Trapped

Sara Randhurst felt her stomach roll starboard as the boat yawed port, and she put both hands on the railing and took a big gulp of fresh, lake air. She wasn’t anywhere near Cindy’s level of discomfort—that poor girl had been heaving non-stop since they left land—but she was a long way from feeling her best.

Strangely enough, Jack seemed to be enjoying it. The three-month-old baby in the sling around Sara’s chest had a grin on his face and was drooling happily. Sara pulled a tissue from the sling’s pocket and wiped off her son’s chin, wondering how anyone, especially someone so small and fragile, could actually like this awful motion. Even though she was feeling ill, she smiled at the sight of him. Just like she did every time.

Sara closed her eyes, bending her knees slightly to absorb some of the pitch and roll. The nausea reminded Sara of her honeymoon. She and Martin had booked a Caribbean cruise, and their first full day as a married couple found both of them vomiting veal picata and wedding cake into the Pacific. Lake Huron was smaller than the ocean, the wave crests not as high and troughs not as low. But they came faster and choppier, which made it almost as bad.

Sara opened her eyes, searching for Martin. The only one on deck was Cindy Welp, still perched over the railing. Sara approached the teen on wobbly footing, then rubbed her back. Cindy’s blonde hair looked perpetually greasy, and her eyes were sunken and her skin colorless; more a trait of her addiction to meth than the seasickness.

“How are you doing?” Sara asked.

Cindy wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Better. I don’t think there’s anything left in me.”

Cindy proved herself a liar a moment later, pulling away and retching once again. Sara gave her one last reassuring pat, then padded her way carefully up to the bow. The charter boat looked deceptively smaller before they’d gotten on. But there was a lot of space onboard; both a foredeck and an aft deck, a raised bow, plus two levels below boasting six rooms. Though they’d been sailing for more than two hours, Sara had only run into four of their eight-person party. Martin wasn’t one of them. It was almost like he was hiding.

Which, she supposed, he had reason to do.

A swell slapped the boat sideways, spritzing Sara with water. It tasted clean, just like the air. A seagull cried out overhead, a wide white M against the shocking blue of sky. She wondered, fleetingly, what if be like to feel so free, so alive like that.

In the distance, a green dot against the expanse of dark water, was Rock Island. Even from this far away, Sara noticed its wedge shape, the north side of it several times the height of the south, dropping off at a sharp cliff.

Sara shivered, protectively cupping her hands around Jack.

There was a soft thump, next to her. Sara jumped at the sound.

Another gull. It had hopped onto the deck, and was staring at her with tiny black eyes. Sara touched her chest, feeling her heart bounce against her fingers.

Just a bird. No need to be so jumpy.

Sara squinted west, toward the sun. It was getting low over the lake, turning the clouds pink and orange, hinting at a spectacular sunset to come. A month ago, when she and Martin had planned this trip, staring at such a sun would have made her feel energized. Watching it now made Sara sad. A final bow before the curtain closed for good.

Sara continued to move forward, her gym shoes slippery, the warm summer breeze already drying the spray on her face. At the prow, Sara saw Tom Gransee, bending down like he was trying to touch the water rushing beneath them.

“Tom! Back in the boat please.”

Tom spun around, saw Sara, and grinned. Then he took three quick steps and skidded across the wet deck like a skateboarder. Tom’s medication didn’t quite control his ADHD, and the teenager was constantly in motion. He even twitched when he slept.

“No running!” Sara called after him, but he was already on the other side of the cabin, heading below.

Sara peeked at the sun once more, retied the flapping floral print shirttails across her flat belly, and headed after Tom.

She stopped at the top of the stairs. The stairwell was tight, and the sunlight didn’t penetrate it.

“Tom?” she called down after him.

He didn’t respond. Sara hesitated, adjusted the knit cap on Jack’s head, then took the first step down.

As she descended the staircase, the mechanical roar of the engine overtook the calm tempo of the waves. The hallway was dark, cramped. Sara didn’t like it, and she picked up her pace, her palms on the walls searching for a light switch and not finding any. Her breath quickened, and her fingers finally grazed some protuberance which she grasped like it was a life preserver. She flipped it up and an overhead light came on.

Sara sighed, then chided herself for feeling so relieved. She tried to remember the Captain’s name.

Captain Prendick. A peculiar name, but a familiar one; Sara recalled it used in an old H.G. Wells horror novel.

Prendick was the ninth person on the boat, and Sara hadn’t seen him lately either. Her only meeting with the man was during their brief but intense negotiation when they arrived at the dock. He was grizzled, tanned, and wrinkled, with a personality to match, and he argued with Sara about their destination, insisting on taking them someplace closer than Rock Island. He only relented after they agreed to bring his extra handheld marine radio along, in case of emergencies.

Sara wondered where the captain was now. She assumed he was on the bridge, but didn’t know where to find it. Maybe Martin was with him. Sara wasn’t sure if her desire to speak with Martin was to console him or persuade him. Perhaps both. Or maybe they could simply spend a few moments together without talking. Sara could remember when silence between them was a healthy thing.

A skinny door flew open, and Meadowlark Purcell burst out. Meadow had a pink scar across the bridge of his flattened nose, a disfigurement from when he was blooded in to a Detroit street gang. The boy narrowed his dark brown eyes at Sara, then smiled in recognition.

“Hey, Sara. I was you, I wouldn’t go in there for a while.” He fanned his palm in front of his nose.

“I’m looking for Martin. Seen him?”

Meadow shook his head. “I be hangin’ with Laneesha and Tyrone, playin’ cards. We gonna be there soon?”

“Captain said two hours, and we’re getting near that point.”

“True dat?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

Meadow wandered off. Sara closed the bathroom door, made her way up another cramped flight of stairs, and found the bridge. Captain Prendick was at the wheel, his potbelly pressed against it, one hand scratching the stubble on his chin. He noticed Sara and gave her a brief nod.

“Have you seen Martin?” Sara asked.

Prendick motioned with his chin. Sara followed the gesture and saw her husband folded up in a chair, legs crossed out in front of him and his eyes closed, chin touching his chest. Sara momentarily forgot everything she wanted to tell him, everything she wanted to say.

“Martin…”

“I’m not up for talking right now, Sara.”

He kept his eyes closed. Jack, hearing his father’s voice, wiggled and cooed.

Sara glanced at Prendick.

“I’m running to the head,” the captain said to Sara as he flipped a switch on the panel, next to a picture of him and an elderly woman. “We’re on autopilot.”

Captain Prendick slid past her, his expression dour. Sara moved closer to Martin, put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Martin, maybe if we talked about—”

Her husband’s eyelids flipped open. They looked unbelievably sad.

“I love you, Sara.”

Sara felt her chest get heavy. “Martin…”

“Do you know I love you? That I love you and Jack?”

She nodded, unable to answer because of the lump in her throat.

“Then we don’t have anything to talk about.”

Martin held her gaze until his eyes became glassy, and then he closed them again.

Sara wanted to touch his cheek, cup his chin and tell him it was all going to be okay even though it wasn’t. Then she left the bridge and made her way back into the bowels of the boat. She opened the first door she came to. In the darkness she made out the shape of a chubby girl asleep on a narrow bed. Georgia. Sara tried the next door. Another cabin, this one empty. After a brief hesitation, Sara went into the room, pulled the folding bed away from the wall, and sat down, making sure she left the door open.

The waves weren’t as pronounced down here, and the rocking motion was gentler. Sara again thought of her honeymoon with Martin. How, once they got their sea legs, they spent all of their time on the ship, in their tiny little cabin, skipping exotic ports to instead order room service and make love. After a rough beginning, it turned out to be a perfect trip.

Sara checked the door again, rubbed Jack’s back, and closed her eyes, wishing it could be like that again.

It was a night exactly like tonight, a few years ago,” Martin said. “Late summer. Full moon. Just before midnight. The woods were quiet. Quiet, but not completely silent. It’s never completely silent in the woods. It seems like it is, because we’re all used to the city. But there are always night sounds. Sounds that only exist when the sun goes down and the dark takes over. Everyone shut your eyes and listen for a moment.”

Sara indulged her husband, letting her eyelids close. Gone were the noises so common in Detroit; cars honking, police sirens, arguing drunks and cheering Tigers fans and bursts of live music when bar doors swung open. Instead, here on the island, there were crickets. A breeze whistling through the pines. An owl. The gentle snaps and crackles of the campfire they sat around. Jack’s breath on her neck, slow and steady from sleep.

After a few seconds someone belched.

“My bad,” Tyrone said, raising his hand.

This prompted laughter from almost everyone, Sara included. Martin kept his expression solemn, not breaking character. Seeing Martin like that made Sara remember why she fell in love with him. Her husband had always been passionate about life, and gave everything his all, whether it was painting the garage, starting a business, or telling silly campfire stories to scare their kids.

Her smile faded. They won’t be their kids for very much longer.

“It happened on an island,” Martin continued. “Just like this one. In fact, now that I think about it, this might actually be the island where it all happened.”

Tyrone snorted. “This better not be the same island, dog, or my black ass is jumping in that mofo lake ‘n swimming back to civilization.”

More laughter, but this time it was clipped. Uneasy. These teenagers had never been this far from an urban environment, and weren’t sure how to act.

Sara shivered, tucking the blanket in around her baby. All the things she wanted to say to Martin earlier were still bottled up inside because she hadn’t had the chance. Since the boat dropped them off, it had been all about hiking and setting up camp and eating dinner, and Sara hadn’t been able to catch him alone. He’d been intentionally avoiding her, staying busy, keeping that smile on his face like it had been sculpted there.

“Was it really this island?” Laneesha asked. Her voice was condescending, almost defiant. But there was a bit of edge to it, a tiny hint of fear.

“No, it wasn’t,” Sara said. “Martin, tell her it wasn’t.”

Martin didn’t say anything, but he did give Laneesha a sly wink.

“So where was it?” Georgia asked, though her face showed zero curiosity.

“It wasn’t anywhere, Georgia.” Sara slapped at a mosquito that had been biting her neck, then wiped the tiny splot of blood onto her jeans. “This is a campfire story. It’s made up, to try to scare you.”

“It’s fake?” Georgia sneered. “Pretend?”

Sara nodded. “Yes, it’s pretend. Right, Martin?”

Martin shrugged, still not looking at Sara.

“So what pretend-happened?” Laneesha asked.

“There were eight people.” Martin was sitting on an old log, higher up than everyone else. “Camping just like we are. On a night like tonight. On what might be this very island. They vanished, these eight, never to be seen again. But some folks who live around here claim to know what happened. Some say those unfortunate eight people were subjected to things worse than death.”

Meadow folded his arms. “Ain’t nothin’ worse than death.”

Martin stared hard at the teenager. “There are plenty of things worse.”

No one spoke for a moment. Sara felt a chill. Maybe it was the cool night breeze, whistling through the woods. Or maybe it was Martin’s story, which she had to admit was getting sort of creepy. But Sara knew the chill actually went deeper. As normal as everyone seemed right now, it was only an illusion. Their little family was breaking apart.

But she didn’t want to think about that. Now, she wanted to enjoy this final camping trip, to make some good memories.

Sara scooted a tiny bit closer to the campfire and put her arms around Jack. The night sky was clear, the stars bright against the blackness of space, the hunter’s moon huge and tinged red. Beyond the smoke Sara could smell the pine trees from the surrounding woods, and the big water of Huron, a few hundred yards to the west. As goodbyes went, this was a lovely setting for one.

She let her eyes wander over the group. Tyrone Morrow, seventeen, abandoned by a mother who could no longer control him, running with one of Motor City’s worst street gangs for more than two years. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans so baggy they’d fall around his ankles without the belt.

Meadow was on Tyrone’s right. He was from a rival Detroit club. That they were sitting next to each other was a commitment from each on how much they wanted out of the gangsta life.

On Meadow’s side, holding his hand, Laneesha Simms. Her hair was cropped almost as short as the boys’, but her make-up and curves didn’t allow anyone to mistake her for a man.

Georgia Dailey sat beside Laneesha. Sixteen, white, brunette, pudgy. She held a long stick and was poking at something on the ground; a dead frog, belly-up with its legs jutting out. Sara thought about saying something, decided to let it go.

Behind Georgia, Tom Gransee predictably paced around the fire, tugging at his wifebeater T like it was an extra skin he wanted to shed.

These were kids society had given up on, sentenced into their care by the courts. But Martin—and by extension, Sara—hadn’t given up on them. That was why they created the Second Chance Center.

Sara finally rested her gaze on Martin. The fire flickered across his handsome features, glinted in his blue eyes. He had aged remarkably well, looking closer to twenty than thirty, as athletic as the day she met him in that graduate psych class. She looked down at her son in the baby sling—a miniature version of Martin—and absently rubbed his back.

“On this dark night six years ago,” Martin continued, “this group of eight people took a boat onto Lake Huron. The SS Minnow.”

Sara smiled, knowing she was the only one old enough to have caught the Gilligan’s Island reference, the boat the castaways had taken on their three hour tour.

“They had some beer with them,” Martin said. “Some pot…”

“Hells yeah.” Tyrone and Meadow bumped fists.

“…and were set to have a big party. But one of the women—there were four men and four women, just like us—got seasick on the lake.”

“I hear that.” In her oversized jersey and sweatpants, Cindy looked tiny, shapeless. But Sara noted she’d gotten a little bit of her color back.

“So they decided,” Martin raised his voice, “to beach the boat on a nearby island, continue the party there. But they didn’t know the island’s history.”

Tom had stopped his pacing and was standing still, rare for him. “What history, Martin?”

Martin smiled. An evil smile, his chin down and his eyes hooded, the shadows drawing out his features and making him look like an angry wolf.

“In 1862, done in secret, Rock Island Prison was built here to house captured Confederate soldiers. Like many civil war prisons, the conditions were horrible. But this one was worse than most. It was run by a war profiteer named Mordecai Plincer. He stole the money that was supposed to be used to feed the prisoners, and ordered his guards to beat them so they wouldn’t stage an uprising while they starved to death. He didn’t issue blankets, even during the winter months, giving them nothing more to wear than burlap sacks with arm and leg holes cut out, even when temperatures dropped to below freezing.”

Sara wasn’t a history buff, but she was pretty sure there was never a civil war prison on an island in Lake Huron. She wondered if Martin is using Camp Douglas as the source of this tall tale. It was located in Chicago near Lake Michigan and considered the northern counterpart to the horrors committed at the Confederate prison, Andersonville.

Yes, Martin has to be making this up. Though that name, Plincer, does sound familiar.

Martin tossed one of the branches they’d gathered earlier onto the fire. It made a whump sound, throwing sparks and cinders.

“But those starving, tortured prisoners staged a rebellion anyway, killing all of the guards, driving Plincer from the island. The Union, desperate to cover up their mistake, stopped sending supplies. But the strongest and craziest of the prisoners survived. Even though the food ran out.”

“How?” Tom asked. “You said there are no animals on this island.”

Martin smiled, wickedly. “They survived… by eating each other.”

“Oh, snap.” Tyrone shook his head. “That shit is sick.”

Sara raised an eyebrow at her husband. “Cannibalism, Martin?”

Martin looked at her, for the first time in hours. She searched for some softness, some love, but he was all wrapped up in his menace act.

“Some were cooked. Some were eaten raw. And during the summer months, when meat would spoil, some were kept alive so they could be eaten one piece at a time.”

Sara did a quick group check, wondering if this story was getting too intense. Everyone appeared deadly serious, their eyes laser-focused on Martin. No one seemed upset. A little scared, maybe, but these were tough kids. She decided to let Martin keep going.

Martin stood up, spreading out his hands. “Over the last five decades, more than a hundred people have vanished on this part of Lake Huron. Including those eight men and women. What happened to them was truly horrible.”

The crickets picked that eerie moment to stop chirping. Sara noticed a brief flash in her peripheral vision. Lightening? No, the weather was fine. Besides, this seemed to have come from the woods. She scanned the woods, waiting for it to happen again. They stayed dark.

Cindy eventually broke the silence. “What happened to them?”

“It’s said that these war prisoners became more animal than human, feeding on each other and on those men unlucky enough to visit. Unfortunately for this group of eight partiers, they were all doomed the minute they set foot onto Plincer’s Island. When their partying died down, and everyone was drunk and stoned and passing out, the prisoners built a gridiron.”

The word gridiron hung in the air like a crooked painting, blending into the forest sounds.

Tyrone whispered, “They built a football field?”

Martin shook his head. “The term gridiron is used for football these days, but it’s a much older word. It was a form of execution in ancient Rome. Coals are spread over the ground, stoked until they’re red hot. Then the victim is put in a special iron cage, sort of like a grill, and placed on top of the coals, roasting him alive. Unlike being burned at the stake, which is over in a few minutes, it takes hours to die on the gridiron. They say the liquid in your eyes gets so hot, it boils.”

Sara stood up. Martin should have known not to go there with the gore. “I think that’s enough, Martin. You’ve succeeded in freaking everyone out.” She forced joviality. “Now who wants to roast some marshmallows?”

“I want to hear what happened to those people,” Tom said.

“And I want to be able to sleep tonight,” Sara replied.

Sara’s eyes met Martin’s. She saw intensity there, but also resignation, and something else. Something soft and happy. Eventually his lips curled into a grin.

“But we haven’t gotten to the part where I pretend to be dragged off into the woods, kicking and screaming. That’s the best part.”

Sara placed her hands on her hips, feeling herself smile. “I’m sure we would have all been terrified.”

Martin sat back down. “You’re the boss. And if the boss wants to do marshmallows, who am I to argue?”

“I thought you’re the one who created the Center,” Laneesha asked.

Martin glanced at Sara. There was kindness in his eyes, and maybe some resignation, too.

“Sara and I created it together. We wanted to make a difference. The system takes kids who are basically good but made a few mistakes, sticks them into juvee hall, and they come out full blown crooks. The Center is aimed at giving these kids positive direction and helping them to change.” Martin smiled sadly. “Well, that was its purpose.”

“It’s bullshit the man cut your program, Martin.” Meadow tossed a stick onto the fire.

“It sucks,” Cindy added.

There were nods of agreement. Martin shrugged. “Things like this happen all the time. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you kids. Sara, Jack, and I are a small family, but you guys are like our—”

Martin screamed in mid-sentence, then fell backward off the log, rolling into the bushes and the darkness.

Sara, like everyone else, jolted at the sound and violent action. Then laughter broke out, followed by a few of the teens clapping.

“That was awesome, Martin!” Tom yelled into the woods. “I think I wet my freakin’ pants.”

The applause and giggles died down. Jack slept right through it. Sara caressed his head and waited for Martin to lumber out of the woods and take a bow.

But Martin stayed hidden.

“Martin, you can come out now.”

Sara listened. The woods, the whole island, stayed deathly quiet.

“Martin? You okay?”

No answer.

“Come on, Martin. Joke’s over.”

After a moment the crickets began their song again. But there was no response from Martin.

“Fine,” Sara called out. “We’re not saving you any marshmallows.”

Martin apparently didn’t care, keeping silent. Sara picked up the bag of marshmallows and began passing them out, the kids busying themselves with attaching the treats to the sticks they’d picked out earlier. Sara kept glancing at the forest, inwardly annoyed.

“Now what?” Tyrone asked, raising his stick like a sword.

“You put it in the fire,” Tom said. “Duh.”

“Ain’t never roasted marshmallows before, white boy.”

“It’s like this, Tyrone.” Sara held her twig six inches above the flame. “Like we did with the hot dogs. And keep turning it, so it browns evenly on all sides.”

Everyone followed her lead. Sara allowed herself a small, private smile. These were the moments they came out here for. Everyone getting along. Criminal pasts momentarily forgotten. Just six kids acting like kids.

“Mine came off,” Cindy said. She was sitting so far from the fire it had fallen onto the ground.

“Wouldn’t eat it no how. So skinny, oughta change yo name to Annie Rekzic.”

“Respect,” Sara reminded Meadow.

“Sorry. My bad.”

Tyrone pulled his marshmallow out of the fire, blew on it, then offered his stick to Cindy. She took it, plucked off the gooey treat, and popped it into her mouth.

“Georgia. Please stop that.”

Georgia had been using her stick to nudge the dead frog into the fire. She gave Sara a blank stare and then jammed a marshmallow onto the tip that had been poking the frog.

There was a comfortable silence. The fire crackled. The crickets chirped. The stars sparkled. Tyrone and Cindy giggled, sharing some private joke.

Sara forced herself to stay in the moment, to not look over her shoulder for Martin. He’d come back when he was ready.

Then she saw another flash in the woods. Tiny and bright, over almost as quick as it began. A flashlight?

“I’m on fire.” Georgia held her stick and mouth level and blew hard on the burning marshmallow. Then she bit into it carefully. “Mmm. Gooey.”

“Like an eyeball on the gridiron.” Tom plucked his off the stick and pretended it was oozing out of his eye socket.

“Awful way to die.” Cindy hugged her knees. “Guy I knew, had an ice lab in his basement. He died like that. When he was cooking a batch it blew up in his face. Burned him down to the bone.”

“You see it?” Tyrone asked.

Cindy glanced at her hands, then nodded.

Tyrone frowned, his face looking ten years older. “Saw a brother die, once. Drive by. Right next door to me. I was eight years old.”

“I saw someone die, too,” Tom said.

Meadow sneered. “Man, yo gramma doesn’t count.”

“Does too. I was there. Does it count, Sara?”

“It counts,” Sara said. She gave up trying to find the source of the flash and smiled at Tom. “And let’s try to talk about something other than death for a while.”

“Damn.” Tyrone stuck out his tongue. “My shit is burned. Tastes nasty.”

“I’ll take it.” Cindy held out her hand, and Tyrone passed it over.

Sara bit into hers, careful not to drip any on Jack. The perfect combination of sweet and toasty. She loaded up another, then felt her neck prickle, like she was being watched. Sara turned around, peering into the trees. She saw only blackness.

“When is Martin coming back?” Cindy was drawing in the dirt with her stick, making no attempt to replace her lost marshmallow.

“He’s probably just beyond the trees,” Sara said. “Waiting to jump out and scare us again.”

“What if someone grabbed him?”

“Cindy, no one grabbed him. We’re the only ones on this island.”

“You sure?”

Sara made an exaggerated motion out of crossing her heart. “And hope to die.”

“What if he had an accident?” Cindy persisted. “Maybe hit his head on a rock or something?”

Sara pursed her lips. There was a slight chance, but it could have happened.

“Meadow, can you go check?”

Meadow made a face. “You want me to go in those woods so he can jump out ‘n scare the soul outta brother? No way.”

Sara sighed, and just for the sake of argument she let her imagination run unchecked. What if Martin’s little stunt really had gone wrong and he’d hurt himself? What if he’d fallen into a hole? What if a bear got him? There wasn’t supposed to be any bear on this island; according to Google, there wasn’t supposed to be any animal here larger than a raccoon. But what if Google was wrong?

She frowned. Her imagination had won. Even if this was a stupid trick on Martin’s part, Sara still had to go check.

“Fine. I’ll do it.” She got up, handed her marshmallow to Cindy, and dusted off her jeans, staring into the darkness of the woods surrounding them.

And the woods were dark. Very dark.

The confidence Sara normally wore like a rain coat fell away, and she realized the very last thing in the world she wanted to do was tread into that darkness.

“Tom, can you help me look?”

Tom shook his head. “He can stay out there. I’m not leaving the fire.”

“Ain’t got no balls, white boy?”

“Why don’t you go then, Meadow?”

“Hells no. At this particular time, Laneesha be holding my balls.”

Laneesha rolled her eyes and stood up. “Y’all are cowards. C’mon, Sara. We’ll go find him.”

Sara blew out the breath she’d been holding, surprised by how grateful she was for the girl’s offer. “There’s a flashlight in one of the packs. I’ll get it.”

She walked over to her tent and ducked inside. It was dim, but the fire provided enough illumination to look around. Sara cast a wistful glance at the double sleeping bag. She tugged her eyes away, then located the backpack. While pawing through the contents she removed a canteen, a first aid kit, some wool socks, a bottle of Goniosol medication, a hunting knife, the papers...

Sara squinted at them, staring at the bottom of the last page. Unsigned. Irritated, she shoved them back in. She eventually dug out the Maglite, pressing the button on the handle. The light came on. It was yellowish and weak—which annoyed Sara even more because she had asked Martin to buy new batteries and he’d promised to take care of it.

But he also promised to love, honor, and protect.

Putting the papers out of her mind for the time being, she left the tent and joined Laneesha, who was staring into the woods where Martin disappeared.

“You takin’ Jack?” Laneesha asked.

Sara looked down. She was so used to wearing the baby sling she sometimes forgot she had it on.

“He goes where I go.”

As a shower gift, Sara and Martin had been given a baby monitor. It was in a closet, unopened. Since giving birth to Jack, Sara hadn’t ever been more than fifteen feet away from him. And though putting Jack in his portable crib and letting Cindy or Tyrone watch him was a possibility, it was a far-fetched one.

“Besides,” Sara said. “If Martin sees I have Jack, maybe he’ll quit screwing around.”

They headed for the trees where Martin disappeared.

“If you run into any cannibals,” Tom said to their backs, “don’t tell them we’re here.”

“That’s weak,” Laneesha said.

Sara eyed the girl, normally cocky and busting with attitude, and saw uncertainty all over her young face.

“The story was fake, Laneesha.”

“That Plincer cat ain’t real?”

“He might be real. The name is familiar. But the way to make campfire stories sound believable is to mix a little truth with the lies.”

“How ‘bout all them cannibal soldiers, eating people?”

“Even if that was true, and it wasn’t, it happened over a hundred and forty years ago. They’d all be long dead.”

“So Martin was just joshin’?”

“He’s probably just waiting to jump out and scare us,” Sara said.

“Probly. That’d suck, but be better than someone grabbing him.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. That possibility was so far out she hadn’t even considered it. “Did you see someone grab him?”

“It was dark, ‘n he was right in front of that bush. Thought maybe I seen somethin’, but probly just my mind playing tricks ‘n shit.”

Now Sara was really reluctant to go into the woods. She knew the Confederate story was BS, but wondered if perhaps someone else was on the island. According to Captain Prendick, no one ever came out this far.

“That’s crazy,” Sara thought. “There’s no one here but us.”

There were over a hundred of these islands on Lake Huron, from the size of a football field up to thousands of acres. This was one of the big ones, a supposed wildlife refuge. But there was no electricity, and it was too far from the mainland for there to be anyone living here.

Other campers?

Sara reminded herself to be rational. Occam’s Razor. The simplest solution was usually the right one. Martin joking around made much more sense than unknown habitants, or coincidental campers, or old Warden Plincer and his ghostly gang of southern maniacs.

Still, they did have that radio the boat captain lent them. Sara wondered if her husband goofing off qualified as an emergency, because she was almost ready to contact Prendick and beg him to return.

“Let’s do this,” Laneesha said.

Sara nodded. Practically hip to hip, the women walked around the bushes and stepped into the thick of the woods.

They were watching. They were watching from behind the trees. Listening to words that made no real sense to them.

They smelled things. The woman smelled like soap. The thin girl smelled like mint gum. The thin boy smelled like sweaty feet. The baby smelled like powder and diapers.

There had been other smells, earlier. Better smells. Hot dogs and mustard. Toasted buns. Potato chips. But that had been earlier, when it was still bright out. So they waited. Stayed hidden. Bided their time.

They were hungry. Very hungry. The hunger consumed their thoughts. It was the only thing they cared about. All they cared about.

They had no affection for one another, no idea of how many of them were there. But they hunted as a pack. Hunted raccoon, and birds, and rabbits, and frogs.

Hunted bigger things, too.

When food was scarce, they turned on their own.

None of them remembered how they got to the island. But they knew the island was a bad place. Dangerous.

But they were dangerous too.

They watched. They waited.

Several of them drooled.

Very soon, they would attack.

Sara drew a breath, gasping at the darkness. When they’d hiked to the clearing earlier that afternoon, the woods had been dark. There were so many trees the canopy blocked out most of the sun. Now, at midnight, it was darker than a grave. The blackness enveloped them, thick as ink, and the fading Maglite barely pierced it more than a few yards.

“Be easy getting lost out here,” Laneesha said.

Sara played the light across the trees, looking for the neon orange ribbon. They’d tied dozens of ribbons around tree trunks, in a line leading from the campsite to the shore, so anyone who got lost could find their way back. But in this total darkness every tree looked the same, and she couldn’t find a single ribbon. Sara had a very real fear that if they traveled too far into the woods, they wouldn’t be able to find their way back to the rest of the group. After only a dozen steps she could no longer see the campfire behind them.

“Cindy, Meadow, can you guys hear me?” she called out.

“We hear you! You find any cannibals yet?”

Neither Sara nor Laneesha shared in the ensuing chuckles. They trekked onward, dead leaves and branches crunching underfoot, an owl hooting somewhere in the distance.

Sara had been ambivalent about camping, having only gone a few times in her life. But now she realized she hated it. Hated camping, hated the woods, and hated the dark.

But she had always hated the dark. And with damn good reason.

“Martin,” Sara called, projecting into the woods, “this isn’t funny. It’s stupid, and dangerous.”

She waited for a reply.

No reply came.

“I like Martin,” Laneesha said, “but screw ‘em. I’m a city girl. I don’t do creeping ‘round the forest at night. This is a total wack idea.”

Sara agreed. There was no hole or trench around here he could have fallen into, and if Martin hit his head he’d be lying nearby.

Still, if this was a prank, it was being taken too far. It wasn’t funny anymore. It was just plain mean.

And then Sara understood what was happening, and she felt her face flush.

Her husband was doing this because he was angry.

Is this how it’s going to be? Sara thought. Rather than act like the caring adult she fell in love with, he’s going to start behaving like a jerk? Was he actually trying to frighten her, knowing what she’d been through?

Well, Sara could be a jerk, too.

“You can stay out there!” she yelled.

Her voice echoed through the trees, fading and dying. Then…

“elll…”

The sound was faint, coming from far ahead of them.

“Was that Martin?” Laneesha asked.

Sara squinted, crinkling her nose. “I’m not sure. Could have been an animal.”

“Sounded like help. Know any animals that call for help?”

“Martin!” Sara shouted into the trees.

There was no answer. Laneesha moved closer to Sara, so close Sara could feel the girl shivering.

“We should go back.”

Sara shook her head. “What if it’s Martin? He could need help.”

“You the social worker. Y’all good at helping people. I’m a single mom. I gotta take care of myself for my baby’s sake. ‘Sides, probly just an animal.

“help…” The voice was still faint, but there was no mistaking it.

Martin. And he didn’t sound angry. He sounded scared.

Sara began to walk toward the voice. “You go back to camp,” she said to Laneesha. “Martin! I’m coming!”

The trees were so thick Sara couldn’t walk in a straight line for more than a few steps. Even worse, the Maglite was getting dimmer. How far ahead could he be? Fifty yards? A hundred? The woods seemed to be closing in, swallowing her up. There was no orange ribbon anywhere.

She stopped, trying to get her bearings. Sara couldn’t even be sure this was the right direction anymore.

A rustling noise, to her left. Sara turned.

“Martin?”

Then something bumped into Sara’s side, something strong enough to knock her onto her back. It scared Sara so bad she whimpered, feeling nine-years-old again, helpless and afraid.

Whatever unknown thing had jumped her, it was now straddling her legs, wriggling and thrashing.

And Sara had no idea what it was, couldn’t see it, because the flashlight had gone flying and winked out.

When Cindy was a little girl, she wanted to be a princess. It was partly because princesses were pretty, and had nice clothes, and lived in huge castles. No one ever called Cindy pretty, and her clothes were all her parents could afford, which wasn’t much, and she lived in an apartment which was so small you could hear the toilet flush no matter what room you were in. So being pretty, with beautiful gowns, and a house with a hundred rooms, all sounded really good to a seven-year-old.

Meeting a prince would be nice, too. But Cindy didn’t really have any interest in boys then, and in fact she was jealous that princes got to do cool stuff like fight dragons and rescue people. Cindy didn’t need someone to rescue her. She wanted to fight her own dragons, thank you very much.

The biggest reason, the real reason, Cindy wanted to be a princess was because a princess would someday become queen. Queens ruled the country. They were the most powerful women in the world, even more powerful than the President, because there had never been a woman President, but there had been many queens.

Cindy wanted to be a princess who grew up to be a queen so she could take care of herself. She wouldn’t have to worry if Daddy made enough money to buy her new clothes, because she would buy her own. She wouldn’t care that Mommy wasn’t there for her after school, because Queens could take care of themselves, and it didn’t matter if their mommies had to work nights.

Yes, Cindy would settle for no less than princess, and then queen. She would be a good queen, too, and treat everyone fairly, and make sure everyone had enough food and toys and clothes and she would make working at nighttime against the law because it made people sleepy and mean.

When she told Daddy, he said regular girls couldn’t be princesses, and they’d never be queen, because you had to be born that way. But it was okay to pretend. Sometimes, when you can’t get what you really want, the only thing left was to pretend.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Cindy stood up, sucked on her lower lip.

“Girl, you kidding, right?”

Cindy looked at Meadow and shook her head.

Tom snorted. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. The whole damn island is your toilet. Pick a tree.”

Cindy stared into the woods, shifting from one foot to the other. She really had to go. And when she had to go, there was no holding it in. The crystal meth she loved so much had damaged her kidneys, and Cindy knew that if she didn’t find a spot in the next minute or two, Meadow would make fun of her for pissing her pants. He was bad enough on the boat when she was throwing up, laughing and making gagging sounds. That guy was a real dick.

She weighed that humiliation against heading into those scary trees alone, and wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Go with me, Georgia?”

“I go wit you, baby, help you take off those clothes.” Meadow laughed. So did Tom. Tyrone kept quiet.

Cindy looked hard at Georgia. “Please.”

Georgia sighed. “Number one or number two?”

This prompted more guffaws from Meadow and Tom.

“Number one. I’ll be really quick.”

Georgia stared into the blackness of the forest, but didn’t get up.

Maybe she was scared, too.

“I’ll go with you.” Tyrone stood up. He looked sympathetic.

“Jonesin’ for some white meat, homes?” Meadow nudged him. “Polly wanna cracker?”

“Be cool, man. The lady needs to go.”

Cindy appreciated the gesture, and if it had been another guy she might have taken him up on it. But she liked Tyrone. Earlier on the boat, he stood by her when she was puking her guts out, even holding her hair back. That was embarrassing enough. She didn’t want to have to pee in front of him, too.

“Thanks,” Cindy said. “But I’d rather have a girl go with me.”

She met Tyrone’s eyes, saw kindness there. Kindness, and something more. He nodded at her, and sat back down. Cindy turned again to Georgia.

“Please,” Cindy begged. “I’m gonna wet my pants.”

“I pay money to see that,” Meadow snickered.

Cindy looked from Georgia to Meadow and back again. Mercifully, Georgia got up.

Cindy rushed to her, grabbed her hand, and tugged her over to the tree line. Not in the direction Martin went. The opposite direction. That seemed safer.

“Look at those bitches go, holdin’ hands ‘n shit. That’s hot.”

Georgia halted, turned around. “Fuck you, Meadow.”

“You wish, mama. Maybe when you come back, I give you a chance.” He added, “If you come back.”

Meadow and Tom laughed. Tyrone stayed silent.

“Come on.” Cindy pulled at Georgia. She felt like she was about to burst. “We gotta hurry.”

Georgia followed. It became very dark, very fast, but Cindy forced her fear back, her whole body shaking with need. As soon as she was out of the boys’ sight she yanked down her sweat pants and underwear and squatted.

“Geez, gimme a little warning,” Georgia said, stepping away.

Cindy urinated, her relief so beautiful it was almost as good as getting high. The spray splashed against the leaves, droplets landing on her gym shoes, but she didn’t care. She closed her eyes and sighed, deeply, almost enjoying the cool night air on her naked butt.

Less than a dozen feet away, something flashed.

What’s that?

Cindy wondered if it was Sara, with the flashlight. Or maybe Martin.

But they’d gone in the other direction.

Cindy continued to watch, waiting for the light to flash again.

“I think I see someone in the woods,” Georgia said softly.

Cindy clenched. Her arms and legs broke out in gooseflesh. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m serious.”

Cindy couldn’t tell if the girl was kidding or not. Georgia was a strange one, and she had a mean streak.

“Where?” Cindy whispered.

“Oh, God.” Georgia’s eyes got wide, staring at something over Cindy’s shoulder. “He’s right behind you.”

Cindy jerked upright, cutting off the stream and tugging up her pants. She spun around, looking where Georgia was looking.

Nothing there.

Backing up, Cindy knocked into Georgia, who was quivering with laughter.

It was just a dumb joke.

Cindy made a fist and smacked Georgia on the shoulder. Not hard, but enough to show this wasn’t funny. “You ass,” she hissed. “You freaking scared me.”

Georgia smiled. “Scared the piss out of you?”

Cindy wanted to be mad, but a giggle came out. Aside from Tyrone, Cindy wasn’t really friends with anyone at the Center. Georgia wasn’t really friend material, and they wouldn’t be buddies out in the Real World, but at the moment it felt pretty good to share a laugh.

“Hey,” Georgia whispered, leaning closer. “Want to scare those dicks?”

She jerked her thumb in the direction of the camp. Cindy nodded. Frightening the boys was less than they deserved, but it was a good start.

“How?”

Georgia reached into her pocket, and for a fantastic moment Cindy hoped Georgia was carrying, that she was taking out a pipe and they’d smoke some ice right now. But the fantasy died when Georgia pulled some ketchup packets from her jeans. How could she have gotten meth anyway? Cindy’d been at the Center for four months, and security was tighter there than it was in rehab.

Besides, Cindy thought, I’m done with that shit.

Cindy had been clean for months, and wanted to stay clean for the rest of her life. Maybe there would even come a day when she didn’t think about meth every few minutes. That would be nice.

“We gonna throw ketchup at them?”

Georgia shook her head. “I took these from the fridge, hoping I’d get a chance to use them. I squirt it all over my face and shirt like blood, coming running out of the woods screaming, and fall right in front of those jerks. Then you come up from behind and yell and grab them. They’ll shit squirrels.”

Cindy nodded, liking this idea. She especially wanted to freak out that tool, Meadow.

“What do I yell?”

Georgia shrugged. “I dunno. Boo?”

“Boo is lame.”

“You’ll think of something. Help me spread this shit on.”

The ketchup was warm, and smelled good. For dinner they cooked hot dogs over the fire, but Cindy declined, saying she was still ill from the boat to avoid admitting the real reason. Now her stomach rumbled at the scent. Cindy smeared some ketchup on Georgia’s neck, then licked her finger. Not bad. Maybe there were hotdogs left. Maybe Tyrone was hungry, too, and he could roast one for her.

Stupid. He watched me barf. He’s not interested.

But he did give me his marshmallows…

Georgia stopped applying ketchup to her face and stared at Cindy in a funny way.

No, not at her. Behind her.

“Lemme guess,” Cindy said, still sucking her finger. “Some creepy guy behind me again?”

Georgia opened her mouth, but no words came out. She nodded, her head bobbing up and down rapidly.

“I’m not falling for that shit twice, Georgia. It wasn’t funny the first time.”

Georgia’s lips began to tremble, her face crinkling in a prelude to a scream. Cindy had no idea Georgia was such a good actress. She hadn’t been this good the previous time.

And for that very reason, Cindy suddenly understood this wasn’t acting. Georgia really was seeing something behind her, and she really was terrified.

Cindy didn’t want to look. The fear crawled over her like ants, and her legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. Georgia had lost all color now, and she was whimpering like a puppy.

Look. You have to look. Just do it.

Eyes wide, mouth dry, knees knocking together, Cindy slowly turned around, expecting to see some horrible ghoul with huge teeth grinning inches from her face.

She looked.

There was nothing. There was nothing there at all.

Cindy spun, pissed off she fell for the same trick twice, ready to give Georgia another cuff on the shoulder.

But Georgia was gone.

Sara frantically pushed against the person pinning her legs. She knew judo. Hell, she taught her kids basic self-defense at the Center. But with a baby strapped to her chest—a baby that was now squirming and crying—all Sara could do was push.

She felt breasts beneath her palms, a neck and chin, and higher up, closely-cropped hair.

“Laneesha?”

“Sara!” The teen’s breath was warm on Sara’s face, and then she was rolling off. “Couldn’t find my way back, so I ran toward the flashlight. What happen to it?”

Sara tried to get her breathing under control. The darkness screamed at her, making her voice sound hollow, far away. “It… flew into the woods.”

“Shit. Dark as hell out here. Feels like we got swallowed up by somethin’.”

Sara sat up, heart hammering, squinting into the blackness all around them. “It’s a Maglite.” She forced herself to swallow, her fingers absently digging into one of the sling’s pockets and finding the pacifier, which she popped into Jack’s mouth. “Those things don’t switch off accidentally. It probably rolled under some leaves so we can’t see it.”

“So how we find it?”

“Couldn’t have gone far. You stay where you are, keep talking to me. I’ll go around you and feel for it. Can you hold Jack?”

“Yeah.”

Sara pulled him out of his sling, handing him carefully over to Laneesha. Without him next to her belly, Sara felt even more frightened.

“You gotta talk to me, or I’m gonna freak out.”

Me, too. But I can do this.

Sara crawled off, slowly circling the girl. By judging where Laneesha’s voice was coming from, she should be able to cover the area in a widening spiral, without missing any spots or getting lost. In theory, at least.

“If y’all remembered, I voted for horseback riding for our last trip, not camping on some scary ass island. I’ve never been on a horse before. That will be one of the first things I do when I get out of juvee. Sara, you there?”

“I’m here.” The ground was rough under Sara’s palms, sticks and rocks poking her, cold dirt wedging beneath her fingernails. She went counter-clockwise, gradually orbiting away from Laneesha.

“I don’ wanna go to juvee, Sara. I feel like I been making progress, y’know?”

Sara couldn’t hold the darkness back. She had to focus on something else. On finding the light. On finding Martin. On Laneesha.

Focus on Laneesha. Be there for her.

“You’re doing great, Laneesha.”

Laneesha was making progress. Sara had no doubt that when she was allowed back in society, she’d do well. After getting pregnant at sixteen, Laneesha began stealing to make ends meet. When she got arrested at a department store for attempting to steal several thousand dollars worth of jewelry, the state took her daughter. Since coming to the Center, Laneesha had worked hard, studied for her GED, and showed impressive determination to go straight and get her child back.

“You’ve only got a month left until your next hearing, Laneesha. It will fly by. You just need to stay out of trouble until then.”

“Y’all be at court with me?”

Sara touched a bush ahead of her, feeling through the branches, shaking them to see if they were hiding the light. They weren’t. The darkness seemed to get thicker.

“Of course I’ll be there.”

“Martin, too?”

“Martin, too.”

“Even though y’all are getting’ divorced?”

Sara stopped and looked in Laneesha’s direction, even though she couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of her. “Divorced? Where did you hear that?”

“Didn’t hear it. Takin’ a guess. You both don’ look at each other like you used to. Figure now the Center is breaking up, y’all will too.”

Sara chewed her lower lip. She and Martin had been growing apart for a while, but when the government cut the Center’s funding he withdrew completely. That was the definition of ironic; two psychologists specifically trained to understand human nature and communication, unable to save their marriage even though they still loved each other.

The only thing left was for Martin to sign the divorce papers. But he hadn’t yet. They arrived yesterday, but instead of getting it over with he chose instead to ignore them, and her.

Sara knew their marriage was over. Once communication failed, so did intimacy. But she still entertained the fantasy of miraculously patching things up over campfire stories and sleeping bag snuggling.

That fantasy faded when Martin pulled this stunt and disappeared into the woods. This trip could have been their chance to really connect, to talk it out, to mend. Instead, she was crawling around on all fours, sorry she ever met the guy.

Scratch that. She could never think that way about Martin. They might not be able to live together any more, but the love was still there. Sara knew the love would always be there.

But right now, she wanted to stab the jerk in the eye. Figuratively, of course.

“Sara? Where you at?”

“I’m here.”

“You sound far.”

“I’m only a few yards away, Laneesha. The flashlight has to be close. Shit!”

“What? Sara, you okay? Sara!”

“I caught a nail on something. Damn, I think I broke it off.”

The pain surged, sharp and hot. Sara parted her lips reflexively, ready to suck her injury. She stopped before her hand reached her mouth, a horrible stench wafting up from the ground. It blanketed her tongue and invaded her nostrils, rank and vile and forcing her to gag.

The unmistakable smell of rot.

“Sara? You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Sara coughed, spat. The odor brought back memories of her college years, coming back to her dorm after Christmas break to find her goldfish belly-up in the aquarium. When she lifted up the tank cover, the smell of decay was so bad she gagged and spit up.

That was just from a tiny little fish. This stench was coming from something much bigger.

Sara backed away, and her other hand locked onto a large branch. She gripped it, instinct telling her a weapon would be good. She yanked, but it was wedged in the dirt.

The smell got worse, so bad it was like being immersed in spoiled milk. Sara could feel it in her eyes, her hair, all over her skin and on her clothes.

Another tug and the branch broke free from the ground, her fingers clenching it tight.

And then the same instinct that made her grab it told her to throw it away. But Sara was too frightened to open her hand.

The smell was coming from the branch. Because it wasn’t a branch at all.

It was a bone.

They waited. They watched. They had the man, but they didn’t kill him. Not yet. First they needed to know if the group had weapons. They were many, but they knew that many were no match for guns.

The man moaned. It made their stomachs rumble.

Still they waited.

Not far away, they heard sounds. The woman and the girl, talking to each other. They sounded frightened.

They would be even more frightened, very soon.

They poked the man, made him moan even loader.

He was the bait. He would bring the woman and the girl closer.

And then they would attack.

And then they would eat.

When Tyrone was a little boy, he wanted to be a cop. But not a cop like the cops in his neighborhood. Everyone hated those cops. They hassled kids, and never came fast enough when they were needed, and everyone called them pigs and 5-0 and they got no respect at all.

Tyrone wanted to be a cop like the cops on TV. He watched a lot of TV, on account he stayed in a lot. The neighborhood where he grew up had a bad element, his moms always said.

“Being poor don’t make people bad,” she would tell him. “But it makes some people desperate.”

He didn’t get to play outside very much, because desperate people might try to hurt him, so TV became his best playmate. His favorites were the cop shows. The cops on those shows, they got respect. They actually helped people, and people liked them, and no one on TV had to live in a house with bars on the windows like Tyrone did so the bad element couldn’t break in and steal his stuff.

When he told his moms he wanted to be a cop, she patted him on the head and gave him a big kiss and said he could be whatever he wanted to be when he grew up, as long as he got out of the neighborhood. And Tyrone promised her he would, and every night, when he said his prayers, he asked God to make him big and strong so he could someday become a cop and take Moms and Grams out of the neighborhood and to someplace really nice, where he got respect, and no one had bars on the windows.

Tyrone frowned as he lost another marshmallow to the fire. It plopped onto a burning log and melted down the side, solidifying in the heat. He watched as it went from bubbling white, to brown, to black ash.

“This sucks.”

Tom was pacing again, but he paused long enough to ask, “The woods? Or the Center closing?”

“The woods.” Tyrone smacked at a mosquito on his arm. “The Center. Shit, both. Don’t wanna spend the rest of my sentence in no detention center. An’ I don’t wanna spend the night on no freaky ass island. I’m street, not woods. Holla back.”

Meadow tapped his fist. “Hells yeah.”

Tom laughed, but it sounded clipped and forced. “So you guys are scared?”

Tyrone felt the challenge and narrowed his eyes. “Ain’t scared of nothin’. You sayin’ I am?”

Tom squatted next to Tyrone. He picked a pine cone up from the ground and chucked it into the fire. “You don’t have to sell me. I know you’re all bad ass. But when you saw that guy get shot when you were eight, did you look into his eyes when he died?”

What is it with white people? Tyrone thought. Why do they feel the need to talk about stuff like that?

He shrugged. “Naw, man. My moms hustled me inside soon as the shots were fired.”

Tom stared at Tyrone. He had a pretty intense gaze.

“I was holding Gram’s hand when she died, looking her right in the eyes. I know this sounds shitty, but we weren’t really close. I mean, she was my Grandma. She was always there, for my whole life, giving me money and shit for holidays, babysitting me when I was a kid, going to church with us every Sunday.”

Tom seemed to be waiting for a response, so Tyrone said, “Me ‘n my gramma are tight. She’s a good lady.”

“So was mine. But we weren’t tight. When she got sick and moved into our house, my parents made me sit with her. I didn’t want to. She smelled, you know? Had diapers on and shit. Plus she was on so many drugs she didn’t know where she was most of the frickin’ time. Or who I was. Or what was going on. But right there, at the very end, she could recognize me. She knew who I was. And she said something.”

Tom looked around for another pine cone. Instead he found a small rock and tossed that into the flames.

“What did yo gramma say?” Tyrone asked.

Tom’s face pinched. “She said, ‘There’s nothing, Tommy. Nothing.’ Then, when she was still staring at me, her eyes went blank. I mean, they were still open, still looked exactly the same. But blank. Like something was missing. Like she wasn’t a person anymore.”

Tyrone stared at Tom. The skinny kid got busted for jackin’ a car and joy riding. No damn purpose to it. Wasn’t to sell it, or strip it for the parts. Just for shits and grins. Tyrone thought it was a real stupid-ass crime. But maybe it made sense. When people were scared on the inside, sometimes they did things to show they weren’t scared.

“My moms, and my grams, they say your soul leaves your body.”

Tom shook his head. “Naw. There was nothing spiritual at all. One minute she was a person, the next she was just, I dunno, meat. There wasn’t any soul.”

Tyrone didn’t like that explanation. He remembered having to say his prayers every night before bed. Soul to keep, and all that. If men didn’t have souls, what was the point?

“You can’t see a soul, dog.”

“It was scary, Tyrone. Like a light turning off. And her saying there’s nothing. I mean, she went to church every week, never missed it once, and she was about a hundred years old. I thought there was supposed to be a bright light, and clouds, and an angel choir. That’s how it is supposed to be, right?”

“Maybe there was,” Tyrone said.

“So why’d she frickin’ say that?”

“Tom, you said she was on drugs, acting funny. Maybe she saw all the lights ‘n clouds n’ shit, but her words were all messed up. You don’ know for sure.”

Meadow guffawed. “Man, this conversation is wack.”

Tyrone stared at Meadow. “Don’t you believe in God?”

“If there’s a God, what he ever done for me? I grew up poor, my moms spendin’ the welfare on drugs. I joined a gang just to keep my belly full. God? Bullshit.”

“God’s up there.” Tyrone looked skyward, up at the big orange moon. “He just prefers we work this shit out ourselves.”

“Ain’t no point in having a god, man, if he’s just a slum lord never does nothin’.”

Tyrone turned to Meadow. “How do you know? You ever pray for anything before?”

“Naw.”

“Maybe you should try it once, see if it—”

The scream cut Tyrone off. High-pitched, piercing, coming from right behind him. The scream of someone in absolute, complete agony, so shrill it seemed to burn into Tyrone’s head. Tyrone twisted around, feeling his whole body twitch like he did back in the day when something bad was going down. He automatically reached for his belt, his fingers seeking out a knife, a gun, a bike chain, anything at all to defend himself with. They came up empty. So he stood up and stumbled sideways, bumping into Tom, steadying himself even though his legs were jonesing to run him the hell out of there.

His eyes scanned the tree line, seeing only random shadows flitting across the trunks. Beyond that, a darkness so vast it seemed like the forest was opening its giant mouth to eat them all.

“The fuck was that?”

Meadow was standing next to Tyrone, also slapping his pants in search of a weapon he wasn’t going to find. Tom was on Tyrone’s other shoulder, holding out his weak-ass marshmallow stick like that would protect them.

Tyrone held his breath. Crickets and silence. This island was too damn quiet. Never got this quiet in Motown. Never got this dark, neither. Tyrone could survive on the street for weeks when he had to, but out here in bumblefuck he knew he wouldn’t last a day. Can’t B&E for duckets or pop in a homie’s crib for food when you’re in the middle of the woods. And if something was chasing you, where were you supposed to hide?

“It’s one of the girls, messing with us,” Tom said.

Tyrone felt a stab of concern for Cindy, then dismissed it. This scream came from the opposite direction. Tyrone didn’t know what exactly it was about the girl that he liked, but he just liked her, is all. He never did anything about it. Never even said anything. Both he and Cindy were in the Center to improve themselves. That was a big enough job without adding all that relationship baggage to the mix.

Still, she was a sweet girl. Strong too, in her way. And getting better looking every day since kicking meth. Maybe one day they—

Something flashed, in Tyrone’s peripheral vision. He spun toward it, squinting into the dark trees.

“You dudes see that?”

“See what?” Tom said. He looked left, then right, then, comically, up into the sky.

“Some kinda light. Same direction as the scream.”

“Someone’s gotta be messing with us.” Tom rubbed his palm back and forth over his scalp, so quick it looked like he was going to give himself a rug burn. “Lights and bullshit screams. Trying to scare us.”

Meadow shook his head. “Didn’t sound like no bullshit scream. Sounded real. And close.”

“You maybe wanna go check?”

“You go check, white boy. With your little stick.”

Tyrone shushed them. “Quiet. I hear somethin’.”

He recognized the noise, because they all made the same noise earlier, on the hike to this clearing. It was the sound of people in the woods, trampling over dead leaves and twigs, pushing branches out of the way.

And the sound was moving toward them. Fast.

“Somethin’s comin’,” Meadow whispered.

The trampling was too noisy for one or two people to make. It sounded like at least half a dozen folks, rushing through the forest, getting closer.

The bushes at the treeline shook like a bear was caught in them. Tyrone couldn’t move. He couldn’t even swallow. He knew, knew, that some crazy Civil War cannibals were going to burst out and start chomping him, and he was too scared to do anything about it.

Then, all at once, the bushes stopped moving. The sound of approaching footsteps ceased. All Tyrone could hear was crickets, and the thumping of his own heart.

“Are they still there?” Tyrone had never heard Tom speak so quietly.

“Dunno.” Meadow’s voice was just as soft. “Didn’t hear them leave. Might still be there, staring at us.”

Tyrone’s back became really hot—he was standing too close to the fire. But he didn’t dare move away. He could feel eyes on him. Predator eyes. Something was in those woods, and it wanted to do him serious harm.

“Hey!”

They all turned to the right, Tom bumping into Tyrone, who backed into Meadow. Walking toward them, arms spread open, was Cindy. She smirked, and Tyrone was surprised how relieved he felt to see her.

“You guys look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Were you over there?” Meadow pointed in the direction they’d been facing,

Cindy jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I came from there. Did you hear Georgia scream?”

Tyrone managed to swallow, find his voice. “Heard someone, that way.”

“Georgia was going to try to scare you guys. But she ditched me. She’s in the trees there?”

Cindy walked past them, heading for the bushes. Tyrone caught her wrist.

“I don’t think that’s Georgia.”

Cindy’s face crinkled up. “Why not?”

“It’s more than one person,” Tom said, his voice low.

Cindy stepped backward, next to Tyrone. Her hair smelled like shampoo. He relaxed his grip a bit but still kept hold of her wrist.

“Maybe she found the others. Maybe they’re all trying to scare us.”

“It ain’t them.”

Tom flinched, bumping into Tyrone, pressing against him. It violated all sorts of personal space, and normally would have resulted in a rough shove and a threat, but Tyrone didn’t move because he saw what Tom saw, just beyond the bushes, barely illuminated from the light of the fire.

A person.

Someone was standing in the darkness, watching them. It creeped Tyrone out so bad he finally uprooted his legs, sidestepping the campfire, backpedaling away while tugging Cindy along. Then that fool Tom came up fast, knocking into them, toppling everyone over.

The act of breaking eye contact with whatever was in the woods scared Tyrone even more, as if losing sight of the enemy meant it could suddenly be anywhere. He looked back at the bushes, seeking out the silhouette, barely noticing Cindy’s hand moving into his and gripping tight.

The dark figure was still there, features obscured by night. Tall, thin, silent.

The moment stretched to the breaking point. Even the crickets stopped chirping.

“You want some of me, mutha fucka?” Meadow was frontin’ now, sticking out his chest and slapping it with his palms. “I’ll rip you a new one.”

Tyrone watched as Meadow walked toward the figure. He knew he should be backing his boy up. Didn’t matter that they rolled with different crews when they were bangin’. Didn’t matter that Meadow was a pain in the balls sometimes. At the Center, Meadow was his brother. They were tight there, much as they were rivals on the street.

But this wasn’t the Center, and it wasn’t the street neither. This place might as well have been the planet Mars. Throwing down in a gang fight was one thing, and Tyrone wasn’t scared of that. But scrapping in the woods with some crazy cannibal—that was horror movie bullshit.

So Tyrone stayed put, squeezing Cindy’s hand, watching as his friend clenched his fists and stomped toward the darkness.

The light came on, faint and yellow, shining on the bone Sara clenched in her hand. It was long, over eighteen inches, covered on one side with clumps of dirt. The other side, the side Sara stared at, had strips of dried brown flesh clinging to it.

The smell was an assault, so overpowering and fetid that Sara dropped the bone immediately, violently turning away and retching onto the ground.

“Was that a leg?” Laneesha moved closer to Sara. The girl was clutching the Maglite she’d obviously found.

Sara wiped her mouth with her sleeve, her throat feeling raw, her tongue foul with stomach acid.

“I don’t know.”

“Looked like a dude’s leg.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why is there a dude’s leg on the ground? Where’s the rest of him?”

Laneesha played the light across the ground. Sara followed the beam as it washed over twigs, dead leaves, chunks of dirt, coming to rest on a single, brown shoe.

“Holy shit! There a foot in that shoe?”

The shoe looked old. Leather decayed and laces gone, flattened by time.

Sara summoned up a bit of strength from some inner well and forced herself to speak calmly. “The light, Laneesha.”

Laneesha didn’t move.

“Laneesha. Give me the light.”

Sara reached for it, and the girl complied. Still on her knees, she hobbled over to the shoe. Using a stick, Sara poked at the tongue, peering inside.

Empty.

“Maybe the cannibals ate the foot,” Laneesha said.

Sara spit—the foul taste in her mouth wouldn’t go away—then got to her feet. She pushed away all questions and doubts and focused on the facts, fighting not to leap to conclusions. “The shoe is old. Really old. That bone still had meat on it. They aren’t related to each other.”

“How you know the shoe is old?”

“Look at the laces.” Sara captured the shoe in the beam. “They’ve rotted away. So has some of the leather.”

“How long does that take?”

“I don’t know, Laneesha. A long time.”

“Maybe it takes a long time for meat to rot off the bone, too.”

Sara rubbed the hand that grabbed the bone onto her jeans. “No. There are birds on the island. Raccoons. The bone would have been picked clean if it was as old as that shoe.”

“So what you sayin’?”

“That probably wasn’t a human bone. Could have been from a deer. Or a pig.”

“Be a big freakin’ pig.”

Sara considered looking for the bone again, to prove Laneesha wrong. And to prove herself wrong, that she didn’t really see cloth clinging to the bone along with strips of meat. But she decided not to. Some things were better not knowing.

“Maybe the cannibals…”

“Laneesha!” Sara knew she was raising her voice, and silently cursed herself for her tone even as she continued. “There are no cannibals. Got it?”

Laneesha wasn’t so easily chided. “Martin said…”

“Martin was trying to scare us. That’s all. We’re the only people on this island right now.”

“So who grabbed Martin?”

“No one grabbed him. He was playing a prank, took it too far, and is now lost in the woods.”

“Like us,” Laneesha whispered.

Sara opened her mouth to dispute it, but stopped herself. Were they actually lost? She resisted the urge to shine the flashlight in all directions, hoping to find the path back to the campfire. But there was no path, and every direction looked exactly the same. She silently cursed Martin for his stupid tricks, and for bringing them all here.

“Camping,” Martin had said, a big grin on his face.

“You want to take a bunch of inner city kids out into the woods?”

“It’ll be good for them. We roast some hot dogs, sing some songs. I know the perfect place. I went there before, with my brother. It’s beautiful Sara. You and the kids will love it.”

“What about Jack?”

“We can bring him with. The fresh air will be good for him.”

“He’s just a baby.”

“He’s a hearty little guy, Sara. And I hardly think we’re the first parents to ever go camping with a baby.”

“You know I’m not good at night time, Martin. And in the woods, in the dark…”

Martin had patted her knee, looked at her like he used to, with love in his eyes. “You’re a psychologist. This is the perfect way to get over that fear, don’t you think? And besides, I’ll be there to protect you. What could possibly go wrong?”

So against her best instincts, Sara agreed. She did it, she knew, out of a need to appease him, make him happy. It had been a while since she’d seen Martin happy. They’d been growing distant for a long time. Sara could even remember the exact moment it began. The precipitating incident was when he lost Joe. Martin took it hard, quitting his private practice to join Sara in social work, coming up with the idea for the Center.

Together—through sheer force of will it seemed—they got the funding and made it happen.

At first, it had been a joy working with her soon-to-be husband. Martin’s loss seemed to stir a passion in him for helping others, and Sara didn’t mind his long hours, and tolerated his mood swings, because they were making a difference. A huge difference, in the lives of our country’s most important people; children.

Then came Chereese.

Chereese Graves was just another confused teenager from a broken family, thrust into their care by the courts. Troubled in the same way so many others had been, before and since. And like others, Chereese preferred to run away rather than deal with Sara and Martin’s rules and regulations.

Runaways weren’t uncommon. While the Center didn’t have the security of even a minimum security prison, it was still a form of incarceration. The windows were shatterproof and didn’t open, the doors all had heavy duty locks. But the kids always found a way. Chereese had apparently stolen a set of keys, then left after lights out.

Martin took it personally. Like he’d failed her. That was ridiculous, of course. Martin had a way of reaching kids, of actually being able to rehabilitate them. The recidivism stats for Center graduates were more than seventy percent lower than kids who went to juvee. They were actually helping kids turn their lives around, and part of that meant trusting them to do the right thing, to serve their time, to better themselves.

Of course, that meant greater opportunities to break the rules. While the Center had a greater success rate than any other state-run program, it also had the highest number of runaways.

Martin seemed to regard every lost child as a personal failure. And when they got word the Center had lost funding, he’d become so withdrawn he was almost like a shell of the man she’d met in school.

But Sara didn’t want to think about any of that right now. She took the Center’s closing as hard as Martin did. It had been his idea, but she’d been there from the beginning, and she felt the loss. Sara hadn’t even begun interviewing for another job. She knew she’d be able to find work, either through the state or in the private sector. But even though she’d been headhunted, practically offered other positions, she chose to remain loyal to the Center until the very day it closed.

Now, possibly lost in the woods and growing increasingly frightened, Sara wondered if she shouldn’t have detached herself much earlier.

“We’re not lost.” Sara took Jack back and regained control over her emotions, assuming the role of responsible adult. “This island is only two thousand acres. That’s about three square miles. If we walk in one direction, we’ll eventually reach the shore. We can follow the shore to the beach where we were dropped off, then follow the orange ribbons back to camp. It might take all night, but we’ll find the others.”

Laneesha seemed to relax a notch. “So which way we goin’?”

Sara wished she had a compass. Martin had been carrying it earlier, and for all she knew he still had it on him. That would make going in a straight line more difficult, but not impossible.

“You pick.”

Laneesha put her hands on her hips, craning her head to and fro, then finally pointed to her right.

“This way. I got a feeling.”

Sara nodded, walking next to the teen. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“What about Martin?

Sara cupped a stinky hand to her face and yelled, “Maaaar-tin!”

They both waited for an answer. Every muscle in Sara’s body clenched, hoping she wouldn’t hear a reply, hoping Martin had the decency to quit this stupid game.

A few seconds passed. Sara unbunched her shoulders, relaxed her jaw. She was just about ready to release the breath she’d been holding when they heard the scream.

High-pitched. Primal. Definitely not Martin. It was one of the girls, and she sounded like she was in excruciating pain. Cindy, or Georgia.

And she sounded less than twenty yards away.

One of the kids was coming toward them. A boy. He looked strong. Fit. Able to fight.

They could fight, too. And they outnumbered the boy.

They crouched down, blending into the woods, and waited.

When Meadow was a little kid, he wanted to be part of a family. He never knew his dad, and his mama did drugs and kept making him live with cousins and second cousins and neighbors and sometimes complete strangers. She didn’t want him, and neither did they. He craved love even more than his little tummy craved food, and he got very little of either.

So when he was thirteen years old, he stood in a circle of Street Disciples—a Folks Nation alliance on Detroit’s East Side—and let eight of the biggest members beat on him for twenty full seconds without fighting back.

Meadow had been scared. Of the pain, of course, even though he’d gotten beat on for most of his life. But mostly he’d been afraid of his own reaction. If he tried to defend himself, even in the slightest way, the initiation wouldn’t count, and he’d have to do it again later in order to be accepted into the gang.

So he put his hands in his pockets, closed his eyes, and let his homies have at him while he concentrated hard as he could not to follow his instinct and cover up, run away, throw a return punch.

They blooded him in good, breaking his nose and two ribs, kicking him in the kidneys so many times he pissed blood for a week afterward. But Meadow took it all, denying every impulse to save himself, staying on his feet for most of it because he knew if he went down the stomping would be even worse than the kicks and punches. And it was.

When it was over he was given a forty of malt liquor and a blunt the size of a corn cob and he lay on a sofa for ten straight hours, drunk and stoned and bleeding and happy, while his new gang family partied around him all night long.

Meadow clown-walked into the trees, strutting with a perfect gangsta limp and lean, head bobbing, fists clenched, feeling that same uncertainty he did two years ago when joining the SDs. He knew something was about to happen, and every cell in his body told him it was a bad idea confronting whatever was staring at them, that he should turn around and run away as fast as he could. But he kept denying his instinct, kept moving forward.

Ain’t no such thing as having no fear. Best a brother could do was to not project any. Then perception became reality. Act tough, and you were tough. That’s what being street was all about.

However, this wasn’t the street. And that figure he was heading for wasn’t no mark, no rival bopper. Meadow had a really bad feeling he was heading toward some crazy cannibal mutha like Martin was talking about.

But he maintained direction, pimping out his c-walk like he was bangin’ in the hood, heading straight for the silhouette. When the bushes were only fifteen feet away he heard that skank Cindy yell, “Meadow, don’t!”

But Meadow wasn’t going to back down. He hadn’t backed down since he was five years old, jumping on a cousin who stole his hot dog, a cousin who was twice as big and mean as spit. You had to fight for everything in life, and standing around waiting for things to happen to you was a sure bet things would happen to you.

Better to be the man doin’ than the man gettin’ done.

“You wanna roll with this?” he challenged the shadow, spreading out his palms in welcome. “Let’s roll.”

The figure ducked and disappeared.

Meadow braced himself, waiting for the attack. He watched for movement, listened for any sound, still feeling that skin-prickly sensation of being watched but now unsure where it was coming from.

“That how it is?” Meadow opened and closed his fists like he was squeezing tennis balls. “You ‘fraid to come out and face me, muthafucka? Then I be bringin’ it to you.”

“Meadow,” Tyrone warned.

Meadow didn’t pay his friend no mind, and stepped through the bushes, into the trees.

It got real dark, real fast. Meadow felt his resolve disappear with the campfire light. Five steps into the woods and it was blacker than it was when he closed his eyes.

He stopped, listening hard to the darkness, trying to pinpoint the location of his enemies.

Some time passed, a few seconds at most but they felt much longer, and Meadow was just about ready to turn around and head back to the fire when he heard something.

A clicking sound. Like someone snapping their teeth together.

He turned toward it, momentarily blinded by a bright flash only a few feet away.

“Who’s there, muthafucka!”

The clicking sound stopped.

“Come out here and face me!”

More seconds limped by. Meadow could hear his heart beating. This was worse than waiting to be blooded in. At least then he knew what was coming.

Then, barely above a whisper, Meadow heard the most frightening voice of his life. Breathy and somewhat squeaky, but definitely male.

“The boy should run now.”

That’s when Meadow’s nerve ran out. He did run, away from the voice, back in the direction of the camp, and then something lashed out and cracked him in the head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Sara shook the Maglite, the sickly yellow beam barely reaching the trees ten feet in front of her. When the light finally burned out—and it was going to very soon—Sara wasn’t sure what she’d do. Panic, probably. Even though she had to maintain composure for Laneesha, who stood so close she was practically in Sara’s pocket, Sara knew that when the darkness came, she would lose it.

Darkness and Sara were old enemies, going back almost twenty years. Sara had been nine years old, happy and well-adjusted, growing up in a nice neighborhood with loving parents and a decent extended family. In fact, she could truthfully boast that the most traumatic thing that had ever happened to her in early childhood was diaper rash.

Until that day at Aunt Alison’s.

Alison was Mom’s younger sister, and she had five kids all within a few years of Sara’s age. They lived on an apple orchard in North Carolina, and one summer Sara’s Mom and Dad took a cruise and left her in Aunt Alison’s care.

Sara didn’t mind. She liked her cousins, all girls except for a pudgy boy named Timmy who was a few years older. Being on a farm, Aunt Alison was a bit more lax in her childrearing techniques than Sara’s mom, and she let Timmy do all sorts of potentially dangerous things, like drive the riding mower and light firecrackers and play with knives.

Timmy had a bunch of knives, mostly small ones, but he had a blade in particular that frightened the heck out of Sara. It was one of those long Army knives with a jagged back. He called it a survival knife, which made no sense to Sara, because anything that got stabbed with that awful thing most certainly wouldn’t survive. She refused to go in Timmy’s room, because he kept it on his desk on a little stand and it scared her to see it.

For the first few days of Sara’s visit, everything had gone well. She had fun playing with her cousins, the food was terrific, and creepy Timmy was told not to handle any knives around Sara.

On the morning of her fourth day there, the girls were gathering wildflowers by the old barn when Timmy came over, his scary knife in his belt, and asked if they wanted to play truth or dare.

Mostly, it was just dare, without any truth. Timmy, being the oldest, tried to show off by performing unimpressive feats of heroism like climbing trees, jumping down hills, and standing on the roof of the old barn.

The barn had a hayloft, which Aunt Alison used for storage. Among boxes of clothes and baby toys was an antique trunk. Made of leather and wood, with a rusty latch and tarnished brass corners and edges.

Timmy dared Sara to get inside and close the lid.

Sara didn’t like how the trunk looked, all old and beaten up, and she didn’t like how it stunk when Timmy opened it. Musty and moldy.

“That’s what a coffin smells like,” Timmy said.

“Is not,” Sara answered, even though she’d never smelled a coffin before.

“You too chicken to get in?”

“No. But I’m sick of truth or dare.”

“This will be the last one. Then we can play something else.”

“Let’s play something else now.”

“Chicken. Bock bock bock.”

Sara knew she wasn’t a chicken, but she didn’t want to get in the trunk. Especially since her other cousins had also gotten tired of the game and were leaving the barn.

“It’s a dare,” Timmy said. “You have to.”

He had his hand resting on the hilt of that scary knife when he said it.

“For how long?” Sara asked.

“Ten seconds. Then you can come out.”

Sara decided she was brave enough to do anything for ten seconds, so she got in the trunk, tucking her knees up into her chest so she could fit, and Timmy closed the lid.

It was dark. Dark as the darkest night. It was also tight and stinky and uncomfortably warm.

Sara counted to ten in her head as fast as she could then reached up to open the lid.

The lid wouldn’t open.

“Timmy! Open up!”

Timmy didn’t answer.

Sara pushed with all of her might. She heaved. She strained. Then she screamed.

The screaming went on for a long time.

Sara had no idea how long she was in that trunk. So long she’d wet her pants. So long she became tired enough to go to sleep, if the fear would have allowed it. But the fear didn’t leave. It kept building, and building, each passing minute worse than the last. And in the silence, the darkness whispered to her. Taunted her. Promised her that she would never get out, that she would die here.

Until Sara reached the point where she wanted to die rather than spend one more second in that horrible trunk.

That’s when Timmy came back.

“Sara?” he whispered through the side of the trunk.

“Timmy…” Sara’s voice was hoarse, raw, from the hours of screaming.

“Sara, I didn’t mean to leave you in there. The latch got stuck. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Please let me out, Timmy.”

“Mom and Dad will whup me if they find out I did this.”

The air was so hot and heavy, Sara felt like she was drowning.

“Let me out.”

“If I let you out, you have to promise you won’t tell.”

Sara would have promised him anything. “I promise, Timmy.”

“You have to swear.”

“I swear.”

Then the trunk opened, and Timmy was standing there, pointing that awful hunting knife in Sara’s face. He looked meaner and scarier than anyone Sara had ever seen.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll get you, Sara. I’ll cut you into little tiny pieces and bury you in this trunk. I swear I will.”

And then Timmy pressed the knife right up to the tip of her nose, and Sara passed out from fear.

Aunt Alison did find out, because when Sara fainted Timmy got scared and told her. And, as he’d predicted, Timmy got whupped.

But Sara’s fate was worse. For years she suffered from nightmares and nurtured fears. Fear of enclosed spaces. Fear of knives. Fear of trunks.

But the biggest fear of all was of the dark.

It took Sara ten years of therapy before she could ride in an elevator without having a panic attack, or use a public toilet without leaving the stall door open.

Sara did eventually manage to sleep well, on occasion, but it was always with a nightlight. The thought that the flashlight would go out soon, leaving Sara vulnerable to the smothering darkness, it was too much too—

“help…”

The word jolted Sara, making her spin around and hip-bump Laneesha off her feet. Martin. And he was close.

Her encroaching dread was overtaken by a sense of hope. Martin, for all his faults, helped Sara through many a fearsome night, holding her close and stroking her hair until she could fall asleep. Finding him would give her a much-needed boost of strength.

“Martin!” she called into the dark. “Where are you?”

“ara…”

The voice came from her right, weak but near. Sara grabbed Laneesha’s elbow, helping the girl back to her feet, then tugged her toward the pleas.

“Martin. Keep talking.”

The sliver of light swept across the trees ahead, seeking out a human shape. Sara stormed forward, underbrush digging at her legs, ducking under a low-hanging bough. Jack didn’t seem to like the jostling, and he began to cry softly.

“elp me ara…”

He was so close now Sara felt like she could reach out and touch him. She turned in a complete circle, aiming the beam every which way, but her husband still wasn’t to be found.

“Martin?”

“ara…”

Sara tilted the Maglite, trailing the light up a tree trunk, across the branches, over to…

“Holy shit!” Laneesha’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Sara realized that this wasn’t some campfire prank, some joke gone wrong. They were all in danger. Very real danger. Because someone had hung Martin by his wrists and hoisted him up a tree, where he twisted slowly like a giant, bloody piñata.