Trapped

General Tope waited for the engine to cut off before he removed the protective hearing muffs from his ears. The chopper ride had been loud and bumpy, and passing over the trees had reminded him of the last time he’d taken a bird into the field. Vietnam, more than thirty years ago.

All for God and country, Tope thought.

It didn’t matter to the General that his country had no idea he was here. The US Military needed this. Whether they wanted it or not didn’t matter.

With reserves, the US military boasted over two and a half million personnel. But India and Russia each had just as many. China and North Korea each had even more. Turkey, Brazil, Pakistan, and Egypt combined for another four million.

The United Stated of America was outnumbered and outgunned.

Nukes didn’t mean a thing anymore. Tope knew they’d never be used in battle, and their deterrent power ended with the Cold War.

He reflected back on the old times, and how much things have changed. These days, wars were fought with intelligence and technology. But they never ended. They dragged on, troops dying in vain, with no discernable progress. When was the last time the US won a war?

But throughout history, wars had been won. And not by tech. It was ruthlessness that decided the victor.

Ghengis Khan. Trajan. Napoleon. Atilla the Hun. Marius. Alexander the Great. Julius Caesar. There was no mercy on the field of battle for these great leaders.

An army with no mercy was a fearsome force.

But an army with a thirst for blood—that was an unstoppable force.

General Tope had plans for making his army unstoppable. Plans that involved the serum and procedure Dr. Plincer had developed to enhance a subject’s aggression.

If Plincer could actually turn a normal person into a bloodthirsty sadist, the US would have the most powerful weapon ever created.

Imagine a thousand such psychopaths unleashed on a city. Imagine ten thousand let loose in Iran, or North Korea.

Such an army would be cost-free. It would have no need for weapons or training. It wouldn’t require food or shelter. It could use the transportation already available in the country it had infiltrated. Such an army wouldn’t even need orders, having the order to kill already programmed into its collective brain.

Just like the infomercial said. You could just set it, and forget it.

And General Tope could have it all for just twenty-five million dollars. A pittance. And the ATACMS missiles and launcher he sold to Hamas to cover the cost were “officially” considered obsolete surplus and destroyed, so they wouldn’t be missed.

Tope unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed his metal suitcase, waiting for the rotor blades to stop turning before he exited the chopper. The pilot, a First Lieutenant named Crouch, would stay with the helicopter. A burly Sergeant named Benson would accompany Tope to the meeting and act as muscle if needed. Both were doing this off the clock, and not out of patriotism—Tope had paid them well.

Intel reported that Plincer lived alone, except for his enhanced subjects and the wild people who didn’t respond well to the procedure. As of this morning, the Orbiting Strand Satellite Telescope readings had placed the diminishing number of people on the island at twenty-four. Tope hoped these weren’t the volunteers Plincer had been planning to use in his demonstration. He didn’t want to waste time having his men hunt down one of the ferals to use.

The clearing they’d landed in was surrounded by woods, the prison building less than fifty yards away. Tope walked briskly, and Benson matched his pace, sidearm in hand and scanning the treeline for trouble.

General Tope didn’t need to look at his watch, but he did so anyway. Nine o’clock precisely. He allowed himself a measure of satisfaction at being on time, then rapped strongly on the iron door.

Almost immediately it creaked opened, but so slowly that Tope ordered Benson to assist.

Dr. Plincer was balder, older, and uglier than in his press clippings from a decade ago.

“Good morning, General Tope. Welcome to my island.”

Tope noted the fresh blood on the doctor’s smock and was grateful Plincer didn’t attempt to shake hands.

“Good morning, Dr. Plincer.” He didn’t bother introducing Benson.

“Allow me to take you around to the back of the prison. We’ve decided to stage our demonstration outside. No need to worry about cleaning up afterward.”

He led them around the side of the building, to a small courtyard where six people were waiting.

One was an unusually tall man in overalls. He was flanked on either side by a chubby girl in jeans and a sweater, and a man in khakis and a button-down shirt.

Ten yards away from them were three teenagers. They stood with their hands behind their backs, each in front of a large, wooden pole. Tope noted their necks were tethered to the poles.

Good. No need to waste time hunting ferals.

“This area was used for the firing squad, during the Civil War. You’re familiar with the war between the states, I take it?”

General Tope nodded. He was familiar with every war in modern history.

“If you’re a collector, you might keep your eyes peeled for souvenirs. It’s pretty easy to spot old bullets and cartridges with the naked eye. See? There’s one right there. Might even be some Confederate DNA still on it.”

Plincer pointed at the ground.

This man is out of his goddamn mind, Tope thought.

“Can we get to it, Doctor? I have a meeting this afternoon.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

They approached the tall man and his companions.

“General Tope, these are three of my biggest successes. High level functioning, perfectly rational.”

“But totally psychotic,” Tope said.

“We prefer to use the term enhanced. The procedure enhances the brain’s aggression centers, triggering the neurotransmitter dopamine during violent acts. In layman’s terms, killing is an addiction. Causing harm gets them high.”

Tope frowned, simply because frowning made people try harder to please him.

“Do they follow orders?”

“But of course. Anything you’d like for them to do to our volunteers over there, they’d be happy to do. But first, I’d like to see the item I requested from you.”

Tope gestured for Benson to hold the metal briefcase while he opened it.

“Wonderful,” Plincer said, eyes twinkling. “The papers are in order?”

“Yes. Complete with bill of sale. I take it you’re an aficionado?”

The doctor shook his head. “No, not at all. I just have a healthy distrust of banks. And twenty-five million dollars, even in large bills, is a bit cumbersome.”

General Tope couldn’t care less. “Where are the notes and the serum?”

“Inside. I assumed you’d want to see the demonstration first.”

He nodded, closing the briefcase. “You may proceed, Doctor.”

“Certainly. Pick one of the enhanced and tell them what to do.”

“What are they capable of doing?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

Tope raised an eyebrow. He was getting more interested. “Torture? Mutilation? Rape? Murder?”

“Any and all of the above, if you wish.”

“Not to be rude, Doctor,” General Tope said, knowing he was being rude, “but I could order my bodyguard here to do any of those things, and he’d also obey.”

That probably wasn’t true. Tope knew that most men had their limits, and only a special few could commit atrocities without being affected.

“I have no doubt, General. But he wouldn’t enjoy it as much as they do. And he wouldn’t do it on his own if given the chance.”

“Fine,” Tope said. “The girl. Have her disembowel…” Tope studied at the three victims, then pointed. “That one.”

Sara was torn. Maybe the helicopter was sent by the authorities. Or maybe it was part of all the other bad things happening on this island.

So do I follow it, or search for the gun?

She hoped, needed, for the helicopter to be the good guys, coming to the rescue. Even if she had a weapon, what was she going to do? Kill Martin, Plincer, Lester, and Taylor? Sara had never fired a gun, but she knew most held six bullets, and some people could be shot multiple times without dying. And from recent experience on the beach, Sara knew guns were really loud. Firing one next to Jack’s fragile little ears would probably cause permanent hearing loss.

Perhaps she could use the gun to keep them at bay and save the kids, but they’d still be stuck on the island. Could she force Plincer to call Captain Prendick, and then force him to take them back to safety? It was sounding more and more far-fetched.

Or maybe she could save the kids and force the helicopter to take them to safety.

That made better sense. Get the gun. Take Plincer as a hostage. Then fly the hell out of here.

Now all Sara had to do was find a lone gun in two miles of forest.

She still had the compass, but realized it didn’t matter because she didn’t know which way to go. The cliff was north. The beach was east. But where was the gridiron?

That’s when another sense took over. Sara’s sense of smell.

Someone is cooking meat.

But Sara knew it wasn’t meat. It was something else. Her stomach threatened to tie itself into a knot.

Still, she had to follow it, because the smell would probably lead to her destination.

Tracking by smell wasn’t easy. Sara would take ten steps in a particular direction, lose the scent, and have to go back. The breeze was strong enough to mix and twist the odor, but not so strong she could simply follow it upwind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her stomach grumbled, and she cursed herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked anyway.

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

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

Which meant his boat was still here. If the helicopter route didn’t work, maybe they could sail off this godforsaken rock. Maybe they could all actually live through—

That’s when Jack began to cry.

She immediately shoved a finger in his mouth. He showed no interest in sucking, batting her hand away.

“Shhhh,” she whispered. “Please.”

He filled his lungs, his eyes squeezing shut, his tiny mouth stretching open, preparing to shout out to the whole world that he was there—

And Sara covered his mouth, muffling the howl.

Quiet, Jack. You have to be quiet.

Jack clenched his fist and his little arms shook in rage. Sara removed her hand, and the tail end of his cry echoed throughout the woods.

Sara took a quick peek at the ferals. No one had noticed her yet, but any second they would hear Jack’s cries. She scurried backward, retreating, and then noticed another group of the wild people, passing through the forest. Heading her way.

We’re surrounded.

Jack drew in another breath. He was getting ready for the biggest howl yet. Sara hunkered down, grabbing her son roughly by the arms, giving him a little shake.

He needed to stop crying. He needed to stop crying right now. The past twelve hours had been the most horrible of Sara’s entire life, and she was exhausted and hurt and hungry and scared and completely overwhelmed.

Stop crying.

Stop fucking crying.

Sara felt a swell of rage toward her innocent child, and prepared to shake him even harder. If this little bastard didn’t shut up they were both going to die.

Stop crying, damn you! STOP IT!

Her rage only lasted a millisecond. But it scared her almost as much as the cannibals did.

Sara choked back a sob, then gently touched Jack’s cheek, her whole hand shaking with tremors.

He screamed, but it was one of those screams that was so strong, so high-pitched, that the only real sound that came out was air.

Sara knew the tantrum would be coming next, Jack getting so worked up that it would take him forever to calm down.

Behind her, the ferals ventured closer.

Sara wiped a tear off of Jack’s face with her thumb, then reflexively stuck her finger in his diaper.

Wet. He’s wet! That’s why he’s crying.

She had his onesie and diaper off in five seconds, a consummate pro at this. In the sling pocket was a fresh diaper, and with cannibals less than five yards away she fastened it onto his little butt, shoved him back in the sling, shoved her breast in his mouth, and rocked him back and forth, hoping for a miracle.

And then she felt one. Jack sucked in a huge breath, then latched on to her nipple.

She dropped down onto her side, cradling Jack in her arms as he nursed, pressing her back into a bush as the feral party walked past and joined the feast.

Jack’s fingers grasped onto her belly, giving her a squeeze.

Maybe they’d live through this after all. But first she had to find…

The gun.

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

Sara carefully got to her feet, staying in a crouch. She took one careful step toward the gun, and then she felt her ears get hot, like her body could sense that a person was staring at her.

She looked up.

A person was staring.

In fact, all eighteen of them were.

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

In one hand, she gripped the bloody filet knife.

In the other, she gripped something even more exciting.

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

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

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

Tom’s intestines wouldn’t stretch any farther.

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

Then, without a word, she cut Tom open.

It got really bad after that.

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

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

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

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

“Now do his eyes.”

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

“Now do his genitals.”

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

“Now do his scalp.”

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

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

“Now do the girl.”

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

He blinked again.

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

He blinked once more, and then twitched his fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gramma had been frickin’ right all along.

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

Then one of them said, “More… food.”

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

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

Jack popped off her breast and began to cry again, and she let him, holding him tight, refusing to stop for anything.

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

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

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

But then Sara got lucky.

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

Orange ribbons led to the prison.

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

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

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

Cindy. Tyrone. Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he replied.

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

Georgia removed a plastic baggie, filled with powder.

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

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

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

He couldn’t let her go out like that.

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

But this display wasn’t for Georgia.

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

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

Then he realized, fuck it.

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

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

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

“Back the fuck away, Georgia.”

Tyrone turned.

Sara.

General Alton Tope wasn’t easily impressed, but the chubby girl’s zeal in mutilating the boy was something to behold. According to the doctor, the serum would be relatively cheap and easy to produce, the procedure simple to teach. Tope doubted he’d get any sort of green light from Washington, but it wouldn’t be the first time the military experiments on troops without anyone’s knowledge or consent.

Worst case scenario, Tope could scour the prisons for lifers and death row garbage. He’d done so in the past. Putting together a team of several hundred men and women wouldn’t be too difficult.

And two hundred people with the enthusiasm of this girl would be a formidable unit indeed.

They would need to do some testing first. Perhaps enhance fifty troops and unleash them on a small town in Mexico. Or even someplace secluded in the US. It was easier to cover-up than one might think.

Then some other woman ran up to the children and fired a gun into the air, breaking Tope’s reverie.

What an interesting turn of events.

Benson raised his sidearm, but General Tope held up a finger, stopping him. This new woman was obviously not a threat. She was haggard and bleeding and out of breath, and she held the gun like it was a snake she wished to throw away, and she had something—an infant—in a sling across her belly. Tope wanted to see how this played out. Wanted to see how the chubby girl reacted to this new threat.

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

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

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

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

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

Fascinating.

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

Tope was liking this serum more and more.

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

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

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

Then a handful of wild people rushed out of the woods. The ferals. They threw themselves at Lester and Martin, snarling and slobbering and brandishing… was that silverwear?

What the ferals lacked in technique, they apparently made up for in savagery. Tope became concerned.

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

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

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

That’s when Tope’s concern became fear.

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

Then a man cried out, “Help me!”

Benson, whom Tope had hired to protect him, was calling for help. General Tope found no amusement in the irony, and he certainly didn’t offer assistance of any kind. Tope didn’t even turn around to see what had happened. He was too intent on running for the helicopter.

Tope rounded the corner and saw the chopper in the distance. He hoped the pilot, Crouch, was paying attention and about to start the engine, because Tope could sense he had several feral people chasing him. He chanced a look.

More than several. Five or six.

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

Locked.

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

General Tope banged on the door. Once he got inside he was going to strangle that fool. Revise that; after he got inside and was taken to safety, he would strangle him.

Then the unthinkable happened. General Alton Tope, the man who was going to make sure the US military maintained world supremacy, was dragged away from the helicopter in utter disbelief.

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

But why? What could these ferals possibly want?

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

They’re biting me.

Typical Army fuck-up. A multi-billion dollar spy telescope, plus a decade of clandestine intel, and no one had known the ferals were maneaters.

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

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

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

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

The helicopter’s speaker system crackled and came to life. The last human voice Tope ever heard was that bastard, Crouch.

“Sorry, General. You didn’t pay me enough to die here.”

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

He had no takers.

Apparently the ferals liked their meals alive and kicking.

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

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

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

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

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

Subject 33.

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

Subject 33 twisted upwards, popping Plincer’s shoulder out of its socket and taking the doctor’s breath away.

After that it got bad.

Very bad.

They didn’t run. They hid. Cindy couldn’t believe how wonderful it was to get this second chance. She promised herself she wouldn’t waste it.

Right after Sara freed her and fired a few times at the oncoming wild people, the four of them ducked into the trees and jumped into a shallow ditch.

Tyrone had his arm around her, and it felt better than the biggest hit of meth she’d ever taken. She helped him take the dog collar off, and then removed hers. After being unable to use her hands for so long, the freedom to move them again was fantastic, though the cuffs were still pinching her wrists—Sara had only shot the chain between them. Even the throb from the bite wound seemed to hurt less.

Now all they needed to do was keep away from the psychos, the cannibals, those army guys, and the mad doctor. The army guys seemed to have left, their helicopter flying off overhead.

“Help me!”

Cindy turned in the direction of the plea. It came from nearby. A woman.

Georgia.

Sara stood up. She looked strong and sure and every bit Cindy’s hero.

“You two stay here,” Sara said.

Cindy shook her head. “Don’t.”

“I have to help her.”

“She killed Tom.”

“Plincer did something to her brain. It’s not her fault. Maybe it can be fixed.”

Cindy reached out, grabbed Sara’s arm. “You didn’t see it, Sara. She’s a monster.”

Sara’s eyes got glassy. She placed her hand on Cindy’s. “I wouldn’t give up on you. Or Tyrone. I’ve… lost… I just… I can’t give up on Georgia either.”

Cindy understood. “We’re coming with you, then.”

Sara kissed the crying Jack on the head, and nodded.

“Please help!”

They crept over the ditch, so close to each other they looked like a single six-legged creature. Georgia was lying on her back in the clearing, twenty yards away from the bone yard. Her face was a mask of bright red blood, but her chest was moving up and down. One of her hands was clenched in a fist. The other still held the cylindrical propane torch. Cindy could see the blue flame coming out of it, scorching the earth it touched black.

Cindy didn’t want to get any closer. Though Georgia looked seriously injured, she had a weapon in her hand. A terrible weapon, one she’d tried to use on her and Tyrone. If Cindy lived to a hundred and never saw another flame again, she’d be fine with that.

But they did get closer. So close that if Georgia so much as flinched Cindy would have wet her pants in fright.

“Sara!”

Tyrone pointed to the right. Cindy glanced in that direction, saw Sara turn and raise the gun and aim at two cannibals rushing at them, but then Cindy turned back to Georgia, not trusting the insane girl, feeling something wasn’t right.

There. On the ground. Small and white and plastic.

A ketchup wrapper.

Sara fired the gun, the shots so loud they made Cindy’s head ache.

Georgia sat up and her eyes popped open, boring into Cindy. She smiled, licked some ketchup off her upper lip—ketchup she’d shown Cindy last night, the stuff she was going to scare the boys with.

“Burn, bitch.”

Georgia’s lips formed the words, but Cindy’s ears were ringing so she couldn’t hear them, and then Georgia was raising her clenched fist—it was filled with that powder she had in the baggy—and Sara fired another shot, and Cindy decided she was not going to burn, not now and not ever, and she lashed out and slapped Georgia’s hand, the powder forming a cloud in the air.

Georgia’s face went from surprise to anger as the cloud settled around her. Then it went from anger to surprise as she turned her attention at the open flame she was holding.

There was a huge whump, and Cindy felt like she’d been hit with a thousand hairdryers at once as the cloud around Georgia exploded.

Cindy jumped backward, feeling her eyebrows singe, quickly patting out the tiny fire that had started on her shirt.

Georgia also tried to pat herself out, with less effective results. She was completely on fire. Her hair. Her clothes. Her shoes. Even her skin.

Sara stepped in front of Cindy, thrusting a yowling Jack into her arms, tugging her own shirt up over her head and swatting at Georgia. But that only fanned the flames, making them bigger.

Georgia may have tried to scream, but she’d apparently inhaled some of that powder, because the only thing that came out of her mouth was flames.

Cindy turned away, saw two cannibals dead on the grass—the ones that Sara had shot—and then Tyrone was holding her and patting her back and Cindy wondered if this nightmare would ever be over, if they’d ever be safe.

That’s when she saw Lester walking toward them.

Every nerve ending in Georgia’s body was firing at once. All she cared about, her entire world, was centered on when the pain would end.

She remembered, inexorably, an old saying—a star that shines twice as bright burns half as long—and hoped it was true, hoped this would be over soon.

It wasn’t.

Georgia burned bright, that was for sure. But she also burned for a very long time.

Lester Paks watched the Sara woman standing over Georgia girl. First the pet. Now his girlfriend. Lester was so angry his teeth were clenched, something he tried to avoid because their sharp points made his gums bleed. His gums were bleeding so badly his cheeks began to bulge.

The Sara woman needed to die. And the boy and the girl with the Sara woman needed to die.

And the baby?

Lester liked the baby. It would make a nice, new pet, once he chewed off its arms and legs.

Lester walked after them, barely glancing at the still burning, still twitching Georgia girl. When the three began to run, Lester ran too. Lester had long legs, and strong muscles. He would catch them.

They went into the area where the helicopter landed. The helicopter wasn’t there anymore. But the General was still there.

At least, most of him was.

The feral people were squatting around his body. The Sara woman and the children jogged past, but the boy broke away, heading for something; the metal suitcase Tope had been carrying. The boy picked it up and rejoined the two women.

The ferals paid the boy no attention. But when they saw Lester, they scattered. The ferals were scared of Lester. They had reason to be. Usually, Martin would bring Lester playmates. Sometimes boats would come to the island, and Lester could get his own playmates. But if Lester didn’t have any playmates, Lester would take a feral person. They were smelly and dirty, but they screamed as well as anyone else.

The Sara woman and the children ran north, probably not knowing why. This pleased Lester. The lake was to the north. Very close. And the shore was high up, more than thirty feet above the water. When they reached the ledge, there would be no place left to go.

Lester ran faster, closing the distance between them.

The clearing ended, and the forest began. The woods were thick here, blocking out most of the sun. Sometimes Lester lost sight of them. But they were easy to hear, clomping through the woods, breathing heavy, yelling encouraging words at each other. Lester spit out a stream of blood, and his cheeks began to fill again.

“There’s nowhere to go,” said the Sara woman. “We’re trapped.”

That made Lester smile. He had many items on his tool belt. He decided to use the mallet first. He would break all of their knees, so they couldn’t run away. Then he could take his time.

The trees thinned, and Lester saw Lake Huron, spreading out into the distance. He stopped several yards before the edge. It was a long drop down, and there were sharp rocks among the waves.

Lester looked left, and then right. He saw the girl on the ground next to a big tree, the baby in her lap. She was holding her leg and crying. The girl must have hurt herself. Lester took out the mallet, happy to make it hurt even worse.

“Lester needs a new girlfriend,” he said, raising the weapon.

But something went wrong. Lester’s head jerked back, and he stumbled sideways. He reached up and touched his face.

Six of Lester’s teeth fell into his large palm.

My teeth! My teeth! My beautiful teeth!

He looked up in time to see the boy swing the metal suitcase a second time. The boy had been hiding behind the tree. He and the girl had tricked Lester.

Lester backed up, staying out of range. He had dropped the mallet when the boy hit him, so he reached for his tool belt, seeking the hatchet. The boy swung again, but this time he let go of the suitcase. It hit Lester in the chin. More of Lester’s beautiful teeth left his mouth, arcing through the air, going over the edge of the cliff.

That’s when he saw the Sara woman, already running at him, leaping in a flying kick.

She connected with Lester’s chest. He’d been bracing himself, but it still made him stagger backward two steps.

Unfortunately, the second step was a long one.

One moment Lester was on land. The next moment he wasn’t.

He managed to twist around as he fell, so he could see the rocks coming up at him at a blinding speed.

Maybe I will see Georgia girl in hel—

The thought ended with an abrupt crunch.

Dr. Plincer had to give Subject 33 credit. The man could inflict pain like a maestro conducted an orchestra. He’d even managed to top Plincer’s time with Lester so long ago.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in Subject 33’s box, but it seemed like hours. Plincer could understand why so many people screamed for so long. He would have as well, if it hadn’t been for the skewers in his tongue.

At least Plincer’s curiosity had been satisfied. He’d always wondered about the machine Subject 33 had built. Really an ingenious device. Plincer just wished he wasn’t forced to have firsthand knowledge.

A tiny, still coherent part of him wondered why he hadn’t passed out yet. After all, it couldn’t possibly get worse.

Then Subject 33 hooked up the car battery, and it got worse.

But unconsciousness still didn’t come.

Their bellies were full, but their appetite for drawing blood had only been whetted. The few that were still alive grouped together, forming a hunting party. They went in search of more people to kill. The woman and the children had gotten away. But the island was small. They would find them.

They ran alongside the prison, looking for the woman, and one of them stopped.

The others looked.

The prison door. It was open.

They snarled and hooted and ran inside.

Sara looked over the edge. Lester was gone, though she could make out the blood stain where he’d hit the rock.

“I thought the plan was to lead him north to the ledge and then shoot his ass, not go all Jackie Chan,” Tyrone said.

Sara shrugged. “No bullets left.”

Cindy walked over with Jack, holding Sara’s wrist as she peeked downward. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“You sure he’s not going to come back, try to kill us again?”

Sara pointed at the body floating out into the big water. “I’m sure.”

They watched him for a while, bobbing in the waves. Sara tried to figure out how many men she’d killed this camping trip, and realized she’d lost count.

There’ll be time for therapy later. Now we need to find Captain Prendick’s boat.

She checked the compass, located east.

“Come on, guys. Let’s go.”

“Hold on a sec. Let’s see what’s in this briefcase, first. Gotta be somethin’ valuable.”

Tyrone set it on the ground, and they all gathered to look when he opened the lid.

“Great,” he said. “Some ugly ho.”

Actually, it was a painting of an ugly ho. In three-quarter profile, sandwiched between two thick pieces of Plexiglas. She had bulgy eyes and a gold cross around her neck and a blue dress, and the style was oddly familiar.

“Think it’s worth somethin’?” Tyrone asked.

Sara lifted the painting. Under it was a bill of sale, from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, for just under 20 million Euro. Sara shook her head, amazed.

“It’s Vincent Van Gogh’s Portrait of Woman in Blue, and the bill of sale looks real.”

“Twenty million Euro?” Cindy said. “Is that like pesos, meaning it’s only worth a few hundred bucks?”

“The Euro is stronger than the dollar, Cindy.” Sara said, suddenly nervous to be holding it. “This painting is worth about twenty-five million dollars.”

“That’s one pricey ho.” Tyrone whistled. “Guess when I go to college I ain’ gotta worry about no student loans.”

“Tyrone, you couldn’t get into college, even if you lived long enough to try.”

Sara jerked in the direction of the voice.

Martin.

Taylor tried to stay calm. He hurt all over, and he wanted to make the doctor pay. But he didn’t want the doctor to die. Not for a long time. So he had to show restraint.

Taylor knew there were painkillers in the lab, but he didn’t know which drugs he should take. If he was able to talk, he would have asked the doctor. But he couldn’t talk, and when he tried to write what he wanted on paper, the doctor just screamed and babbled incoherently. So Taylor was forced to suffer.

The doctor would suffer with him.

Taylor was deciding where to stick the fiftieth skewer when he heard a noise behind him. He jumped away, fearing it to be Lester.

But it wasn’t Lester. It was a dirty, bearded man with ripped clothes.

Taylor walked toward him. Though he was injured, it would still be easy to subdue this skinny little man. Taylor could take his wrath out on him, keeping the doctor alive to enjoy later.

He stopped in mid-step when another dirty man came in. Then another followed. And another. And another.

They had weapons. Rusty knives. Tree branches. One had a fork.

Taylor backed away, his lips flapping, his hands raised in supplication.

The dirty people attacked. Taylor felt like he was in a barbed wire tornado, being ripped apart on all sides. Poking, stabbing, hitting, biting, gouging, bit by agonizing bit.

Stop! I don’t handle pain well!

Taylor fell to his knees, covering his face, screaming soundlessly and enduring quite a lot of pain for quite a long time as they tore him to pieces.

Martin was through fooling around. When the ferals attacked and the craziness started, he went straight for Tope’s bodyguard. A quick poke in the stomach with a hunting knife, and the man graciously gave up his gun. Martin then waited in the woods for things to settle down and Sara to appear.

She did, dragging Jack and her precious kids with her. Pathetic, really. The dumb bitch even tried to save Georgia. Probably hoping to help her.

She would have had better luck teaching an alligator to fetch.

When Lester joined the fun, Martin tagged along.

There was a bad moment, after Martin followed them into the woods, when he worried Lester would kill his wife before he got there. But, incredibly, they’d managed to take out the big guy.

Which was fine. Martin didn’t like to share anyway.

“This is how it’s going to work, Sara,” he said, basking in the fear he knew his words caused her. “We’re all going to march back to the prison like a big happy family. Then you’re going back into the trunk, and you’ll get to listen while I have some playtime with the meth whore. Tyrone, buddy, you’re allowed to watch. To make it more fun, every time Cindy screams, I’ll cut off one of your fingers.”

“No,” Sara said.

Martin’s grin slipped a notch. “Excuse me? You see I’m holding a gun, right?”

“Cindy, Tyrone, get behind me. When I say so, take Jack and run into the woods.

The children listened to their surrogate mother, who then held the painting at waist-level.

Martin sneered. “What, I’m not going to shoot you because you’ve got some ugly chick?”

“It’s a Van Gogh, Martin. Worth twenty five million dollars. You’re an art lover. You wouldn’t do anything to ruin it. And you won’t shoot me in the chest or head, because you don’t want me to die that easily.”

Martin laughed, full and genuine. “You’re kidding me, right?”

He aimed right at the ugly chick’s head. When the bullet passed through the painting, it would shatter Sara’s hip.

How terribly painful, being curled up in a trunk with a broken femur.

“Put down the gun, Martin, and I’ll give you the painting.”

“You’re out of your mind,” he said.

“You won’t shoot. I know you.”

“The hell I won’t.”

Then he fired.

The impact of the bullet slammed the painting into Sara’s pelvis, but she had anticipated it and was already moving forward, rushing at him.

Martin fired again, clearly surprised, and the painting vibrated in her hands. She felt pain, her leg giving out, but momentum took her the next few steps, and then she was angling the portrait upward, swinging the sharp corner against Martin’s hand, knocking the gun away.

“Run!” Sara yelled.

She thrust the painting at him again, aiming for his head, but now Martin was backpedaling, pulling something from his tool belt.

The survival knife. That awful, horrifying survival knife.

He slashed.

Sara blocked with the painting.

He thrust.

Sara blocked with the painting.

He roared, throwing himself at her, driving Sara onto her back with the painting sandwiched between them. He brought the terrible knife up to her face.

I can see my reflection in the blade.

“I’m going to cut your fucking tongue out and lock you in that fucking trunk for a week,” Martin screamed, spittle flecking out of his mouth.

But Sara wasn’t afraid anymore. She was done being afraid.

Sara grabbed the knife blade as it came up, feeling it slice into her fingers, all the way to the bone. But she wouldn’t let go. She wouldn’t back down. Never. Again.

As Martin’s face creased with astonishment, Sara used the momentum of her grab and the leverage of her grip to force the tip of the blade around, driving it right into the son of a bitch’s eye.

Martin flinched backward, dropping the knife, pressing both hands to his face, and then Sara saw Tyrone standing over them, once again holding the metal suitcase.

He swung like Sammy Sosa, cracking Martin square in the nose, knocking him off Sara and onto the ground.

“That tough enough for ya, asshole?” Tyrone said, staring down at him.

Martin was clearly disoriented, but he managed to get onto all fours. He shook his head like a wet dog, spraying blood everywhere.

Tyrone raised the suitcase again.

“No,” Sara ordered.

Tyrone looked at her. So did Martin.

That’s when Sara held up the gun Martin had dropped and blew the top of her husband’s head off.

Dr. Plincer watched the ferals tear Subject 33 apart, crying with relief that they would no doubt attack him next. Plincer wanted to die more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. The pain was too unbearable.

Kill me. Kill me quickly. My life’s work will remain. Someone will find my notes, my serum. I can die, because my work will live on.

In a brief flash of lucidity, Plincer reflected on his legacy, and came to a startling, ironic conclusion. He’d thought the only way to create pure evil was by enhancing that portion of the brain. But he’d been deceiving himself.

Anyone who wanted to create pure evil had to, by extension, be pure evil himself.

Imagine that. I’m the worst one of all, and have been all along.

Plincer lamented not being able to study his own brain before the ferals killed him.

But the ferals didn’t kill Plincer. They looked at him closely, gave each other brief nods, and then left him there in the box, helpless and agonized and alone and wondering how long car batteries lasted before they ran out of juice.

Seven hours, it turned out. But Plincer succumbed to a heart attack after enduring only six.

The cut on her hand was bad, and Sara wondered if she would lose her fingers. But even if she did, it was a small price to pay for surviving.

The five of them, including the Woman in Blue, walked along the beach until they found Captain Prendick’s dinghy, hidden behind some rocks. As Sara had guessed, the bullets and Martin’s knife had barely made a dent in the painting’s Plexiglas frame. When something was worth twenty-five mil, it was a good bet it was going to be well-protected. Of course the glass was bulletproof. A master like Van Gogh didn’t deserve any less.

Cindy was the only one with two good hands, so she had to start the dinghy’s outboard motor and steer it out to Prendick’s boat. She was awkward at first, but quickly got the hang of it.

Once they were all in the dinghy, Sara spent a minute checking Jack for any injuries. Then, above the din of the motor, Sara whistled in Jack’s left ear, then the right one, relieved that he turned his head toward the sounds. She’d done her best to keep the pistol away from his ears, and was grateful her shooting hadn’t damaged his hearing.

“He okay?” Tyrone yelled to her.

“Just a poopy diaper!” she yelled back. “He needs to be changed!”

“Me too!” Tyrone said, a big grin on his face.

That’s when Lester jumped out of the water, heaving his upper body onto the side of the boat and wrapping his arm around Tyrone’s neck.

Cindy screamed, turning the dinghy too hard, threatening to flip it. Sara pitched forward, dropping Jack onto the flat rubber bottom of the boat, and then a wave hit, knocking her back into Cindy.

The engine sputtered, and died.

Tyrone and Lester wrestled on the boat’s port side, raising up the starboard side with their weight until Cindy and Sara were several feet up in the air.

Jack began to slide toward the edge. He bumped into the inflatable side, only a foot from where Tyrone fought for his life. Sara reached for him, but her weight made the boat even more lopsided, threatening to flip it.

“Back!” Sara yelled at Cindy. They leaned starboard, and the dinghy leveled off. But Sara couldn’t get to Jack, and she couldn’t help Tyrone, who had both hands locked onto Lester’s wrist.

Lester’s hand was locked onto a hatchet.

Then, abruptly, both Tyrone and Lester fell overboard.

The sudden redistribution of weight caused the boat to tilt up toward Sara’s side, launching Jack into the air in a high arc over Sara’s head.

Her balance lost, Sara reached up, her fingers barely touching Jack’s foot as she went ass over head and into Lake Huron.

The water was a shock, like falling into an ice chest. Sara held her breath, her eyes wide open, searching for her lost baby.

The water was dark, murky, the overhead sun not penetrating more than a few feet. Sara let out some of her air so she was neutrally buoyant, then methodically began to scan the depths.

No Jack in front of her.

No Jack on the left.

No Jack behind her.

No Jack on the right.

Jesus, where was—

Below her—she glimpsed the white of Jack’s onesie, sinking fast.

Sara dove, getting to him in two strokes, grabbing his little leg, spinning around and kicking to the surface, thrusting Jack up out of the water…

“Cindy!”

Cindy reached for the baby, pulling him back in the boat. Sara hung onto the edge, waiting for Jack to move, desperately trying to remember the baby CPR class she took during the first trimester.

And then the little guy coughed and started to cry.

Sara spun around, looking for Tyrone and Lester. The waves were strong, but not so high she couldn’t see over them. There was no one on her side.

“Cindy! Do you see Tyrone?”

“I don’t see him!” Cindy said, her head swiveling all around. “I don’t see him, Sara!”

Then Sara felt the boat jerk. It jerked again, the inflatable edge bumping her in the face.

They were beneath it.

Sara took a deep breath and went under. She saw them immediately, Lester biting Tyrone’s arm as the boy tried to gouge out the giant’s eyes.

Sara swam to them, adding her good hand to Tyrone’s efforts, digging her thumbnail into Lester’s socket.

Lester released Tyrone…

…and grabbed her.

Sara planted her feet on his chest, trying to get away, while his head drew closer and his bloody mouth opened, aiming for her neck.

Unable to break his grip, Sara again clawed at the monster’s face, hooking a finger into his nostril and ripping.

But Lester still wouldn’t let go. And Sara was almost out of air.

Spots appeared before her eyes—oxygen deprivation—and the urge to breathe was becoming overwhelming. Sara would be forced to inhale any second, even if it meant taking lake water into her lungs. As a last ditch effort she went completely limp, trying to play dead, hoping Lester would let her go.

Sara heard the boat motor start, but it sounded very far away. A small part of her mind—the part not crazed with a lust for air—hoped Tyrone had gotten away and that he and Cindy could get Jack to Plincer’s boat.

Then, incredibly, she was free.

Sara kicked frantically for the surface, her mouth open and sucking air the moment her face broke the surface. She wheezed, coughed, and then caught something in her peripheral vision.

Lester. His hatched raised high up out of the water, poised to come down on her skull.

She caught the handle with both hands, screaming as the cuts on her fingers reopened.

Then, her absolute worst fears were realized. She looked in the direction of the approaching sound.

Rather than escape with her baby, Cindy and Tyrone were coming back.

Sara wanted to yell for them to get away, to save themselves. But she had nothing left. Lester shook off her grip and reared the ax back, about to take the killing blow.

That’s when the boat hit him.

But instead of running into him head-on, it had backed into him instead.

Lester screamed like a high-pitched tornado siren, his entire body shaking as the motor propeller ripped into his back.

Cindy gunned the throttle, revving the engine, and Sara stared, horrified, as the prop blades rode up his shoulders and separated most of his head from his spine.

The giant’s bloodshot eyes rolled up into his head, and his chin touched his chest, a geyser of blood spraying out of the stump like a Fourth of July roman candle. Then the engine stalled out and Lester Pak’s dead body sank into Huron.

The remainder of the trip back to Captain Prendick’s boat was uneventful. Except for shivering, they were all okay. Once on board, Cindy found a stack of thick beach towels and a hairdryer, and they all dried off.

Jack fell asleep naked, wrapped in a sheet and nestled in the center of a life preserver.

Sara located Prendick’s radio, and called the Coast Guard. The real Coast Guard. And just to be sure, she spoke with ten other boats currently on Lake Huron and asked them for help too.

She was exhausted, but she refused to so much as sit down until they were safe.

“So what we gonna do,” Tyrone said. “Put the ho up on eBay?”

For all the tossing and tumbling on the dinghy, the Woman in Blue hadn’t gotten so much as splashed.

“I don’t think the Van Gogh Museum willingly sells their paintings,” Sara said, figuring the military must have unlawfully persuaded them. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to buy it back.”

“For twenty-five million?”

“I don’t know, Tyrone.”

“You not gonna keep all the money, on account of me being a minor, are you?”

Sara allowed herself a small smile. “I think a three way split is fair, don’t you both?”

Tyrone nodded. “That’s eight million, three hundred thirty three thousand, three hundred thirty three dollars each.”

Cindy gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “How’d you figure that out so quick?”

“Girl, you got yourself involved with a society’s worst nightmare. An intelligent black man.”

“And I thought I was only interested in your body and your money.”

“You really interested in my body?”

They kissed, and Sara gave them their privacy.

She went onto the deck. Lake Huron was a giant blue mirror, stretching out as far as Sara could see. She closed her eyes. Even with all the pain she was in, the sun felt glorious on her face.

Then, to her left, she heard a soft thump.

Sara’s heart didn’t race. Her palms didn’t sweat. Her mouth didn’t go dry. She didn’t so much as flinch.

It’s nothing. But even if it is something, I can handle it. I can handle anything.

Languidly, Sara opened her eyes. A seagull stood on the deck, a few feet away from her. It cocked its tiny head, did a little hop, and then spread its wings, flying past Sara. She watched it glide off across the big water, beautiful and free and marvelously alive, changing directions to avoid hitting the Coast Guard cutter heading their way.

Most of them were dead. Martin was dead. Lester was dead. Subject 33 was dead. Doctor Plincer was dead. The island was quiet, almost peaceful.

There would be authorities coming soon. They would stay for a while, try to make sense of it all. Search the prison, and discover the lab, and the serum, and take all of it away.

It didn’t matter how hard they searched. They wouldn’t be able to search everywhere.

There were many places to hide on the island.

There would be hoopla for a while. Media. News and TV. Not only because of Dr. Plincer and the deaths of the children. But because there was a previously unknown historical discovery on this island. A secret prison, piled high with the bones of dead Confederate soldiers.

Rock Island—Plincer’s Island—would soon become a landmark.

Landmarks meant visitors. Lots of visitors.

All the seven surviving ferals had to do was be patient.

They would hunt again.

Soon.