, her veins felt filled with cement. She couldn’t even turn her head, staring at her abductor out of the corner of her eyes, watching as he slowly pulled open a drawer. He put his hand inside, grinning, obviously enjoying himself, and then removed a rope.

No! Don’t let him tie you up, Sara! You have to move!

That’s when the door burst open.

The sound was enough to break Sara out of her frozen state. In one smooth motion she yanked Jack from his sling and dove sideways, keeping him off the floor, and scooted lengthwise under the bed. She placed her baby on his belly, tucked against her side, and felt him kick against her as he woke up.

“You! You killed my pet!”

Lester’s presence seemed to fill the room. He looked twice as big as the last time Sara saw him, and his eyes were wide and lips pulled back to bare his revolting teeth. He was pointing, accusingly, his hand ending in a knife that glinted orange in the candlelight.

But he wasn’t looking at Sara. He was looking at Taylor.

“The pet is dead. Now Lester will kill Subject 33’s pet.”

Lester took two quick steps toward Laneesha’s cabinet, and Sara watched aghast as he flung open the large middle door without removing the skewers.

Laneesha’s insides came out, spilling onto the ground, some of them sliding under the bed and onto Sara and Jack. She shoved her knuckles into her mouth and bit down to keep from screaming. When she looked down at Jack, Sara saw his eyes were open and he was making that pinched, unhappy face he would always make before he started to cry.

Sara shoved her finger in his mouth. He made a tiny little whine of protest.

Lester turned toward Taylor, raising the knife.

“Now Lester will kill Subject 33.”

Taylor held up one hand in supplication as he shook his head. His other hand was gesturing wildly.

Pointing right at Sara.

But Lester wasn’t following the man’s finger, and though Taylor’s lips were moving, no sounds were coming out.

Lester lunged.

For a limping, pudgy man, Taylor moved pretty fast. He danced away from the blade and came up on Lester’s side, the meat hook raised. Taylor swung, cutting through empty air with a whir.

Jack let out a soft cry. Sara massaged his gums with her fingertip. He began to suck.

Lester lunged again, nicking Taylor on the shoulder. Taylor again swung and missed. The taller man’s reach was too long, and he easily kept Taylor at a distance.

When Lester cut Taylor’s other shoulder, she could see the futility on Taylor’s face. He knew he was going to die. That’s when he stared Sara dead in the eyes, and then ran right at her.

Sara shrank back, tugging Jack with her, but it wouldn’t help. This was a cheap bed, light and flimsy. Taylor would be able to upend it with one hand, exposing them both to Lester.

But Lester acted fast, sticking out a foot, tripping Taylor so he fell near the edge of the bed. The fat man flopped onto his belly, momentum making him slide across the gore toward Sara.

The meathook clanged to the floor and bounced away, and Sara locked eyes with the fallen killer, less than two feet between them. Up close, Taylor’s face looked like it had been sculpted by a preschooler, all disfigured and missing parts. He opened his ruined mouth and let out a wheeze, his bloodshot eyes wide with panic.

Then Taylor stretched his hands under the bed and grabbed Jack’s arm.

Martin was feeling pretty good. The drugs had taken the edge off his injuries, the children were all accounted for, and he was about to spend some quality time with the missus. Plus, he was now the owner of a pretty sweet boat. Which, unfortunately, he was going to have to sink.

Martin had told Captain Prendick the truth about his prices being too high, and Martin was fully prepared to takeover Plincer’s supply needs. But the real reason he killed Prendick was because he needed the boat for his plan to work.

A noted psychologist, a ship’s captain, and six teenagers couldn’t just disappear while Martin walked away scot-free. So Martin was going to use Prendick’s GPS navigation system to find the deepest part of the lake; Huron went down 750 feet in some parts. Then he was going to set the boat on fire and sink it, putting in a last minute call to the Coast Guard just as he jumped overboard.

“There was some kind of horrible explosion,” he would tell the authorities. “I must have been thrown clear. Damn lucky thing I had my life jacket on. Oh, my poor now-dead wife. My poor son. Those poor, underprivileged, blown-up children. What a terrible and tragic freak accident.”

He’d work on the story, and his delivery. A few burn marks on his life preserver would lend credence, as would his outstanding reputation in the field of social work.

The best part? Sara was insured for half a million dollars. Enough to buy a nice, new boat. Joe had been right about that one thing; boating life was the way to go.

Martin got to the top of the stairs and wondered if he should drop in on brother Joe, maybe give him a dog bone for old time’s sake. But the growing tension in his groin told him to wait until later. He wanted to get in some husband and wife bonding first.

He walked to his room, smiling when he saw the trunk in the corner. Martin could picture Sara in there, tied up and terrified. He thought of all those countless, wasted nights, holding her in bed because she was frightened, pretending to care.

Payback was a bitch.

Martin snuck over, raising his palm to give the chest a good whack and scare the crap out of her, when he heard Lester yell something down the hall.

Odd. Lester never yelled. Not in the years Martin had known him. Something must be happening.

He left Sara to her personal hell and went into the corridor.

Another yell from Lester.

It seemed to be coming from Subject 33’s room.

Martin headed that way.

Whatever grip fear had over Sara since her youth disappeared when this ghoul grabbed her baby.

Instead, her fear was replaced by rage.

Taylor gripped Jack’s little arm, his bloodshot eyes huge with panic, trying to drag her son from her grasp.

No way in hell that was going to happen.

Sara still held the utility knife, and she used it without hesitation, slashing at his knuckles, his hands, his arms. Digging deep and twisting the triangular blade.

Taylor released Jack, his soundless lips flapping as Lester tugged him away from the bed. Taylor’s arms scoured the floor, trying to grab onto something, finding only bits of Laneesha.

Sara watched, awestruck, as Lester placed a huge foot on Taylor’s flabby backside, leaned down, and plunged the knife into his back. Taylor flopped around for a bit, like a fish on a pier, his mouth wide in a silent scream.

Then, all at once, he stopped moving, a sail that ran out of wind.

She stared, knowing Lester wasn’t going to stop there. While part of her said she should turn away, another part wanted to watch as Lester cut Laneesha’s killer into a million little pieces. Indeed, Lester tugged out the knife and raised it again. But his plans were interrupted when the door opened.

“Lester? Aw, shit, Lester! What did you do?”

Sara felt herself grow very cold. Martin had walked into the room.

Jack heard his father’s voice and cooed happily. Sara felt around and stuck her finger back into his mouth.

Lester squinted at the knife like he didn’t know how it got there. Then he looked at Martin.

“Subject 33 killed the pet. So Lester killed Subject 33.”

“Dammit, Lester, you can always get a new pet. Plincer’s going to be pissed at you.”

Martin knelt down, felt Taylor’s neck. Though Sara thought nothing could shock her any more, Martin’s callous disregard for his brother’s death made him even more horrible.

“He’s still alive. Help me get him to the lab.”

They each grabbed a leg, and dragged Taylor across the bloody floor, out the door.

Sara waited. She needed to figure out what to do next. She still had four kids left. The three in the cells, and Georgia, wherever she was being held. But those cells were solid. She would need tools to get in. A saw, or a pry bar.

Or a drill.

There was a drill in Martin’s room, on his tool bench.

Sara slowly slid out from underneath the bed, avoiding the blood on the floor and refusing to look in Laneesha’s direction. She tucked Jack back into his sling and was halfway to the door when she realized Laneesha deserved better than that. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to face the cabinet.

“I’m sorry,” Sara whispered, feeling the words stick in her throat. “I know you believed we go someplace, after we die. If you’re right, and you can hear me, I’m making you a promise. If…no…when I get out of here, I’ll make sure your daughter finds a good home, and knows how brave her mother was. I’m so sorry.”

Sara closed her eyes but could still picture the ruined, bloody thing before her.

“I also promise, even if I die trying, to get every one of those fuckers who did this.”

Sara snuck out into the antechamber, and then peeked around the corner before committing to the hallway. Once she deemed it clear she moved quickly, on the balls of her feet, pausing by Martin’s doorway. She heard voices, from the spiral staircase ahead of her.

“…sick of dragging this heavy bastard. The wheelchair is in my room. I’ll go get it.”

Martin.

Sara hurried into his room, frantically looking for a hiding place. It was too well lit in here to hide under the bed. But there wasn’t any place else. Except…

Can I do this?

She gaped at the trunk, her legs feeling weak. The alternative was facing Martin with the utility knife—which had too small a blade to do any serious damage. Plus Martin attended the same judo class as she did. Sara had more experience, but he was stronger and outweighed her by sixty pounds. She silently cursed herself for making him take classes with her.

His footsteps reverberated through the stone corridor, getting closer.

I can do this.

Utility knife clenched in a death-grip, Sara cautiously lifted the trunk lid.

It’s so dark in there.

She cradled Jack’s head and climbed in anyway, forcing herself to squat down, the pain in her leg making her wince.

But she couldn’t get herself to close the lid.

Martin’s footsteps drew closer, practically outside the room.

Dammit, Sara. Look what Laneesha went through. You can do this.

Sara eased the lid down, watching her light get smaller until it was a thick line… a thinner line… just a speck…

And then the darkness.

It assaulted her like a freezing wind, making her want to scream while also taking her breath away. A minute ago, a second ago, she’d been empowered, a woman on a mission. But the dark reduced her to jelly. She wasn’t even sure if she could keep hold of the utility knife.

Sara strained to hear outside the trunk. Was Martin in the room yet? What was he doing? Would he notice the lock on the trunk was broken? What if he opened the lid? Would she even be able to defend herself while holding her baby?

Then there was a huge banging noise and the trunk shook and Sara screamed and dropped the knife, the darkness swallowing it, and her.

Martin slapped the top of the trunk and was rewarded with a cry of absolute terror from the woman he exchanged vows with.

“You okay in there, honey? I don’t want you thinking I’ve forgotten about you.”

Sara’s crying continued, and it was so infantile it almost sounded like a baby.

Martin went to the wheelchair, parked next to the tool bench. It had shackles on it, and was useful for moving people around. An elevator would have been more useful, but Lester was pretty strong and there weren’t many people he couldn’t lift by himself.

Subject 33, however, had to weigh three hundred and fifty pounds. He’d really let himself go since Plincer locked him in that room. Martin made a mental note to bring him a Nordic Track or something on his next visit. If the fat bastard pulled through.

He wheeled the chair to the doorway and then abruptly stopped.

Something was wrong. He felt it.

Martin turned around, scanning the room. Work bench. Dresser. Peg board. Bed. Trunk.

There, by the trunk.

“Trying to get away? You naughty girl.”

Martin walked over, bending at the waist to pick up the object on the floor. Chereese’s tanned hide was lying in a pile, like a dropped leather jacket. Martin had put all of his skins away, but somehow had overlooked her. He lifted her up, brushing a piece of rock salt out of her hair, and reverently put her back in the dresser.

Then Martin left the room. He had to walk backwards down the stairs, lest the wheelchair get away from him. Lester hadn’t waited, and had pulled Subject 33 by himself halfway across the cell area. Martin rolled up to him, and they hefted the fat man into the chair.

The lab was on the other side of the cells, through a doorway and at the end of the hall, between Plincer’s bedroom and the kitchen. As expected, the doctor was in the lab, fussing with some test tubes.

“What happened now?”

Martin frowned. “He and Lester had a disagreement. So Lester stabbed him in the back.”

Plincer came over, peering close. “So how did he get so fat?”

“Eating too much and lack of exercise.”

Subject 33 groaned.

“Oh dear, we don’t want this one waking up on us. Hold him down.”

Lester placed his hands on Subject 33’s shoulders and leaned on him. Martin stared at Doctor Plincer, clucking like a mother hen while he searched his cabinets for some succinocholine, and wondered how a man so brilliant could be such a space cadet at the same time.

The doctor found the bottle and filled a syringe. By now Subject 33’s eyes were open. He stared up at Lester, projecting hate. Lester projected hate right back. Plincer gave the fat man a shot in the thigh.

“Okay, let’s try to get him up on the table. Face down.”

The three of them heaved, sweated, grunted, and strained, and eventually managed to beach the whale on the stainless steel operating table.

“We’ve got a knife wound four inches right of the L2 vertebra.” Plincer placed his ear to Subject 33’s back. “There’s a pneumothorax. How long was the knife?”

Lester held his fingers apart.

“Possible liver puncture as well. Did you do all of these other cuts as well?” Plincer spread out his hands, indicating the dozens of slices on the fat man’s body.

“Subject 33 was like that when Lester stabbed him.”

“Self-inflicted? Fascinating.” Plincer peered over his glasses at Lester. “You weren’t trying to kill him, were you?”

“Not right away,” Lester said.

“But for heaven’s sake, why try at all?”

“Subject 33 killed the pet.”

“How did he get out of his room?”

Lester shrugged. So did Martin.

“Did you, perhaps, stop and think that maybe someone let him out?”

Martin dug into his pocket. “Lurch here dropped a key in the cell area,” he said, holding it up.

“Not Lurch,” Lester said. “Lester did it.”

Plincer rolled his eyes. “The meeting is in less than an hour. Make sure that everyone is where they’re supposed to be. Including Georgia.”

Martin and Lester both turned to leave.

“Hold it, hold it please. I’m going to need some help re-inflating his lung and sewing him up. Lester, you stay here with me, since you’re the one that did this. Martin, are you sure your wife is contained?”

“I’m sure.”

“Double-check. And as for you, old friend.” Plincer patted Subject 33’s head. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to properly sedate you. You’re going to feel this, but that’s what you get for messing around with another man’s property.”

Lester smiled. Martin sighed, heading back to his room. He was annoyed, and tense.

But he had complete faith that a few minutes with Sara would help relax him.

Sara listened, as hard as she could, but Jack’s crying flooded her ears. Had Martin left? Or was he still there, silently waiting, ready to grab her when she opened the trunk?

She tried rubbing Jack’s gums again, but the noise of his father banging on the trunk had scared him too much. His wailing increased in volume. Even more than the suffocating darkness, Sara feared Martin would hear him, figure out what was going on.

Adjusting her body, she stuck Jack up under her shirt, pulling down her bra.

He latched onto her breast and began to nurse.

Sara sighed, stroking his scalp. For a precious minute, she and Jack were the only two people in the universe. He suckled lazily, and then she felt him release her, his body relaxing in sleep.

The smothering dark returned.

I’ll count to a fifty. Then I’ll come out.

Sara made it to seventeen, then popped out and gasped for air like she’d been underwater, swinging the knife around in case Martin was close.

He wasn’t. The room was empty. But the sudden movement woke up Jack, and he began to cry again.

Sara climbed out of the trunk on shaky legs. She closed the lid, standing still for a few seconds, trying to get her hyperventilating under control. Now wasn’t a good time to pass out.

Jack’s volume increased. She tried her breast again, but he turned away from it.

Overtired? Bored? Wet?

She stuck a finger in his diaper. Dry.

“Shush,” she told him.

He didn’t shush.

Sara had to get out of there, fast. But first, she needed tools. Sara made her way to the work table and picked up the cordless drill. The bit was thick, four inches long. She squeezed the trigger and it whirred to life.

Jack stopped crying, reaching a tiny hand out to touch the drill.

“Do you like the drill? Yes you do like the drill.”

She kept up the baby-talk patter and let it whir for another few seconds. Then she noticed something potentially more important.

On the table, in an ashtray, was a key.

It didn’t look like it would open the cells. This was a new key, and those were over a hundred years old, with locks to match. But it couldn’t hurt to hold on to.

Sara took it, and closed the utility knife, sticking both into her pocket. She also took from the bench an ice pick, a hammer, and a hacksaw. She then put down the saw, unable to carry everything at once, and rushed into the hallway, heading for the stairs.

When she was almost there she put on the brakes, noticing another door.

It looked out of place in the castle-type environment, made of silver metal with a bright new doorknob.

Keep going. Save the kids.

But what if there’s some other poor victim in there? What if it’s Georgia?

Sara reached for the doorknob hesitantly, as if she were about to touch a hot stove. She paused.

Yes or no?

Sara palmed the knob and gave it a deft turn.

Locked.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

That was Georgia’s voice.

Sara moved her mouth closer to the door. “Georgia? Are you in there?”

“Sara? Is that you?”

Sara put her hand on the door, leaning against it. “It’s me. Are you okay?”

“I’m scared, Sara.” Georgia’s voice got louder. “Please get me out of here.”

“I’m going to try. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you.”

It was a no-brainer what to try first. The key. She set down the drill and the hammer and fished out the key, fitting it into the lock easily. Sara tried to twist.

No good. The key wouldn’t turn.

Sara gave it the standard key-jiggle, bumped the door with her shoulder to loosen up the bolt, and tried again.

It worked. Sara pocketed the key and pushed the door open, keeping a protective hand on Jack as she looked around. The room was well-lit, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Sara saw a bed, a dresser, but no Georgia.

Sara studied the door, and noticed the pneumatic arm at the top. She bent down and jammed the ice pick under the rail so it wouldn’t close automatically, and then stepped inside.

“Georgia?”

Sara glanced behind the door and was met with the shocking image of a Georgia standing there, nude and covered in blood.

“Georgia! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, now that you’re here.”

Georgia smiled, oddly incongruous with her appearance. Then Sara noticed the bloody scissors in Georgia’s hand.

“Georgia?”

The pudgy girl launched herself at Sara, stabbing downward with the scissors.

Instinct took over, Sara sidestepped to the right, ducking under the arc of Georgia’s swing and driving an elbow into the teen’s back.

Georgia smacked into the dresser and Sara turned to face her, planting her feet apart and stepping on something squishy. She took a quick look at the floor.

It was covered with blood. Blood and animal parts.

Georgia spun, raising the scissors again. Her expression was gleefully manic.

“It’s me, Georgia,” Sara pleaded, cradling Jack against her chest. “It’s Sara.”

“I know who you are, bitch.”

The girl lunged again, but this time she feinted before the swing, throwing Sara off balance. Sara back-pedaled, the scissors passing inches in front of Jack’s head. Her ass hit a desk, and Georgia slid and fell onto one knee.

Sara looked to her right. The bed was in the corner of the room, at least ten feet away. Then looked down at her son, and at the crazed face of Georgia.

Without second-guessing herself, Sara yanked Jack from his sling and tossed him through the air, at the center of the bed, aiming so he hit back-first. Before she could tell if she hit her target, Georgia had recovered and plowed into her, doubling Sara over and knocking her onto her back.

Jack didn’t make a sound, and Sara couldn’t see him.

Georgia fought like a rabid dog. Sara fought to push the girl off, but Georgia had straddled her, making the older woman cry out when she ground her knee into Sara’s leg wound. Sara strained against her, but Georgia was strong and fierce and weighed more.

Georgia used that weight, leaning onto the scissors, bringing the blades closer and closer to Sara’s throat until they poked into her chin.

Georgia was more than just excited. She was aroused. The scissors pricked at Sara’s face, making little blood freckles, and Georgia was loving it.

The rat had been fun, but this was a hundred times better. Georgia had never tried any drugs, never had friends who attempted to share any with her. But she imagined this is what they must feel like. Each drop of blood that bloomed on Sara’s face was like another spike of ecstasy. Heroin and sex and cocaine and sky-diving all mixed up in one gigantic, pleasurable rush.

Then Georgia’s fingers were being bent back, and she had to turn her body with the rotation so they didn’t break.

She rolled off of Sara, no longer holding the scissors. The intense pleasure was gone, like a faucet that had been shut off. Not even an afterglow.

Georgia looked up at Sara and snarled.

“We can get you help,” Sara said, wiping red off her chin. “You have to trust me.”

“I don’t want help.”

Georgia scrambled onto all fours and then tackled Sara, wanting, needing, to bite the bitch’s face off.

Martin reached the top of the stairs and immediately noticed a power drill and hammer next to Georgia’s door. He ran to them, saw the door was open, and saw a naked Georgia wrestling with…

Sara. How the hell did she get free?

He rushed into the room, blood boiling, yanking Georgia out of the way and cocking back a fist guaranteed to break his wife’s jaw.

Georgia was there one second, gone the next, replaced by Martin. Sara had been trying to control Georgia without seriously hurting her, but with Martin she had no such compunction. She kicked him with everything she had, right between the legs, and then threw a right cross that broke the bastard’s nose.

Martin went down.

Then Sara was running for the bed. She panicked when she didn’t see Jack—

Did I miss the mattress? Did he bounce off?

—then saw him behind a bunched-up blanket.

Sara scooped Jack up with one hand, pressing him to her chest, and took a quick look over her shoulder.

Martin was getting up, turning her way.

Georgia was on the floor, reaching for Sara’s ankle.

Sara vaulted over Georgia’s hand, toward the doorway. Then she was reaching for the ice pick and yanking it free, pulling the door shut behind her. After confirming the door was locked, she stuck the pick in her pocket and checked Jack over.

He smiled at her. This had to be the least-fussy, best-behaved child on the planet. She kissed his forehead and tucked him into his sling, then scooped up the hammer and drill, and limped down the stone stairs. They came to an end at the cell room, which was brighter with the lights on, but not by much. She gingerly touched her leg wounds and noted they were bleeding again.

Wouldn’t it be funny if I lived through this and then died of an infection?

She ignored the pain, scurrying over to the kids’ cells. They each had their hands cuffed behind their backs, and Tom was curled up in a ball.

“Sara!”

“Shh,” she told Cindy. “I’m going to try to get the doors open. You all need to watch the stairs and the door over there, make sure no one is coming. What happened to Tom?”

“Lester and Martin,” Tyrone said. “Beat him up pretty good. Why’d you marry that guy anyway?”

“The man I fell in love with was a good man,” Sara said, squinting at the lock on Cindy’s prison door. “He was turned into something else.”

Sara knew the key for Georgia’s room wouldn’t fit, but she tried it anyway. No suck luck. Then she stuck the ice pick in the keyhole. Sara had no idea how lock mechanisms worked, other than something needed to be turned. She poked around for a minute without getting anywhere.

“Tyrone, can you pick locks?”

“Why, ‘cause I’m black?”

“No, Tyrone. Because you’re a criminal.”

“Hells no. Only thing I ever needed to bust a lock was my foot, or a gat.”

Sara tucked the ice pick away and wielded the drill.

“That might work, too,” Tyrone said.

She placed the bit inside the keyhole and pushed while pressing the trigger. The bit was stronger than the old iron, and it immediately began to dig in.

Then the drill whined, and slowly petered to a stop. Sara pressed the trigger a few more times.

The battery was dead.

“Lester, did you hear that?” Dr. Plincer asked.

Lester hadn’t been paying attention. While Doctor was busy sewing Subject 33 up, Lester had been clandestinely squeezing the paralyzed man’s testicles. Lester got pleasure from the act, as he did whenever he was hurting someone, but was unhappy that Subject 33 couldn’t scream or cry. Pain without screams was like ice cream without chocolate sauce.

Lester would wait for the drug to wear off. Then he’d do much worse things.

“It sounds like a machine of some sort,” Doctor said. “In the cell room.”

Lester listened, hearing a faint buzzing noise that faded out.

“Go check it, please, Lester, if you would be so kind.”

Lester gave Subject 33 one more big squeeze and then headed for the door.

Martin sprinted at the metal security door for the third time, slamming his shoulder against it. His nose was bleeding over his mouth, down his neck, but he didn’t pay it any mind. His only goal was to get through this door and get that bitch he married.

“Don’t you have a key?” Georgia asked.

Martin sneered at her. “If I had a key, would I be trying to bust it down?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “You always were an asshole, Martin. How’s your nose? Looks painful.”

Georgia chewed on her lower lip and gave his nose a stiff poke.

Martin lashed out with a backhand, knocking the little brat across the room. “Don’t touch me ever again. And put on some goddamn clothes.”

He stared at his nemesis, the door, once more. Solid metal. Set in a stone wall. Calling for help was an option, but he didn’t think his voice would carry all the way to the lab. Kicking wouldn’t it be any more useful than ramming it, especially since the door opened inward.

Wait a sec. The hinges are on the inside.

Martin looked around on the floor, found the bloody metal shears. There were three hinges on the door, each with a pin holding the two parts of the shaft together. He knelt down and pried the bottom pin up, like pulling a nail. It took a bit of effort, but he was able to get it out.

The middle pin was more difficult, probably because the door’s weight was no longer evenly distributed. Martin took off his hiking boot, placed the tip of the scissors under the pin’s head, and beat on the end until it came free.

He used the same hammering technique on the last pin, which was the toughest of all. The sucker simply didn’t want to budge. But Martin was ferocious in his determination, and millimeter by millimeter the pin eased out of the shaft until it finally popped out the top and clanged onto the floor.

Now hingeless, Martin could pry the door open. It fell behind him with a crash that made Georgia jump. Martin put his boot back on, stuck the scissors in his back pocket, and wiped his bleeding nose on his sleeve.

Punch me? Let’s see how you punch when I cut your fingers off, Sara.

Sara didn’t bother to curse the universe. Even though it was probably warranted, she didn’t have the time. She tried unplugging the battery and plugging it back in, but it did nothing. The drill was useless.

That left the hammer and the ice pick. She stuck the pick back in the lock and gripped it tight, ready to give the base a whack.

“Sara!” Cindy’s voice had gone up an octave. “Lester’s coming!”

Sara didn’t bother to look. She continued to beat on the ice pick.

“Shit,” Tyrone sounded scared. “Martin just came down the stairs. You gotta run, Sara.”

Sara whacked the pick again. “I’m not leaving you here.”

Cindy said, “Lester’s coming this way.”

“So is Martin,” Tyrone said. “Sara, you gotta go.”

She shook her head, not daring to look up. “No. I’m getting you out.”

“Sara,” Cindy was leaning against the bars. “Go to the gridiron. I dropped a gun in the bushes right next to it. It’s bright out now. You can find it, then come back and save us.”

Sara hit the pick once more. The tip broke in half. She felt like crying.

“Sara, please. Go.”

Now Sara did look up. Her husband and Lester were heading toward her, and then Martin pointed.

“There you are!”

Sara stared hard at Cindy. “I’ll be back for you.” Their fingers touched.

Then Sara ran. She ran to the big steel door, turned the lock, and pushed.

Nothing happened.

She pushed harder, leaning into it, and the door squealed and inched open.

“Sara!” Cindy yelled.

Sara didn’t want to look, but she did. Martin and Lester were twenty yards away at most, both of them running. Sara only had a few seconds.

She strained against the heavy door, putting all of her weight into it, her injured leg trembling and feeling like it was about to burst.

The door opened to a foot wide, maybe an inch or two less. Sara crammed Jack through the crack, holding him by the back of his onesie. Then she tried to wedge herself into the space, sandwiched between the door and the frame, fitting her head through sideways. But her body wouldn’t follow suit, her chest was too big.

I’m stuck.

Sara could hear Martin and Lester almost upon her. She strained, but the door was too heavy, squeezing her too tight.

Incredibly, her subconscious latched on to a solution, a logic problem she liked to tell her kids. A truck, fifteen feet tall, gets struck under an overpass that is only fourteen feet, ten inches high. What’s the easiest way to free the truck?

Let the air out of the tires.

Sara exhaled forcefully, blowing out her cheeks, emptying her lungs.

Someone grabbed her. But Sara had compressed her ribcage just enough, and she slipped through the door and pulled away and ran outside and into the woods and ran around trees and through shrubs and ran and ran and ran.

Eventually, her bad leg just stopped supporting her, and Sara had to lean against an elm and rub out the cramp that had formed around the fork wounds. Her jeans were soaked with blood, and she realized she was still holding on to the hammer.

While she tried to catch her breath, Sara listened to the woods, to see if she was being followed. She didn’t hear the sounds of pursuit, but she did hear another sound.

Sara glanced overhead, and watched a low-flying helicopter skirt the tree canopy, heading toward the prison.

Dr. Plincer tied off his last suture, then used his stethoscope to make sure Subject 33’s lungs were inflated. They both sounded fine. Plincer hooked up an IV filled with antibiotics, then peeled off his latex gloves. Subject 33 would be paralyzed for several more hours, so there was no need to get him locked up right away. Besides, the guests would be arriving in just a few minutes.

Plincer left the lab and strolled down the hallway, into his bedroom. He checked his facial putty in the mirror and judged the scar coverage to be adequate. There were some spatters of blood on his lab coat, but he didn’t see how that would do anything to hurt the negotiations.

In the top drawer of his dresser were a detailed account of his procedure, an ingredient list of his serum, and various notes, charts, and graphs supporting his findings. He also picked up a plastic bag filled with items Captain Prendick had acquired for him at some sex store.

Plincer returned to the lab, where he grabbed a sealed test tube sample of the serum used in the procedure. This was the latest version, the kind that was apparently successful with Georgia.

Then he went into the cell room, to prepare the volunteers. The three children looked suitably cowed. The white one also looked like someone had used him as the board in a game of darts.

The doctor reached into the sex bag and pulled out a ball gag. Red rubber, with a strap that wound around the head to hold it in the mouth.

“You, young man, if you’d be so kind I need you to put your back against the bars so I can put this on you.”

“Hells no. You can stick that thing up yo ass, old dude.”

“It’s just a simple ball gag. Surely you don’t want to annoy our special guests with your screaming.”

“Ain’ no way you gettin’ that thing in my mouth.”

Plincer nodded. “I do admire a man with convictions. But I must mention the alternative. If you won’t allow me to gag you, I’ll have to sew your lips together.”

The black boy paused, then put his back to the bars and opened his mouth. Plincer made sure the buckle was on tight, then put the next one on the girl in the same fashion. The white boy was difficult—his injuries seemed to limit his range of motion. Plincer managed to coerce him into rolling over to the bars, and put the gag on him as he was lying down.

Doctor Plincer had something else they each needed to wear, also from the sex store, but chose to wait for Lester and Martin to assist, because they’d no doubt balk at the sight of them.

As though God was reading Plincer’s thoughts, Martin suddenly burst in through the outside door. He was pinching his nose, his shirt tie-dyed with blood. Lester strolled in behind him, a large frown creasing his face.

“Sara got away,” Martin said by way of explanation. “With the baby.”

“She has no place to run. You can find her after the company leaves. And make sure the baby lives. You know I want him for my next enhancement.” Plincer glanced up at Lester. “And why, might I ask, are you sulking?”

“Martin told Lester that the Sara woman killed the pet, not Subject 33. Lester wants to bite off the Sara woman’s fingers.”

“I’m sure you’ll have the chance later, Lester. Martin, you’d better go get cleaned up. Also make sure Georgia is presentable, and please find a tool belt for her with all the standard equipment, if you’d be so kind. Lester, please help me put these on the children. I believe they’re going to object.”

Plincer reached into the bag once again, withdrawing three black leather dog collars.