Trapped

“A gun, Martin? Why the hell do you have a gun?”

“I took it as a precaution. Camping can be dangerous.”

“Do you know how dangerous it is to bring one along, especially with our kids? What if one of them found it?”

“It’s hidden.”

“Jesus, Martin, I didn’t even know you owned a gun.”

There’s a lot you don’t know, Martin thought.

“Look, hon, I understand you’re angry, but this isn’t the time for righteous indignation. If that is Meadow out there, we need to find our camp, get the gun. That’s the only way we’ll have a chance against those people.”

Martin held Sara’s elbow, felt her tense up.

“Look,” he said, keeping the edge out of his voice, “I was a Boy Scout, remember? My brother and I both got our rifle shooting merit badges. I know how to use weapons, safely. And this could be Meadow’s only hope.”

He heard her sigh, and she stopped tugging against him. “How do we find camp?”

“The orange ribbons.”

“I’ve been looking for those for more than an hour.”

“I’m pretty sure I know where one is. Come on.” He walked back toward Laneesha, spoke quietly. “You doing okay?”

“This is one fucked up trip, Martin.”

Martin kept the smile off his face because it would have hurt too much. “That it is. Sara? The flashlight?”

She handed it over. Martin walked past, through a patch of dogwood, and found the large elm tree he remembered tying a ribbon to earlier. Sure enough, the reflective orange strip was wound proudly around the trunk.

“The next one should only be a few yards away,” he said. “Let’s all stick together, and try to stay quiet.”

Something touched Martin’s hand, and he flinched at both the surprise and the jolt of pain. He spun, saw Sara at his side.

Her touch was gentle but firm. Much as it hurt, he grasped her hand back.

Tyrone pushed Cindy behind him, standing between her and the three men. He’d never seen cannibals before, but this trio looked just like he pictured they would. The dirt on their tattered clothing wasn’t dirt at all, but dried blood. Their beards and hair were tangled with burrs and twigs. Each had crazy eyes, like that nutcase Charles Manson Tyrone saw on an old Geraldo rerun. The one in the middle—the one with the knife and fork—was actually drooling.

Tyrone reflexively reached for his hip, but there was no weapon. The only weapon nearby was currently roasting on a burning log in the campfire. On the one hand, Tyrone had no idea what the heat had done to the mechanisms and the bullets. He didn’t want to depend on a pistol and have it jam on him, or worse, blow up in his hand.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to be eaten.

He quickly picked up one of the sticks they’d used for marshmallows and nudged the pistol off the log and through the ash, to cool ground, one eye on the cannibals. They just stood there, staring. Then the one with the cutlery spoke, his wet dry and raspy.

“Give us the girl, we’ll let you go.”

He smiled when he said it, revealing a witch’s mouth of blackened and missing teeth. Tyrone felt Cindy press against him.

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

The drool dribbled down the man’s beard. “Then you both die.”

Tyrone shook his head. “That ain’t happenin’ neither.”

The cutlery man grunted at his two companions, and they each walked off in a different direction. Circling the campfire, moving toward Tyrone and Cindy.

Tyrone dug a hand in his pocket, pulled out the lining, and ripped. It tore away.

“Y’all don’ wanna do this.”

“Yes we do.” The cutlery man reached into his pants and pulled out—

No fucking way, Tyrone thought. It’s a salt shaker.

The two men flanking them came in low and slow, stalking like lions. The cutlery man stood his ground, cutting off that escape route. In just a few moments, Tyrone and Sara would be surrounded in a tightening triangle.

Go time.

Wearing the ripped pocket like a sock puppet, he bent down and grabbed the pistol.

The cloth offered some protection from the heat, but in the time it took Tyrone to raise the gun and seek the trigger, the pain became overpowering and he dropped it between his feet.

None of the cannibals reacted to Tyrone’s attempt, not even pausing in their approach.

“Shit,” Tyrone said. Again he reached for the gun.

It felt like holding a hot coal, and every instinct, every nerve in his body, screamed at him to drop it, to pull away from the pain.

Tyrone grimaced, aimed, fighting to hold on, his finger frantically seeking the trigger, trying to get it inside the trigger guard…

And he dropped it again.

His hand was definitely burned, and he felt that sick dizzy feeling of being badly injured. He chanced a look. The cloth of the pocket had burned away in spots, revealing bloody blisters.

The cannibals now had them surrounded.

Tyrone stared down at the gun, gritting his teeth, his hand twitching. He needed to pick that son of a bitch up, but his brain and his body were deadlocked. Even as he bent for it a third time, his hand refused to go near it.

So Tyrone grabbed it lefty.

This time his finger got inside the trigger guard on the first try, and the gun was already cocked, making the pull easy. He raised, aimed, and fired in less than two seconds. The weapon kicked in his hand, and he let it go again, it falling to the ground beside him.

His target, the cannibal approaching on their right, jerked his head back. The bullet hit him just above his right eye. He stood there for a moment, then dropped like his strings had been cut, flopping onto his knees, then his side.

Tyrone had both hands to his face, blowing on them, eyeing the next immediate threat while psyching himself up to reach for the gun again.

But there was no next threat. Rather than continue their attack, the cutlery man and his companion slunk over to their fallen comrade.

The knife and fork flashed in the firelight. Tyrone refused to watch, pulling his shirt up over his head, backing up, and wrapping the hot gun in the fabric.

He heard Cindy gag. “Oh…my god…”

“Don’ look at them.”

“They’re eating him.”

Tyrone kept his eyes averted. “We gotta get outta here. When I say run, we run.”

“He’s still wiggling. Tyrone, he’s not even dead yet.”

Tyrone stared into the woods. They were dark. Too dark. Without light they’d be walking around in circles. He needed a torch.

“Gimme your shirt,” Tyrone said. He turned and stared at Cindy. She was watching the cannibals, her face a mask of horror and revulsion. He gently touched her chin, turning her face toward his.

“Cindy. I need your shirt.”

She nodded, lifting it up over her head. In just her bra she looked smaller and younger, and she automatically folded her arms, either out of cold or shame.

Tyrone located the half-full bag of marshmallows near the fire. He had no idea if this idea would work, but he knew from recent experience these things burned nice and slow. He wrapped Cindy’s shirt around the bag, then tied that to the end of a two foot branch from their firewood pile.

When he placed the branch in the flames to ignite it, he chanced another look at the cannibals, just to make sure they weren’t planning another attack.

The cutlery man’s mouth was full, his cheeks distended. Blood dribbled down his face, mingling with the drool. He noticed Tyrone gaze, and while watching him, shook some salt onto something red and shiny he held in his hand.

Tyrone felt the bile churn in his stomach. He picked up the torch, tucked the shirt and gun under his armpit, and told Cindy it was time to go.

Twenty yards into the forest, Tyrone dropped the gun, dropped the torch, and fell to his knees and vomited.

Cindy knelt next to Tyrone, patting his back, comforting him until he was ready to go on.

When Lester Paks was a little boy, he was diagnosed with Stereotypic Movement Disorder. Rather than the more common repetitive behaviors associated with SMD, such as hand waving, rocking, or fiddling with fingers, Lester’s affliction was more severe.

He could not stop biting himself.

While SMD was often associated with mental retardation, Lester had a higher than average IQ. But something in his brain compelled him to stick his fingers, hands, arms, and even feet, into his mouth and gnaw.

Medications and behavior modification therapy had little effect. In the first grade, his disorder escalated sharply. Instead of limiting his bites to himself, he began biting other things. Furniture. Appliances. Pets.

It culminated when he locked his jaws onto a classmate named Jesse Sloan, and it took six people to pull him off.

Lester went into an institution after that. They kept him drugged up, and when that didn’t stop the biting, they removed his baby teeth.

When his adult teeth grew in, he was given an orthodontic device that prevented him from opening his mouth more than a centimeter. After more drugs, and therapy, and nine years in the institution, he was finally able to get his disorder under enough control to be released. Puberty had arrived, and blessed Lester with a large stature. At age fifteen, he stood a foot taller than most adults.

Lester celebrated his release by running away from home, removing the orthodontic block with a hammer and pliers, and abducting a forty-year-old woman at a gas station. During his two days with her, he learned about the joys of sex, of causing fear and pain, and of biting without any restraint at all. Her cause of death was listed as exsanguination—blood loss resulting from over three hundred of his special little kisses.

Lester was caught, tried as an adult, and had an incredible break. A brilliant doctor testified in his defense, and got him free. Later, the doctor was able to cure him of his SMD. Lester still had the compulsion to bite, but he no longer desired to bite himself. This meant he could finally live out a lifelong dream without fear of self-mutilation.

It took countless sessions, sitting in front of a mirror with a power drill and a nail file. But when he was finished, twelve of Lester’s front teeth had been sharpened into points that rivaled any predator in the animal kingdom.

The biting became much more fulfilling after that.

Lester’s mouth locked onto the girl, and he applied pressure. Not much. Just enough to draw some blood. Lester had never had sex without blood.

He’d also never had sex that was consensual. This Georgia girl was the first person to ever come on to him. And though, like the others, she seemed afraid, she also seemed very willing.

Because of that, Lester had no immediate desire to chew her into little pieces. The idea of an active participant was so exciting that he was able to keep the biting urge in check.

Except for that one little nip. A bit of blood to help with the lubrication.

When he mounted her, she made sounds like they did in the movies. Instead of the begging, crying, and screaming he was used to, she moaned and squealed and sounded so sexy that he quickly reached climax. Afterward she held him, kissing his neck, and in a highly erotic turn of events she even gave him a small bite.

Yes indeed, this Georgia girl was something special.

“Lester is taking Georgia girl home.”

Her eyes got big, and she sucked on her lower lip. “To your playroom?”

“Yes. But Lester won’t hurt Georgia girl. He likes her. He wants to show her something.”

Her hands moved down, grabbing him. “Lester already showed Georgia girl something. And she really liked it.”

Lester blushed, and then felt the stirrings of a second arousal. But this wasn’t a good place for sex. The feral people were around. They feared Lester, but there were too many, so he had to stay on guard.

He climbed off of Georgia girl and pulled up his overalls. “Lester wants to show Georgia girl the pet. Lester thinks Georgia girl will like it.”

The girl tugged up her pants and stood, and for a brief moment she looked scared and Lester thought she was going to run. That would be bad. Lester would have to chase her, and then he’d take her to the playroom and tie her up and hurt her very badly.

But she didn’t run. Georgia girl reached out and took his arm, resting her cheek against his elbow.

Yes, she would like meeting the pet. And afterward, Lester would introduce her to Doctor. But Doctor wouldn’t give this one to Subject 33. Not this one.

This one, Lester was going to keep.

Sara found the next ribbon in the direction Martin said it would be. After hours of fruitlessly searching for the damn things, her relief was palpable. But so was her fear. Every moment they remained undiscovered seemed like borrowed time.

The trio moved slowly, stopping often to listen if they were being followed.

All they heard was screaming. Meadow’s screaming.

Sara walked with her shoulders rigid, her fists clenched.

Please, stop screaming.

Every wail was worse than a slap. As a psychologist, she knew about the mental processes involved in certain instances of child abuse—research she boned up on to better understand Georgia, who put a child in a clothes dryer. The trigger of Shaken Baby Syndrome was usually a frustrated caregiver who couldn’t take the crying, and began to resent the very life they were supposed to protect.

For God’s sake, just stop.

While Sara’s tendencies forced her to help those in need, she finally understood what prompted those otherwise responsible adults to act so abusively.

After listening to the screams for more than ten minutes, Sara began to lose control. She recognized it happening, knew the reason why, and still couldn’t stop it. Rage coursed through her, and it wasn’t directed at whoever was hurting Meadow.

It was directed at Meadow.

Just shut up, please just shut up. Why won’t you fucking shut…

And then the screaming stopped. Sara stood still, listening.

Crickets and nothing else.

It also came with a real measure of relief. But at the same time, Sara feared it meant Meadow’s death. The fear trumped the relief, the weight of the realization threatening to sink Sara into the ground. Having one of her kids run away was bad enough. But Meadow actually dying? Dying when it was her job to protect him?

Oh no. Oh no no no.

Sara fell apart.

Laneesha sidled up to her. She’d been walking with her fingers in her ears, and in the moonlight her face glistened like a wet plum. Sara hugged the teen, who hugged back, and they spent a moment sobbing.

Martin touched Sara’s hair.

“We have to keep going, hon.”

Sara nodded, wiped a fist across her face, rubbing away tears, and began searching for the next ribbon. As she walked, she raged against the conflict going on inside of her. One part, grateful the screaming had ended. The other, angry at herself for being grateful. Add this shame to the horror of murdering a man, and Sara questioned her capabilities to counsel children, or anyone else for that matter. Her job description required empathy, along with the ability to dispassionately disconnect. Sara seemed unable to do either.

That made Sara even more disgusted. On top of everything going on, she had to throw herself a pity party.

“We should be there soon,” Martin said, coming up behind her. He spoke deliberately, a measure of pain in his voice. “How many ribbons have you counted?”

“Ten or eleven.”

“If we’re going in the right direction, the campsite should be very close.”

“Or we’re heading toward the lake, and will have to retrace all of our steps. We need to pick up the pace, Martin. If there’s any chance Meadow is—”

Laneesha’s scream cut Sara off. She rushed over to the teen, flashlight bobbling, and aimed the beam at the large hill of rubble the girl was facing.

The hill was well over ten feet high, and stretched on for dozens of yards. It was pale gray, made up of what appeared to be stones and branches.

Laneesha clutched Sara, hard enough to squeeze the breath out of her. It pushed Sara closer to the mound, and in a moment that seemed utterly surreal, Sara realized that those weren’t stones and branches.

They were looking at a gigantic pile of human bones.

When Laneesha was a little girl, she wanted to be a big girl. Or more precisely, an adult. She found children her own age boring, much preferring the company of grown-ups. Dolls and games of tag weren’t nearly as stimulating to her as learning to cook, sew, and knit from her mother, change the oil on the car and spackle drywall like her father, bake like grandma, and repair appliances like Uncle Ralph.

Uncle Ralph wasn’t actually her uncle. He was a friend of Dad’s. He was also the nicest adult Laneesha knew, treating her as an equal even when she was as young as six. He never talked down to her, never reprimanded her, never was anything but 100% cool.

When Laneesha turned sixteen, she realized the next step in adulthood was motherhood. She babysat all the neighborhood kids, and wanted one of her own. So she decided to get pregnant. So she sought out the one person who she knew would make an excellent father, and after riding with him to a house to install a satellite TV system, she seduced Uncle Ralph in the back seat of his repair van.

He resisted, at first. But she was legal, and insistent, and Ralph didn’t have a girlfriend at the time. The affair was short lived—a guilt-ridden Uncle Ralph broke it off after only three trysts. But three was enough. Laneesha, now pregnant, assumed that stand-up Uncle Ralph would do the right thing. She was mature enough to know he wasn’t going to marry her, but expected child support and shared custody.

Instead, her father beat the hell out of Uncle Ralph, ordering him to never see her again, and then insisted she terminate the pregnancy. Laneesha refused, and her father kicked her out. Uncle Ralph also refused to see her again, offering her the money for an abortion and nothing else.

Laneesha had no friends because she’d never bothered to make any. She was forced to live in shelters, and eventually gave birth to her beautiful daughter, Brianna. But welfare checks didn’t stretch very far for a young mother. Without a babysitter she couldn’t get a job, and without a job she couldn’t get a babysitter, so she took to shoplifting to survive.

Chicago had many chain department stores, and Laneesha kept her strategy simple. She’d steal something at one store, then return it at another store for the cash. If they refused to give her cash, as they sometimes did without a receipt, she traded the item for something she needed, or something she could pawn.

It worked for several months. Laneesha began looking for a place of her own, and was planning on getting a job and a nanny once she saved up a thousand dollars. She was only sixty bucks short of her goal when a dumb department store clerk became distracted and left a pair of expensive diamond earrings on the counter unattended. It was only for a few seconds, but Laneesha couldn’t resist the temptation. She grabbed them, shoved them in Brianna’s diaper, and beat a hasty retreat.

But she was caught. Even worse, the store had tapes of her stealing four other items over the course of several months. It had been a trap. They pressed charges for grand theft, social services took Brianna, and Laneesha wound up at the Center.

The Center made her realize two things. First, people her own age weren’t so bad. Meadow, for all his frontin’, was actually a pretty good guy. Not daddy material, but they developed a bond that Laneesha could honestly say was love. Second, Laneesha was more determined than ever to get paroled and get Brianna back. And she was on track to do so. A hearing was coming up, and Sara was going to recommend parole, and once she had a job she was going to begin the steps to reclaim her child. Maybe Meadow would even be in the picture.

But staring at that huge pile of bones after half an hour of listening to Meadow’s tortured screams made Laneesha doubt she’d ever get off the island alive.

Laneesha clung to Sara, digging her carefully manicured nails into the psychologist’s arm, staring at the most horrifying thing she’d ever seen.

“How…how many you think?” she asked.

“Thousands,” Sara whispered.

Martin took the light from Sara, moved closer to the pile. “These bones are old. Really old.”

“Who are they?” Laneesha asked.

Martin shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Sara began to back up, pulling Laneesha along with her. “Martin, those… wild people. They must have retied the ribbons. To lead us to this place. They’re probably coming right now.”

Martin went rigid, then whispered. “They’re already here.”

Laneesha felt like she stuck her finger in a socket, electricity jolting through her and causing her to run somewhere, anywhere. She broke away from Sara and dashed into the field of bones.

The were no trees here, and the moon was bright, so Laneesha could move much faster than she had in the woods. Part of her brain registered Sara yelling her name, but Laneesha wasn’t going to stop. Not for Sara. Not for anybody. While Laneesha feared those crazy cannibal people, she had more to think about than just her life. If she died, Brianna would be motherless. Laneesha couldn’t let that happen.

She turned a quick corner around the mound, kicking something that she realized was a skull, switching directions again and seeking out the woods. She could hide in the trees, wait until morning. Then she would find the camp, radio that boat guy, and live to see her daughter again. Hopefully, Sara and Martin and the rest of them would make it too. But a part of Laneesha, a large part, also made her understand that if those cannibals were busy eating the others, they would have full bellies and be less inclined to track her down.

It’s all for Brianna, she told herself.

But stupid as it was, she couldn’t find the trees. Earlier, she thought she’d be stuck in the woods forever, never seeing the clear sky again. Now all she saw was sky and bones.

They were everywhere, a giant garbage dump of various-sized mounds, some only as high as her hip, others too tall to see over. There was no real path, no real direction, and Laneesha took another turn and found herself standing on top of an unstable pile. She stopped, turned, and her foot got stuck. Lanessha looked down, saw she was caught in some sort of trap.

No, not a trap. A man’s ribcage.

Another spark of panic made her cry out, kicking the foul thing off her foot, pushing onward through the bone field. There was no ground any more, no dirt. She waded, calf-deep, through bones. When she tried to get on top of them, they wouldn’t support her completely. Laneesha had a ridiculous thought about Chuck E Cheese, that children’s pizza slash arcade with the room filled with thousands of plastic balls. It was impossible to stand up in that room, and almost as difficult standing here.

Laneesha attempted to backtrack, feeling bones snap under her weight—bones, jesus, these were once inside people—and she tripped, falling face first into the pile.

The pain was sharp and made her draw a breath. She turned onto her side, tried to sit up, her hands fluttering around the knife embedded in her shoulder.

But, of course, it wasn’t a knife at all.

I’ve got someone’s bone sticking in me.

Laneesha felt the blood drain from her head, the whole world start to spin. But she couldn’t pass out, for Brianna’s sake, so she twisted onto all fours and began to crawl, determined to get away, determined to survive.

Then the smell hit her. A musty, rotten stench, moist and cloying. It reminded Laneesha of food gone bad. But this wasn’t food, this was people. Human beings. Laneesha shut her eyes and crunched up her face so her lips blocked her nostrils, and moved even faster while she tried not to puke.

The throb in her shoulder stabbed deeper, hurting ten times worse, and Laneesha cried out. She tried to move, but couldn’t.

The bone had caught on something.

Laneesha didn’t want to touch it, and she tried to ease back, but she felt like she’d been staked to the spot. Eyes still closed, she raised a hesitant hand to her shoulder, felt the object she was stuck to.

The bone had caught on something large and bumpy, shaped sort of like a big pretzel.

Someone’s pelvis.

Laneesha pushed, but the pelvis held firm. Then she tried to pull the bone from her shoulder and almost passed out. While the bone was no bigger than hot dog, it was old and brittle. When Laneesha tried to remove it, the bone splintered, digging in like a fishhook barb,

Laneesha had to take a breath, becoming dangerously light-headed, her gorge rising fast. She cradled the pelvis in her hand and tried to lift. It was attached to something. Not having any choice, she looked down.

Legs. Bits of sinew still connected the pelvis to two decimated leg bones.

Laneesha jerked up, and the hip joints pulled free of their sockets with a cracking sound. Then she crawled, one hand pressing the pelvis to her chest, through the bones until she could stand up again.

Only a few yards away, silhouetted by the moonlight, a man rushed at her.

Laneesha got to her feet, stumbling away from the man, ignoring the pain and dashing through two large mounds of bones. The trees had to be close. The bone piles seemed to end just ahead. If she could just make it, just get away long enough to—

She stopped abruptly. The bone field did end, but instead of the forest Laneesha found herself facing a large stone building. It looked like a fortress, two stories high, stretching out a hundred feet in each direction.

Laneesha heard a creaking sound, looked up, saw an arch above her. Hanging on chains was an ancient wooden sign.

Rock Island Prison.

Then something hit her on the head and everything went black.

Cindy felt her heart sink when the screaming stopped. It was awful to hear, the most awful thing she’d ever heard. When it ended she had a very real feeling that Meadow—and it sure sounded like Meadow—was dead.

Still, she and Tyrone headed in the direction the cries had been coming from. Cindy didn’t like Meadow. But if there was a chance to help him, she would take that chance. One thing the Center had taught her was the value of life. Every life.

She held the torch, grateful for both the light and the warmth it emitted. In only her bra, the night air gave her goosebumps. Tyrone walked at her side. He held the gun, now cool enough to touch, in his left hand. His right hand was wrapped in his T-shirt. After fleeing the campsite, she’d insisted on examining his injuries. His left only had a few small blisters. His right looked like raw hamburger.

Still, Tyrone didn’t complain. He marched onward, just as determined to save Meadow as she was.

Neither of them talked about what they’d seen at the camp. But Cindy couldn’t help but think the same thing had happened to Meadow. She shivered. In the past, she’d thought a lot about death, and always expected it would be with a needle in her arm. But death by cannibals? Who could have ever conceived of such a thing?

And yet, it might actually happen to her. But instead of fleeing from it, she was actually heading toward it.

“Smell that?” Tyrone asked.

Cindy stopped, sniffed the air.

Her mouth watered.

Barbecue. Smoke and meat, reminding her of the venison steaks her dad would cook over an open fire.

Then Cindy’s brain caught up with her salivary glands, and she realized what she was probably smelling.

“Tyrone…could that be…?”

She saw him stiffen. “I’m gonna kill ‘em. I’m gonna kill every one of those fuckers.”

Tyrone stormed forward, rushing through the woods, Cindy unable to keep up. Running with a torch wasn’t easy, It threw sparks, and if she moved too quickly the wind shrank the flame, threatening to snuff it out. Cindy feared Tyrone would get too far ahead and she’d lose him, feared not only for herself, but for him as well. They counted six bullets still in the gun, but that may not be enough, and he was already injured and—

Cindy stopped abruptly before she tripped over Tyrone, who was on all fours, wheezing like he’d been punched in the gut. Beyond him she saw a faint light, coming through a gap in the trees. The roasted meat smell was overwhelming. Awful as it was, Cindy’s stomach rumbled, and she cursed herself for missing dinner.

“Don’ look,” Tyrone said.

At first, Cindy thought he meant don’t look at me. She turned away, and Tyrone caught her ankle, even though squeezing it must have caused him pain.

Tyrone meant don’t look at where the smell was coming from.

She was fine with that. Cindy already had enough images seared onto her brain for a lifetime of nightmares, and had no desire to ad to them.

“How many are there?” she asked, crouching next to Tyrone.

“I dunno. Five or six. I’m gonna take ‘em down, soon as I catch my breath.”

Cindy didn’t bother to argue. Every human life was indeed sacred, but when someone was trying to eat you, the best defense was a good offense.

“Can you shoot lefty?”

“Did okay back at camp.”

“My dad taught me about guns. Used to take me hunting.”

“You ain’t doin’ it, Cindy.”

“I’m not afraid.”

And, oddly, she wasn’t. Not of shooting someone. She was more afraid of what they’d do if they caught her and Tyrone.

“You don’ want this on your head, girl. Trust me.”

“Let me see you hold the gun.”

“I ain’t playin’”

“Neither am I. Hold it.”

Tyrone picked the gun up off the ground, held it in his left hand. He winced, unable to keep it steady.

“Give me the gun, Tyrone.”

“No way.”

“Your hands are ruined, and you won’t be able to aim. Not at six people. After the first shot, they’ll scatter, be moving targets. One of them might even run at us. So either give me the gun, or we get the hell out of there.”

Tyrone narrowed his eyes. “You can really shoot?”

“I could hit a rabbit at a hundred yards.”

She didn’t tell him that she’d never actually hit a rabbit, only rabbit-sized targets, and that was with a rifle, not a pistol. Cindy didn’t like hunting. While she had no problem eating meat, doing the killing herself was a little too personal, and after several attempts her father stopped taking her on his hunting trips because she would never pull the trigger when the moment of truth arrived.

Thinking of that, she questioned her own commitment here. How could she shoot a person when she couldn’t shoot a deer?

But it was too late. Tyrone was nodding, passing the gun to her, butt-first. She took it, handing him the torch.

“We gotta do this. For Meadow. For ourselves. But Cindy…”

Tyrone paused. She waited.

“…try not to look at what’s on the fire.”

Cindy nodded. The gun felt warm in her hand, and she automatically checked the clip, the safety, the round in the chamber, just like her father taught her.

Don’t think about it. Just do it.

She crouched, creeping toward a nearby bush. The pistol seemed to get heavier with each step. When she reached the thicket she planted her feet a shoulder’s width apart, gripped the gun in two hands, and sited down the length of the barrel.

It was an image straight out of hell.

A gridiron.

Meadow.

Fire.

A circle of cannibals.

Eating.

Cindy froze. The smell of roasted pork didn’t jibe with the parts they were putting in their mouths. Her finger was on the trigger, but she couldn’t shoot. She couldn’t so much as breathe.

The largest of the tribe—a wide, hairy man with an ax propped against his leg—was chewing on…

Jesus, that’s Meadow’s—

The man looked up, his eyes meeting Cindy’s. He bellowed like a bull, raising the ax.

The other cannibals turned to look.

Cindy felt fear so visceral it felt like a punch. She staggered back, unable to support her own weight, screaming as loud as she could, the gun dropping from her hand and disappearing into the underbrush.

Georgia felt alive. Really alive. The confluence of emotions bursting within her—fear, excitement, disbelief, awe—made her hyper-aware. She could feel every molecule of cool night air against her bare skin. The moon looked enormous, hanging in a star-filled sky that seemed to stretch on forever. Lester’s hand in hers was warm, reassuring, and dangerous all at the same time as he led her through the woods.

I just had sex.

She was deliciously sore. But this was about more than just getting laid, more than a notch on the life-experience belt. Georgia felt like a completely new person. Like something dormant inside her had opened its eyes.

Georgia felt powerful.

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

But power felt better than control. A million times better. While control was about maintaining order, power was about being invincible. Even clutching the hand of a serial killer, Georgia felt like the dominant one. She had called the shots. She had taken what she wanted. She had not only survived, but conquered.

“Lester is home.”

Georgia was so into star-gazing she hadn’t noticed they’d arrived at a building. The façade was gray stone, old-looking, sort of like a medieval castle. Lester released Georgia’s hand to pull a key out of his pocket and fuss with a very big and heavy iron door. After unlocking it he needed to tug hard to get the rusty thing open. It squealed like a tortured pig.

“It’s strong,” Lester grunted, “so the ferals can’t get in.”

“Ferals?”

“On the island. They run free and eat people. People like Georgia girl.”

Georgia peered into the unlit room and hesitated. She had the same feeling she did when her parents took her to that haunted house on Halloween, on one of their rare family outings. Georgia knew there scary things inside, and while she liked scaring others she didn’t like being on the receiving end.

But that was the old Georgia. The new Georgia feared nothing. Without waiting for Lester, she marched inside, a hand stretch out in front of her so she didn’t bump into anything in the dark.

The room was cold, damp, and smelled like mildew. Georgia sensed it was large. The floor beneath her was hard, possibly cement. She took a few more tentative steps and then touched something cold. Feeling around, she realized it was a rusty iron bar.

The lights came on, accompanied by a buzzy, electric sound. Even though there were only bare 60 watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling every ten feet, Georgia still squinted against the sudden brightness. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust, and then she realized what sort of building this was.

A prison. The iron bar she grasped was part of a cell, one of hundreds, stretching out in all directions in a wide open space almost a big as a football field. Except, upon closer examination, she wondered if it was perhaps a kennel instead. Or some sort of barn for livestock. The cells were so small that there wasn’t enough space for even a child to lie down.

“Each cell held four Confederate prisoners,” Lester said. “They shared half a loaf of bread and a single bucket of water each day. The bucket was also their toilet. Many died from scurvy, dysentery, and smallpox. But starvation took the majority. Others murdered to get more of the bread. The dead were stacked in piles and left to rot. Thousands of them. It drove many of the prisoners mad. All that fresh meat, spoiling, just out of reach. They broke out of here just to get to the meat.”

It sounded like Lester was reciting something he memorized.

“This is Plincer’s prison?” Georgia asked.

“Rock Island Prison. Warden Plincer was the Doctor’s great great grandfather.”

Georgia couldn’t believe that Martin’s stupid story was actually true. “So those…ferals…those are civil war cannibals?”

Lester smiled at her, his teeth making him look like a shark. Seeing him in the light brought color to his face. His complexion was pale, teeth yellowish, the whites of his eyes bright pink. “Don’t be silly, Georgia girl. Those Confederate soldiers died a hundred years ago.”

“Their descendants?”

“No descendants. They were men. It takes a man and a woman to have descendants.” He took her hand. “Georgia girl knows that.”

Lester led her through the ranks and files of cages, the footsteps echoing off the iron and stone, making the space seem even emptier. Georgia tried to picture it filled to capacity with starving, desperate men, men who killed each other for a crust of bread or to feast on their flesh.

The image turned her on.

“How did you get here?” Georgia asked. “On this island?”

“Doctor brought Lester here.”

“Why?”

Lester stopped, then looked down at her. “Doctor is Lester’s friend.”

“And Georgia girl is Lester’s girlfriend,” she said, giving his hand an extra squeeze.

They walked out of the cell room, up a barely lit stone staircase. Unlike the first floor, which was all open space except for the bars, there were walls up here. Lester took her down a hallway, passing several closed doors.

“This is where the prisoners were punished. Beaten. Whipped. Branded. This is where Lester’s playroom is.” They stopped before an ancient wooden door. “Is Georgia girl ready to meet Lester’s pet?”

Georgia nodded. He opened the door and they went inside.

The smell hit her first. Like a public bathroom, but worse. On one side of the small room was a long metal table. There were shackles at the head and foot. Next to the table, a workbench, on top of which were various tools and devices, many of them rusty from blood. Near a small dresser, on the far wall, was a box spring with a stained mattress on top. On the other side of the room was a wooden crate, the top off.

“The pet is in the box,” Lester said.

Georgia couldn’t see what was in the crate from where she stood, and she got that same haunted house vibe. On one hand, it might be something harmless in there, like a dog or cat, or maybe some animal indigenous to the island, like a raccoon. On the other hand, Lester was a psychopath, and she could be about to nuzzle a rotting corpse.

Either way, Lester was watching her, judging her. She had to make a good impression.

Besides, what’s the worst thing that could be in there?

She chewed on her lower lip and approached the crate cautiously, the foul smell getting stronger. At first, all she noticed were clumps of hay. And then she saw it.

“Georgia girl can touch the pet,” Lester said. “The pet is tame.”

Georgia clamped both of her hands to her mouth and tried not to throw up.

Sara ran. Not from their pursuers—she didn’t even see their pursuers. Sara ran after Laneesha. But the teen was fast, and it was dark, and after two quick turns Sara lost her among the piles of bones.

Sara stopped, turning in a full circle, looking and listening for any movement.

Laneesha was gone. So was Martin.

Sara tried to backtrack, weaving her way through the bonefield, fighting the urge to yell out either of their names. She didn’t want Laneesha to be alone. Martin either, especially with his injuries.

She ran, frantic, thinking only of them and not her personal neuroses, rounding a particularly large mound of the dead, coming face to face with the forest, the darkness. From the darkness, came a cry.

It wasn’t Meadow. It was a girl, high-pitched, a scream of fright rather than pain.

Laneesha?

If so, she’d gotten pretty far pretty fast. The sound came from deep in the woods. Without thinking, Sara ran into the trees.

When the forest surrounded her, she froze.

Martin had the flashlight.

Sara whirled around. Trees. Shadows. Darkness. Looking up, the dark had even swallowed the sky.

She felt it in her chest first, a tightening that made her pant. Her palms got wet. Her mouth went dry. Sara was eleven years old again, back in the car trunk, waiting for Paulie Gunther Spence to open it up and do to her what he did to poor, dead Louise. Sara tried to get her feet to move, tried to battle the weight of the darkness pressing upon her. But she remained locked in place, a statue, too frightened to even blink.

Sounds, to her left. Someone coming.

No, more than just someone. A lot of people.

Move! Dammit, Sara, move!

But she stayed rooted to the spot, even when they burst through the bushes and rushed at her.

Laneesha startled herself awake, freaked out by a crazy dream she had about running through mountains of human bones.

She didn’t know why her head and chest both hurt, or why she was sitting down rather than lying in her bed, or why she couldn’t move her arms.

Then she saw the old man standing in front of her, and old man she’d never seen before, and it all came back to her in a horrible rush.

“Hello, child. I gave you a little something to help you wake up. I also took the liberty of removing that nasty bone from your shoulder. It was a fibula, if you’re curious. Very old. About a hundred and forty years old, to be more exact. I even stitched you up. No need to thank me. I am a doctor, after all.”

The old man tucked an empty syringe into his coat pocket. It was a white coat, the kind doctor’s wear. But this one was covered with ugly stains.

The man himself was also ugly. He had a bald head, freckled with liver spots, and a long neck with a lot of wrinkled loose skin hanging from it. He wore glasses, which were coated with a layer of dirt and grease so thick Laneesha wondered how he could see through them, and he stood in a stooped way, his back bending like a question mark.

Laneesha tried to stand, and realized her arms and legs were strapped to a wheelchair. She fought against the bonds, the leather digging into her wrists, and succeeded only in causing abrasions.

“My name is Doctor Plincer. You’re about to become part of a very important scientific study. An epic one, in fact. Unfortunately, you’ll be part of the control group. Sort of. Well, not really, but it sounds better.”

Laneesha looked hard at the doctor, more angry than afraid. “You better let me go, you dirty ol’ man. Or I am gonna kick yo ass.”

Doctor Pincer scratched at his chin and something flaked off his face; dirt, or maybe dried food.

“You see, my dear, there are wolves, and there are sheep. While I admire your spunk, I’m out of sheep at the moment, and I don’t want Subject 33 mad at me. So I’m giving you to him.”

“What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

“Hmm. Yes. Well, no harm in telling you, and truth told, I don’t have many people to talk to these days. The ferals are, well, feral, and they would prefer eating you to good conversation. Lester, dear Lester, he listens, but he’s heard all of my stories before, and I worry I bore him sometimes. And Subject 33, well, frankly, he frightens me. He frightens the piss out of me. Which is why I’ve kept him locked up for seven years.”

Laneesha looked away from the doctor, taking in her surroundings. She was in some sort of hallway. The walls were brick. The only light was a bulb hanging from the ceiling. Her wheelchair was next to a large iron door with a slot in it at waist-level. Laneesha recognized it as a solitary confinement door. The slot was for food, and it was open. She peered through and it seemed to lead to another room, with another identical door and slot.

Through this second slot, a pair of eyes stared at her.

“He’s watching you, I see. I think he likes you. If he doesn’t like what I’m giving him, he doesn’t keep looking. He’s my greatest success, Subject 33. Too much of a success, really. The procedure worked as it was supposed to. Worked perfectly. But afterward he wouldn’t follow orders, couldn’t be trusted. Tried to kill me on several occasions. Once he even dragged me into that horrible room of his. If Lester hadn’t been there to help, I shudder at the things he would have done to me.”

Subject 33 blinked. Then his head moved up and he stuck his nose in the slot and inhaled.

He’s trying to sniff me, Laneesha thought. And that freaked her out even more than his creepy stares.

“I don’t even remember his name,” Doctor Plincer said. “Isn’t that funny? My greatest success. I got him from the government, you know. The military. He was a killer, plucked from prison. Given to me, to, how shall I put it? Enhance. I’ve heard rumors, I can’t confirm this, naturally, but I’ve heard that the military has even put together a group of serial killers to use as some sort of Special Forces unit. I suppose that’s why they gave him to me. But he doesn’t follow orders. Not at all. He hasn’t even spoken a word since the procedure. He writes me notes. That’s how he tells me what he needs. The last few have been, well, rather odd.”

Subject 33’s nose disappeared, and then those bloodshot eyes were back. Wide and staring. Laneesha wanted to turn away, but couldn’t.

“He’s building something in there. I’ll be damned if I know what it is. Here I am, a future candidate for the Nobel Prize, and I can’t figure it out. Besides enhancing his appetites, the procedure also seemed to amplify his intelligence. So he leaves me notes, I order the parts, and give them to him when the supply boat comes. I’m curious to know what he’s building, but I’m too frightened to look. Some sort of pain machine, I suspect. The lambs I bring to him scream like I’ve never heard screams before. And, believe me, I’ve heard screams. Lester is very good at making people scream. I know this firsthand. But Subject 33… well, whatever he’s doing to those people, it’s inhuman.”

The doctor knocked twice on the iron door.

“I’m bringing her to you. Please assume the position.”

The eyes disappeared, and Laneesha watched Subject 33 turn around and stick his hands through the slot, palms up.

Laneesha shrank into her chair. “Old man, please don’ put me in there.”

Doctor Plincer reached into his pocket, removed a dart pistol. He winked at Laneesha. “He’s my greatest triumph, but he’s difficult to control. The second door in the antechamber isn’t locked. He can open it any time. But he stays in there, because he knows if he doesn’t I won’t give him food. Or any parts for his infernal machine. So he behaves, but I still can’t trust him. That makes me proud, in a way. I created an evil so powerful it only answers to itself.”

The doctor lifted the iron bar off the door, then opened it, keeping his pistol aimed at the inner room, at the slot in the second door.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, please. You should enjoy this one. Plenty of fire in her. Maybe she’ll last you two weeks. That’s your record, isn’t it? For keeping one alive? Two weeks, isn’t it?”

Still facing the inner door, the doctor backed up, walking carefully around Laneesha. Then he began to push her wheelchair into the small room, toward that second door. Laneesha’s eyes were locked on Subject 33’s hands. They were filthy, fingernails cracked, blood caked under them.

“No.” Laneesha shook her head. “No no no no no…”

“Please leave the wheelchair in the antechamber. I’ll pick it up when I bring breakfast in the morning. I’ll assume breakfast for two, unless you leave me a note stating otherwise. I know sometimes the lambs don’t have the strength to eat. Especially after the first night. I’m making French toast.” The doctor stared down at Laneesha. “Do you like French toast, dear?”

“You can’t leave me with him. Please. I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all.” Laneesha couldn’t stop the tears. “I have a daughter. Her name is Brianna. Please don’t put me in there with him.”

Doctor Plincer patted her head. “I won’t likely see you again. Or more to the point, you won’t see me. I’ll see you when he discards the remains. But, truth told, there haven’t been very many remains lately. The machine has something to do with it, I suspect. What can he be building in there? I don’t know. But you’ll soon find out, my dear, dear girl.”

The doctor backed away, and Laneesha heard the iron door slam closed behind her, the crossbar falling into place. She strained against her bonds, strained so hard she saw stars.

Subject 33 removed his hands from the slot, then he opened his door.

Laneesha’s scream would be the first of many.

Tom walked along the beach. He was still a little out of breath from his sprint. One moment he was holding a gun—an actual gun—then the next moment Tyrone was on top of him, and the next moment…

What the hell were those things?

Tom knew they were people. No duh. But they looked more like wildmen. All they needed were those leather undies and some spears, and Tom could picture them hunting dinosaurs.

For about a zillionth of a second he felt bad for leaving Cindy and Tyrone there. He wasn’t really gonna shoot either of them. But those frickin’ wildmen looked crazy, and Tom knew when to fight and when to run, so he ran. Through the forest, through the trees, all the way to shore. And now he didn’t know what to do next.

So he began to walk around the island. It wasn’t a big island; Sara said it was only a few miles across. Tom figured he would keep walking until someone found him. It’s not like Sara and Martin were going to leave him here. They were responsible adults. Even if Tyrone told them about the gun, they still had to take him back to Michigan.

Tom tried not to think about the wildmen.

He walked, and walked some more, and then the beach sort of ended and rose up, becoming kind of a cliff with trees on it. Tom climbed up, keeping away from the edge, and kept heading in the same direction. The night was cool, but he was sweating and really thirsty and kind of hungry too. He thought about drinking lake water, but heard that all the water in the great lakes was dirty and could make you sick.

That’s when he smelled it. Barbecue.

He paused, trying to figure out where it was coming from. Obviously, Sara and Martin had come back to camp, and now they were cooking something. And then Tom shook his head, wondering how he could have been so gullible.

The wildmen. They were fake.

Part of Martin’s stupid plan to scare them all. In fact, one of them might have even been Martin, all dressed up to look like a wildman. Tom took it for real, like a dummy.

No, not like a dummy. It wasn’t Tom’s fault he was scared. He was off his meds. He always acted stupid off his meds.

Which was a perfect excuse for why he pointed the gun at Tyrone and Cindy. It wasn’t Tom’s fault. It was Sara’s fault, for not giving him his Risperdol. So that meant they couldn’t punish him for anything.

Tom headed into the woods, toward the barbecue smell. He couldn’t wait to dig in.

Georgia stared at Lester’s pet, her hands over her mouth, the odor so bad it made her stomach roil. At first, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. It looked like a giant, pale worm. But then she noticed the buttocks, the shoulder blades, the bumps of the spine beneath the dirty flesh.

It was a torso. No arms. No legs. Just a body with a head attached. And it smelled awful.

“Go on, Georgia girl,” Lester said. “Touch the pet.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like touching dead things, Lester.”

“The pet is not dead.”

Lester kicked the crate, and Georgia watched in awe as the head swiveled up and faced them.

“Uhhhhhnnnnnn,” it said.

Georgia dropped her hands. “Holy shit. This thing is freaking alive?”

The man’s face was a ruin. Eyes gone. Ears gone. A big scar across the scalp. When he opened his mouth to make that hideous sound, Georgia noted the tongue was also missing.

“The pet Lester’s best friend,” Lester said. “Except for Doctor. And Georgia girl.”

“Did you do this to him, Lester?”

“Lester didn’t do this. Doctor gave him to Lester.”

Georgia stared, fascinated. It was at once the most horrible and most amazing thing she’d ever seen.

“Want to see the pet do the funny dance?” Lester asked.

She nodded.

Lester walked over to the tool cabinet and grabbed something. He brought it over to the crate. It was a broomstick, with a nail sticking out the end.

When Lester poked his pet in the butt with it, the thing flopped around, rocking back and forth. When it rolled onto its back, Georgia noted that its genitals were also gone.

“Does Georgia girl want to make the pet do the funny dance?”

The next thing Georgia knew, the broomstick had been pressed into her hands. She stared down at this poor pathetic creature, rolling around in its own mess on a pile of dirty hay, and realized that any semblance of humanity it might have once had was now long gone. This wasn’t a person anymore. Just a mindless thing.

The thing began to roll again, making a moaning sound, and Georgia realized that without even being aware of it she’d given it a poke.

So she poked it again. And again.

The fourth time, she began to laugh.

“So I see you have a new guest for your playroom, Lester. But why isn’t she strapped onto your play table?”

Georgia turned, surprised at the voice, and saw an old man in a lab coat standing in the doorway. She instinctively backed away, bumping into Lester.

“This is Georgia girl. Georgia girl is Lester’s girlfriend. Georgia girl and Lester had sex and are going to make babies.”

Georgia looked up at Lester, then unconsciously rubbed her belly. She decided that now wasn’t the best time to tell him how she got along with babies.

The old man clucked his tongue. “You tried to make babies before, Lester. Do you remember? But whenever you get a new girlfriend you always wind up biting her too much. How many times have we been through this?”

“Georgia girl is different.”

The old man glanced at the stick she held, and then nodded. “Yes. Yes she certainly seems to be, doesn’t she?”

“You must be the doctor,” Georgia said, finding her voice. “Lester’s friend.”

“Indeed, indeed I am. Doctor Plincer. You like playing with Lester’s pet, I see.”

“He’s funny,” Georgia said.

“Funny? Hmm. Yes, I suppose he is. No real brain activity anymore. Delta waves. More like delta bumps. Full frontal lobotomy. But he is kind of funny. Especially when you stick him with the nail. Yes?”

Georgia wondered if this was some sort of test. She responded by giving Lester’s pet a few more pokes.

The doctor stroked his dirty chin. “Interesting. Very interesting. Sadistic personality. No remorse. Obvious sociopathic tendencies. And I don’t see a single bite mark on you. For one of Lester’s girlfriends, that’s remarkable. Did he happen to tell you what kind of doctor I am?”

Georgia shook her head. She couldn’t tell if she passed this old coot’s stupid test or not.

“I’m a brain specialist. Perhaps the foremost in the world. And I think, I think that you would be perfect for my experiments.”

“Lester is keeping Georgia girl.” Lester draped his long arms over her.

Doctor Plincer nodded. “But of course, Lester, of course. But perhaps your little girlfriend could be,” he smacked his lips, “enhanced. By the procedure.”

Georgia didn’t like the sound of that at all.

“Lester doesn’t want Georgia girl to be like the ferals,” Lester said. “Lester and Georgia girl are going to make babies.”

“This one won’t go feral, Lester. This one has all the traits I’m looking for. Plus she’s young. Strong.”

From somewhere else in the prison, Georgia heard screaming. A girl. It sounded like Laneesha.

“Lester won’t let Doctor take Georgia girl.”

“You hear that, Frankenstein?” Georgia said. “Back the fuck off.”

The doctor nodded again. “I see. I see. But I think, Lester my boy, that this is the best for all concerned. For me, for you, and for her. So I’m going to ask you, very nicely, to bring her to my lab. I promise no harm will come to her.”

Lester’s protective hug turned into a grab, seizing Georgia in his gigantic hands.

“Lester!” she cried, squirming to get away. She might as well have been bound with steel cable.

Doctor Plincer came closer, smiling. He was bent over with age, and Georgia could see straight down his collar. He wore no shirt beneath his lab coat, and his hairless pink chest was covered with shiny, puckered scars.

“Don’t you worry, my dear. I’m going to take very good care of you. You may even thank me for this later. Thank me, or, God forbid, try to eat me.”

Martin closed his eyes. The throb in his jaw was finally going away. He wondered how this had all gone so horribly wrong, and questioned his decision to bring everyone to this island.

He dismissed the thought quickly; regretting the past was a fool’s game. The thing to do now was think ahead. But was that even possible? What could he do to save Sara, the one-time love of his life, from the horrors in the woods?

The key to saving her was predicting her next move. What would she do next? Where would she go?

Martin rubbed his eyes, and an idea came to him.

He began to plan.

Moments after Cindy dropped the gun, Tyrone was dragging her away from the scene. It was stupid to give her the weapon. No one could have been able to look at that horrible feast and still been able to act. Tyrone would never be able to forget that image, even if he scrubbed his mind with steel wool.

He winced at the pain—he’d stuck his burned right hand under Cindy’s armpit to pull her, while his less-injured left held the torch. The extra illumination allowed them to move fast, sidestepping obstacles, watching their footing. Unfortunately, it was also like a beacon to those cannibals. From the sounds of it, they had no problems moving quickly in the dark. Tyrone guessed they were less than twenty yards behind them.

Seeing he had no choice, Tyrone ditched the torch, tossing it into a clump of bushes then tugging Cindy to the immediate left, breaking their current trajectory. Without the light it was like swimming in ink. Tyrone was forced to slow down to a quick walk, moving with one hand in front of him so he didn’t knock himself out on a tree. Gradually his night vision adjusted, and the trees thinned a bit to let occasional moonlight in, and the pair moved at a jog, Cindy in step beside Tyrone.

The figure stood in front of them, so still it almost looked like a tree. But the outline was definitely human, and there was only one, and rather than change directions yet again Tyrone lowered his head and charged.

His aim was good, and he prepared for impact, bunching up his neck and shoulder in a driving tackle.

But then, as if by magic, he was ass over head, flipping through the air, landing on his back so hard it knocked the wind out of him.

Tyrone had heard the term before, and knew what it meant, but he’d never had the wind knocked out of him before. It felt like a car was parked on his chest, and he couldn’t draw a breath, couldn’t make a sound.

This brought instant panic, and he began to flail around. Not at the figure. Just random, spastic movements, as if that could somehow fill him the with oxygen he so desperately craved. Little sparkly motes began to float through his vision. He felt close to passing out.

Then something dropped on his stomach. A person. Miraculously, the pressure forced his diaphragm to work again, and Tyrone wheezed in air like a vacuum. He tried to raise his arms, to defend himself against whomever had thrown him, and then he heard Cindy yell, “Sara!”

“Tyrone?”

It was Sara sitting on him. She was the one who flipped him. Maybe there was more to that judo shit than Tyrone had thought.

“You beat on all yo kids like this, Sara?” he whispered.

She immediately got off him, and Tyrone felt her hand grab his, pulling to help him up. He flinched away, her touch on his raw palm making him swear.

“Are you okay, Tyrone?” Sara asked. She sounded pretty frazzled.

“Hands are messed up, ‘n my pride just took a beatin’, but I’m okay.”

Sara tried again to help him stand, this time lifting by the elbow. When he was vertical, he had to endure a hug. Then Cindy came by and also hugged him, which Tyrone found much easier to endure.

“Girl, I know this ain’t the time, but, damn, if you don’t look good in nothin’ but that bra.”

“Thanks,” Cindy said. “Look, Tyrone, about—”

“Not your fault.” He rubbed his fingertips along the small of her back. “I couldn’t do it neither. That’s why I gave you the gun.”

“You found the gun?” Sara asked.

“I dropped it.”

Tyrone pulled Cindy closer, “It’s not her fault.”

“Where are the others? Are they okay?”

Tyrone and Cindy spent the next few minutes filling Sara in on everything that had happened. Sara, in turn, told them about all she’d been through.

“Mountains of bones?” Tyrone still had his left hand on Cindy’s back. It hurt, but he could deal with it. “How many damn cannibals are the on this island?”

“These bones were old. Real old. I think Martin may have been right about there being a civil war prison here. There were thousands of soldiers missing after the war, soldiers that have never been accounted for. Thirteen thousand men died at the Confederate prison, Andersonville. Six thousand at its Union counterpart, Camp Douglas. It’s possible the Union army also had another, secret prison. A place they’d kept hidden, off the record books, in case the South won the war.”

Tyrone didn’t get it. “Those cannibals move damn fast for bein’ over a hundred years old.”

Sara shook her head. “Those people, the ones after us, they aren’t from the prison. They’re something else.”

“What are they?”

“Martin called this Plincer’s Island, and the name has been nagging at me.” Sara paused, then said, “But I think I finally remembered who he is.”

Laneesha tried to think about Brianna, tried to cling to sanity by picturing her daughter’s sweet little face, but she couldn’t concentrate over the sounds of her own agonized screams.

Georgia couldn’t move. She thought she might be strapped down, but she didn’t feel any straps. In fact, she felt naked. Naked and lying on a cold table.

Lester’s play table, as that crazy doctor had called it?

No. That had shackles, and was wooden. This table felt like metal.

She tried to open her eyes and, amazingly, she couldn’t. Nor could she turn her head, clench her fist, or so much as moan. Nothing seemed to work at all.

Georgia remembered Lester holding her tight, then the doctor sticking her with some kind of needle. Must have knocked her out. But she wasn’t knocked out any more. She was awake, and aware, and could feel. But she couldn’t move any of her muscles.

Then, abruptly, light.

It took a moment to focus, and then Georgia found herself staring up at Lester, who was leaning over her. She realized he’d opened her eyelids with his fingers.

“Don’t worry, Georgia girl. It only hurts for a little while.”

She stared hard at Lester, imploring him to stop this, to help her get away. He smiled at her, then brought something in front of her eyes.

His camera.

The flash made Georgia’s pupils painfully constrict. Then Lester stepped back, and Doctor Plincer’s face came into view.

“I can’t express, my dear, how excited I am by the opportunity to try my procedure out on you. I’ve experimented on over a hundred people, over the last decade. Not that many, considering the importance of my work. Only about ten a year, average. I’m limited, you see. Not many people visit the island. And those that do, well, I usually don’t have the opportunity to work with them. My, failures, I suppose you can call them, are quite hostile toward strangers. And quite hungry too, I’m afraid. I’m an old man, on a fixed income. I really can’t afford to feed so many.”

She felt the doctor’s hand touch her neck, then smooth her hair behind her ear. From deep within the bowels of the prison, Georgia heard screaming.

“Pardon the bluntness,” Dr. Plincer said, “but you really aren’t much to look at. You do have something about you, however. Something extraordinary. You see, most of the people I’ve had the pleasure to experiment on, they’re normal people. I’ve only had one success with a normal person. True, I’ve only had two successes with sadistic personality types, but the overall percentage is much greater. The military, they used to bring me criminals to work on, but they’ve temporarily pulled the plug on my funding. Busy doing other things, I suspect.”

Doctor Plincer kept his hand on Georgia’s ear. Then he began to squeeze the lobe. Hard. Digging his nails in. Georgia’s eyes teared up, but she couldn’t flinch away from the pain, not even a millimeter.

“The drug used to paralyze you is called succinocholine. It renders you completely immobile. This is necessary, as I’m working with a very precise area of the brain. If you moved, even slightly, you could end up being lobotomized, or having your language center damaged, or your neuron clusters regressed. That would be a waste. Unfortunately, for you, I have to keep you awake for the procedure. The brain is an amazing organ, and it has many different states of consciousness. For this experiment to be successful, you need to be in a beta wave state. Fully awake.”

He moved in closer, smiling. Georgia could smell his sour body odor.

“I’m using a serum. A special serum. It contains, among other things, pluriopotent stem cells. You’ve heard of stem cell research, I’m sure. The bans. The controversy. The ethical dilemma.”

The doctor scratched his chin, and a bit of dried skin flaked off. Georgia felt the crumb land on her lower lip.

“The reason stem cells are so important in research is that they are, in layman’s terms, blank. A stem cell can develop into any sort of cell at all, if properly coerced. Skin cells. Bone cells. Nerve cells. Brain cells.” Plincer shrugged. “Alas, the only continuous and plentiful source for stem cells is unborn babies. Hence the banning and the controversy. But I have an arrangement with a doctor on the mainland, one who specializes in terminating pregnancies. He supplies me with all the stem cells I require.”

Georgia willed herself to move. She had to get away from the maniac. Just a little while ago, she’d been flush with power. Master of all she surveyed. To go from total control to absolute helplessness, especially at the mercy of some crackpot doctor, was infuriating. But no matter how hard she tried, how much she concentrated, her muscles refused to obey her commands.

“Lester is right. This is going to hurt. The only way I can inject my experimental serum to the correct area of your brain is through your tear ducts. My colleagues, the fools, didn’t think it could be done. But it can. I’m going to enhance certain portions of your brain. Make them grow larger. With a little bit of luck, you may soon join my other successes. You may become a Level 6.”

Doctor Plincer held something in front of Georgia’s line of vision. A syringe. A big fucking syringe, with the longest needle Georgia had ever seen.

He can’t plunge that into my eye. Dear god sweet jesus oh no he can’t…

“From what I’ve been told, the first injection is the worst.” The doctor smacked his lips. “The five after that aren’t as bad.”

He raised the needle above her eye, leaning in even closer, the point coming down slowly, methodically, until it rested on her tear duct. It was a minor sting, like a piece of grit caught in her eye. But Georgia couldn’t rub it away. She couldn’t even blink.

Then Doctor Plincer shoved.

The pain was preternatural. Blinding. Explosive. Like her eyeball had burst and her was brain was boiling and it went on and on and ON…

Plincer extracted the needle, sighed, and used his dirty coat sleeve to wipe away some sweat that had beaded up on his bald head. Georgia’s head still throbbed. Somehow, each thought, each sense, had taken on an almost physical manifestation. Words that she cognated felt like stab wounds, each syllable a twist of a knife. Doctor Plincer’s BO smelled like Georgia’s nose was on fire. His hand on her face was a jumper cable attached to her nerves, roasting her alive. Every single sensation, every single thought, brought agony she couldn’t escape from.

Then her vision turned red.

“Good girl. I’ll give you a lollipop later. Let me suction off some of this blood.”

Dr. Plincer held a tube to her tear duct. It hurt worse than a hornet stinging her eyeball, and the sound made her ache like her teeth were being drilled.

“What you’re feeling now is called synesthesia. It’s when each of our senses mixes up its signals on the way to the brain. It’s how someone taking LSD thinks he can smell the color red, or taste a Led Zepplin song. But in your case, every sense you have is activating your pain receptors. And because of that, I’m ashamed to admit I’ve lied to you.”

Doctor Plincer raised another syringe. “These next five injections are going to hurt quite a bit more.”

Tom’s stomach was really making noise now, loud enough for it to be heard above his stomping and crashing through the forest. The smell of cooked meat was intoxicating. The faster he got there, the faster he could stuff his face. Then he could take his meds, go to sleep, and try to enjoy the rest of this mini-vacation before his dumb-ass father sent him to that dumb-ass military academy.

He wasn’t worried about getting in trouble for the gun incident. A large component of his ADHD was an inability to take responsibility for his actions. Tom didn’t feel empathy, or remorse, especially since everything that went wrong in his life was someone else’s fault.

Tom was getting close now, because he saw the flickering orange light of the campfire through the trees. He was so intent on reaching it, and the food, that he didn’t watch his footing and tripped over an exposed tree root. Right into a burr bush.

“Aw…shit.”

The burrs clung to his shirt like little Velcro jelly beans. He got on his knees, fussing to tug them off, then on impulse he reached up and checked his hair.

More burrs.

“God damn it!”

They were stuck good, too. The last time Tom encountered burrs he was a kid, maybe six or seven. The only way to remove them was with a haircut. A drastic haircut that made him look like frickin’ Homer Simpson. He yanked at one stuck in his bangs, pulling until his eyes watered.

Frickin’ great.

Tom didn’t like being laughed at, and he was sure everyone else would think this was the funniest thing ever. It wasn’t even his fault. Stupid root. Stupid burr bush. Stupid Martin and Sara for taking him on this stupid trip. He debated whether he even wanted to go back to camp. Maybe if he went back to the lake, went swimming, the burrs would loosen up.

No. Bad idea. It was too easy to get lost.

He sucked in air through his teeth, seriously annoyed, and decided he would punch anyone who made fun of him. Ten steps later, he was at the campsite.

Except this wasn’t the right campsite. First of all, there were no tents. Second, what he thought was a fire wasn’t really a fire. It was a big patch of glowing orange sticks and what looked like charcoal. And there was some kind of broken swing-set sitting in the middle of the fire.

Tom walked around the fit pit, searching for people. No one was around. But the cooked meat smell was definitely coming from here. In fact, it was coming from that swing-set thingy.

He gave it his full attention. There was some kind of meat roasting there, a large hunk between the metal bars. Maybe half a cow. No, not big enough for a cow. A pig, maybe. Or a big turkey. Hard to tell by looking at it. The meat was really scorched, and there weren’t any features to identify it.

Whatever it was, it smelled awesome. And no one appeared to be nearby, so no one could protest if Tom helped himself. The burrs in his hair were now forgotten. Another symptom of ADHD was a severe lack of memory retention, coupled with an ultra-short attention span. Tom had been told this many times, but for some reason it never stuck with him.

He took a quick look around for some sort of barbecue fork or tongs that he could use to grab some of the meat, then figured he could probably just stick his hand between the bars and grab a hunk from the top part. So he did just that.

It was hot, almost too hot to touch. But Tom was quick, and the meat was so tender it fell off the bone. He brought back a nice, long strip, and played hot potato, tossing it from hand to hand, blowing on it. When it was finally cool enough, Tom raised the greasy morsel to his lips.

Hmm. Tastes like chicken.

Damn good, though. Needed some sauce, and some salt, but as far as mystery meat went it sure beat the frickin’ meatloaf Sara cooked every frickin’ Sunday.

Tom licked his fingers clean and reached for seconds.

Sara squatted on her haunches, and she instructed Tyrone and Cindy to do the same. They listened to the night, straining to hear the distinctive sounds of pursuit. The night only offered crickets, and the whistling wind.

Sara had calmed down a bit, but still wished she had a light. If Tyrone hadn’t run into her, Sara knew she would still be standing in that same spot, freaking out. But slipping into the role of responsible adult had forced her to push back her fear of the darkness, at least for the moment. Plus Sara surprised herself by being able to flip Tyrone, even in her semi-catatonic state. Maybe she wasn’t as helpless as she thought.

“So who was Plincer?” Cindy whispered.

The question took Sara back to college, more than a decade ago. “A footnote in abnormal psychology. I learned about him in school, in an advanced psych class. He was a crackpot, who

created something called the Plincer Scale, which he used to measure the evil in criminal behavior. Many years later, in the 90s, he made waves as an expert witness in serial killer trials. For the defense. If I remember right, Plincer thought evil was a genetic physical trait.”

Cindy leaned in closer. “You mean like hair color? Or height?”

“Exactly. He believed some people’s brains were different, that they were born that way. If it was their brain that made them evil, it wasn’t really their fault, so they couldn’t be blamed for their crimes.”

Tyrone snorted. “That’s crazy.”

“It’s far out, but it does have some basis in fact. The amygdale, thalamus, hypothalamus, and the cingulate gyrus—these are all parts of the brain responsible for forming emotions. Studies in animals have shown if these parts are damaged or removed, it has radical effects on behavior. They can be made more aggressive, more violent. There have also been cases in humans where injury or aneurism completely changed someone’s personality. I heard of a recent murder trial in Chicago where a brain tumor allegedly contributed to a police officer going on a killing spree.”

Sara also recalled the famous case of Phineas P. Gage. She had written a report on him in school, as had every other aspiring psychologist. Gage was a railroad worker in the 1800s. He was blasting rock and the explosion drove a three foot long iron bar through his head. Incredibly, he survived. He was even coherent, and could speak moments after the accident. But after the bar was removed, Gage’s personality changed dramatically. He’d become more impulsive and violent, prone to risk-taking. Friends said that he was unrecognizable, a completely different person.

This incident proved revolutionary. Science hadn’t previously known that specific regions of the brain effected behavior.

“Whether or not we want to think about it,” Sara continued, “who we are as people is very much tied into a bunch of cells, chemicals, and electrical changes in our brains. Tampering with this delicate balance can turn someone into someone else.”

The wind died down, and the crickets stopped. Sara listened for the sounds of approaching footsteps. There was something in the distance, a branch snapping.

Then, nothing.

“So this Plincer cat,” Tyrone said, startling Sara. “He believed people could be born evil?”

As a psychologist herself, Sara didn’t believe in evil. Morality was dictated by the majority in any given society. In Roman times, it wasn’t considered evil to throw Christians to the lions. The Nazis didn’t consider themselves evil, they were judged so by the victors. Human beings throughout history did terrible things to each other, but whether or not these things were evil remained subjective. To some, the death penalty was evil. To some, not going to church every Sunday was evil.

Sara preferred to believe that human beings were inherently selfish, and when this selfishness infringed upon the well-being or lives of others, a psychological problem was usually at play. Evil had no place in psychology. Sara didn’t even apply that label to her own abductor, Paulie Gunther Spence. Though he committed unspeakable atrocities on Sara’s friend, Louise, Spence was a classic example of a sexual sadist with anti-social personality disorder. Nothing more.

“I don’t believe evil exists, Tyrone.”

“You do know we hidin’ from some folks tryin’ to eat us, right?”

“That could be because of many different psychological and physiological factors, including hunger.”

“But Plincer thought people were evil because they had evil brains?”

“Plincer thought people could be born with brain irregularities that made them evil. Irregularities that were so extreme, it was impossible to stop violent impulses.”

“Was he right?” Tyrone asked.

“Tough to say. Morality, free will, personality, impulse and action, even consciousness itself, still aren’t completely understood. The brain holds a lot of secrets science hasn’t figured out yet. But Plincer bragged he knew the exact parts of the brain that made people evil. He even said he could prove it, that he could make a person evil with drugs and surgery.”

“Could he?”

Sara closed her eyes. She couldn’t even remember her professor’s name from that class, let alone anything he specifically said about Plincer. The only reason she remembered Plincer at all was his 15 seconds of news coverage after his last trial.

“I might be wrong, but I remember some newspaper printing something about an orangutan Plincer experimented on. He did some something to his brain, and basically turned the orangutan into a psychopath. It killed six other research animals.”

“So what happened to Plincer?” Cindy asked. She was whispering.

“Some would call it karma. One of the criminals Plincer was called to defend…” What the hell was his name? “Parks. No, Paks. Lester Paks. He killed a woman by biting her to death. Doctor Plincer testified Lester wasn’t responsible for his actions, and he also said that if the court released Lester into his care, he would be able to cure him. The court allowed it.”

“Did Plincer cure him?”

Sara shrugged. “No. Lester almost killed him. Soon after, both Doctor Plincer and Lester disappeared. Neither have been seen in years.”

“So you think Plincer came here?”

“I don’t know, Tyrone.”

Cindy spoke so softly that Sara had to strain to hear her. “Maybe he came here and kept doing his research. Only instead of monkeys, he did it on people.”

“If so, Cindy, we’re in a lot more trouble than I thought.”

Another branch broke, this one so close it made Sara flinch. She squinted into the dark, saw something move. Then something else.

“We need to run,” she told the kids. “Right now.”

When Archibald Mordecai Plincer was a child, he was picked on a lot. He didn’t understand why. He was thin, and a little small for his age, but otherwise relatively happy and well adjusted. But, for whatever reason, he was a magnet for bullies.

The abuse got so bad that Plincer’s parents finally plucked him out of public school and enrolled him in a private academy. This new school also had bullies, and one of the worst was the headmaster, who seemed to delight in doling out punishment.

Plincer eventually had a growth spurt, bringing him up to average height and making him a less desirable target for his peers. Since he did what he was supposed to, Plincer also managed to keep away from the headmaster for the most part. But he remained fascinated by schadenfreude—the act of taking joy in the misery of others. He decided to become a doctor and specialize in psychiatry, just to figure out what made sadistic personalities tick.

But where others in the psychiatric field gravitated toward drug therapy and talking sessions and their effect on the conscious and subconscious, Plincer was fascinated by the physical nature of the brain itself. If the heart was malfunctioning, you didn’t use a couch trip to cure it; you went in with a scalpel. Why should the brain be any different?

His early research was done on animals. Plincer used psychosurgery and implanted electrodes to perform what he termed reverse lobotomies. While his predecessors used frontal lobotomies to neutralize aggressive behavior—like what happened to Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest—Plincer was able to stimulate parts of the brain to make the subject more aggressive.

Unfortunately, there proved to be little research money available for doctors interested in making meaner animals. Because Plincer was more curious about the brain’s physiology than psychology, and there were laws against tampering with people’s gray matter, human experiments were impossible. So he drifted into criminal psychology with the intent to study anti-social behavior.

His first round of notoriety came in the late 80s, when he created the Plincer Scale based on his studies. It ranked the amount of evil in violent criminal behavior. Hitting an old lady on the head to steal her purse was a Level 1. Torturing and murdering a child for amusement was a Level 5. Every other violent act fell somewhere in between.

The idea that the Plincer Scale could be directly linked to the physical make-up of the brain tantalized the doctor. He met with criminals in prison, got them to donate their bodies to his research after they died, but they weren’t dying fast enough or in large enough numbers for Plincer to conclusively prove the link between brain deformity and evil. So he began to testify in criminal trials, biding his time until a Level 5 criminal was entrusted to his care.

Lester Paks was that criminal. By that time, Plincer was sure he knew which parts of the mind controlled violent behavior, and if he could cure Lester it would usher in a whole new era of psychiatry.

But he wasn’t as careful with Lester as he should have been. Lester managed to escape his room.

What happened next still gave Plincer nightmares.

Though he survived Lester’s attack, it effectively ended Plincer’s career. No one would give a job to a doctor proven so dramatically wrong.

Luckily, Plincer’s family had money. Old money, earned in blood, going back to the Civil War and his great-great grandfather. Plincer secretly set up shop on Rock Island, and he brought Lester with him. After all, it wasn’t the boy’s fault he was evil. It was a physiological brain problem. Even after the…ordeal…Lester had put him through, Plincer was committed to keep working with him.

Plincer did manage to cure Lester’s SMD, saving the teenager from his irresistible compulsion to bite himself. He also managed to do something he’d dreamed about since his youth. No longer restricted by the courts, or the law, Plincer turned Lester into something one-of-a-kind.

A Level 6.

Level 6 had always been hypothetical. Even the worst criminals—the serial killers, the child torturers, the genocidal dictators—carried with them shreds of humanity. The most evil people to ever live still had boundaries.

But after the procedure, Lester had zero boundaries. He’d gone from taking pleasure in the pain of others to needing it. Feeding his evil desires became a requirement, like food and oxygen.

High on this success, Plincer made a few calls, and wound up in bed with an army General who found this result intriguing. For a few years, Plincer was supplied with money and prisoners to experiment on.

Unfortunately, Plincer couldn’t repeat the results. He did manage to attain Level 6 once more, with Subject 33. But Subject 33 proved impossible to control. The procedure drove the other subjects insane, making them regress to the point that they were more animal than human. The ferals. The military had no interest in feral people, so the General ended the program.

But Plincer got lucky, and got his hands on some civilians. After revamping his formula, and fine-tuning the procedure, he was again successful. He contacted the General with the news, and was brushed off.

So be it. There were other interested parties.

Four generations ago his great-great grandfather made a fortune by betraying the United States.

Now, a hundred and forty years later, Archibald Mordecai Plincer was also forced to turn his back on his country.

Treason seemed to run in the family.

Dr. Plincer sat behind his desk, applied more putty to his chin, and frowned at the letter once more. Plincer didn’t get much mail, but he maintained a PO Box in Traverse City, and his delivery man checked it once a month and brought it along with the rest of his supplies.

The doctor read it again, as if the words were going to say something different from the other thirty times he’d read it.

The letter was from his accountant, and described several recent events in the news which Plincer knew nothing about because he didn’t follow the news—there was no phone, cable television, newspaper delivery, or Internet service to the island. The letter went on to say the market had taken a beating, the economy was in ruins, and Plincer was very close to broke.

Plincer wondered, not for the first time, if his accountant was crooked and stealing funds. The doctor could easily send Lester to his house and get the truth out of him. But if the country really was at war in the Middle East, and the Dow Jones had really crashed, torturing the man wouldn’t provide anything more than the empty thrill of vengeance.

Still, an hour with Lester might teach that idiot the importance of diversification in a portfolio.

It was all water under the bridge. Plincer’s only chance at funding now hinged on how his meeting tomorrow would go. He checked another letter from the pile on his desk, and rechecked the arrival time. The helicopter would be arriving at nine a.m. Plincer had instructed them to land on the east side of the prison, where there was a clearing.

While the doctor rather enjoyed the isolation the island provided, he did wish he could confirm this meeting again by phone or email. So much was riding on this venture. If they were a no-show, it would take weeks to contact them again to find out why. By that time, he’d be broke, and perhaps forced to scrounge for food alongside the unfortunate cannibals he’d inadvertently created.

Doctor Plincer closed his eyes. There was still much to do before the meeting. He’d given that black girl to Subject 33 on the understanding that there would be other volunteers to use in his demonstration tomorrow. And while performing the procedure on that Georgia person was an unprecedented opportunity, the doctor wondered if he hadn’t been too eager, too hasty. But the prospect of creating another Level 6 was too exciting to pass up.

Unfortunately, that currently left Plincer with a deficit of victims.

According to his intel, there were still five likely candidates on the island. Though the ferals had surprised the doctor by proving themselves able to work together, he doubted they would be able to grab all of the new arrivals. Some would survive.

Plincer glanced at the clock. He had less than eight hours to get his hands on them. It would make for a much more effective presentation if he were able to grab all five. But all he needed was a single volunteer.

It was time to send Lester back out to find one.

Martin stared below him, through the leaves of the bough he perched upon. His swollen hands had resisted his efforts to climb the tree, and his ruined cheek resting against the rough bark of the oak tree’s branch made his injury light up every time he swallowed. But he felt lucky to have gotten up in time.

A few moments earlier, in a semi-frantic search for Sara, he’d come upon a group of feral people. He fled before they saw him. Or so he thought. Within ten minutes, the ferals were on his trail, closing fast. Martin ran as hard has he could, not daring to use the flashlight, fearing he’d give his position away. Only moments into the chase, something surprising happened; he bumped into another group.

After his third right turn, Martin’s gut burned with realization. They had him trapped. These insane, witless cannibals had somehow managed to surround him.

With no choices left, he picked a large tree and hoped for the best. The ferals closed the circle and converged, twelve of them total, right beneath his perch. More than expected, too many to be able to handle, less than ten feet beneath him.

The largest man in the group, the one with the ax, grunted orders at the others, pointing in various directions. Then he leaned up against the tree and reached into the sack he had hanging over his shoulder.

Martin couldn’t make out any details, but the axman pulled out a dark round object the size of a football. He brought it to his face and took a bite. The scent of cooked pork wafted up to Martin. But Martin knew whatever this guy was eating, it wasn’t pork.

The axman sat down. He began to really gnaw on the thing, shaking his hairy head from side to side like a dog worrying a bone. Martin’s leg began to fall asleep. The pins and needles sensation grew from a minor discomfort to a spreading numbness. He shifted slightly, anxious to stay quiet, twisting his pelvis so the blood flow could return.

Then his adrenalin spiked, flushing his body with heat, causing every muscle to contract as Martin lost his balance and began to fall.

Cindy knew she was hurting Tyrone—clenching his left hand so tight—but she was too frightened to let go. They ran as fast as safety allowed, heads down to keep from getting lashed in the face by wayward twigs and branches, arms swinging like walking sticks for the blind, so no one head-butted a tree. Cindy had no clue how many pursuers there were, or how close they’d gotten, and she was ready to circle the island ten times before she slowed down to find out.

But her lungs and legs and stamina were casualties of meth, and though she’d been off the drug for a while her body still hadn’t fully recovered. After only a few minutes of running, Tyrone practically had to drag her, and Cindy’s panting was becoming increasingly labored and loud.

When Sara finally stopped, Cindy fell to her knees, pressing a hand hard against the stitch in her side and gasping for air.

Sara came over, and whispered, “Shh.”

Cindy’s face pinched as she tried to get her breathing under control. Sara crawled ahead, up to a bush, and stuck her head inside. It was still dark, but Cindy could see pretty well. She moved her head to the side, so Sara’s shadow didn’t block her vision.

Wait… shadow?

On all fours, Cindy crept closer to Sara. All at once she understood where the light was coming from, and the importance of being quiet.

Somehow, they’d gotten back to their campsite.

Their fire was smaller, the few logs left burning slow and steady. The last time Cindy was here there were two cannibals, eating their fallen friend. Only one remained. The one with the knife and fork and salt shaker. His head was resting on the chest of the dead one, using it like a gory pillow.

Cindy turned her head away before viewing any details.

“He asleep?” Tyrone whispered.

“Can’t tell.” Sara withdrew her head from the bush. “But he’s right next to the tent. That’s where the radio is.”

“I’ll go,” Tyrone said. “I’ll be real careful, won’t wake him up.”

Sara shook her head. “No. I’ll go. You both stay here.”

“You be better off watchin’ my back. If I’m in that tent, lookin’ for the radio, I won’t know if this crazy dude wakes up. But you know that judo shit, can stop him better ‘n I can.”

Sara shook her head. “You stay here, guard Cindy.”

“How’m I supposed to guard Cindy when I can’t even make no fist?”

Cindy touched Tyrone’s shoulder. “The best way to do this is to crawl. You can’t crawl with your burns. But I can.”

“Hells no.”

“No way, Cindy.”

Cindy looked at Sara. “Tyrone is right. If that man gets up, you’re the only one who can stop him.”

Sara looked away. “I…I don’t think I could do that again.”

“Yes you can. You’re strong enough.”

And so am I.

Before she lost her nerve, Cindy scrambled through the bush and into the clearing. She rested her belly on the ground and craned her neck. The cannibal was to her right, five yards away, lying down in front of the tent. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically.

You can do this. You can prove you’re more than just some selfish meth addict.

Cindy crept forward, slow and easy and quiet as a mouse wearing slippers. That was what her father used to say when he took her hunting. The image would make her laugh, which of course wasn’t quiet at all.

God, she missed him. Missed him and Mom so bad. They hadn’t visited her in at the Center, and she couldn’t blame them—Cindy had stolen everything of value in the house, pawning it to get more meth. But now more than ever, she wanted to see them again, to tell them how sorry she was, to promise she’d pay back every cent. She would, too, if she lived through this.

Cindy kept low, eyes darting back and forth between the tent entrance and the sleeping killer. She was so focused on her destination that she didn’t see whatever it was she rested her extended palm on.

But Cindy didn’t have to see it. She knew without looking. It was warm, and wet, and squishy, and she’d helped Mom prepare enough of it that the smell normally evoked pleasant, homey feelings.

This time it didn’t.

Her stomach clenched, and she felt ready to hurl. In fact, she was eighty percent there, mouth already open, the gagging sound working her way up her throat.

But she squeezed her eyes shut and repressed it, forced the reflex down. Vomiting was noisy, noise would draw attention, and that could kill her.

The moment passed. Cindy breathed through her mouth, slow and deep, relaxing her abdomen. Then she carefully lifted her hand off and wiped it on the dirt. Gravel and ash stuck to the moisture on her palm, and she vowed that she would never, under any circumstances, eat liver again.

She adjusted her direction to avoid encountering anything else, and continued forward. But it didn’t matter. The cannibals had been messy eaters, and Cindy’s fingers kept brushing against various bits and parts strewn all over the ground. The knees of her jeans soaked through, and her hands glistened in the flickering campfire. She pressed forward, getting to within ten feet of the tent, eight feet, five feet…

The cannibal grunted, shifting his body. The knife and fork, resting crisscross on his chest, shifted, sliding off and making a clanging sound that to Cindy felt like a shotgun blast. He was now on his side, facing her.

She froze, staring at his still-closed eyes. His cheeks were wet with blood, and little stringy things were caught in his beard. If he opened his eyes it was over. Sara and Tyrone wouldn’t be able to save her in time. Here was a man who ate what seemed to be his friend. What would he do to someone he considered an enemy?

Cindy glanced right. The entrance to the tent was tantalizingly close, but she was too scared to move. She thought she’d hit rock bottom when she’d passed out in a disgusting gas station toilet, a needle stuck in her arm, lying in a puddle of someone else’s urine for hours until the owner discovered her and called the police. But this—an arm’s length from a crazy man who wanted to snack on her—this was the all time low.

Quiet as a mouse in slippers, little girl. Move like you live in the woods.

Cindy tore her eyes away from the killer, locking them onto the tent. Moving oh so slowly she forced herself toward it, hand, knee, hand, knee, ignoring the horrible, slippery things she crawled over, and then, all at once, her head and shoulders were inside the tent, relief coursing through her like the meth she was so intent on quitting.

That’s when Cindy heard the snoring.

The other cannibal was in the sleeping bag.

Tom patted his full stomach and yawned. He was dog-ass tired, and had eaten waaaaay too much. All he wanted was to curl up someplace and go to sleep. He was even considering doing so right there, in front of the coals. It was warm, and comfortable, and whosever camp this was hadn’t been around for over an hour. If they did come back and get mad that he ate there food, it was their own frickin’ fault for leaving it here.

Sara and Martin would be frantic, of course, if he stayed out all night. But it was their frickin’ fault for playing that stupid trick and trying to scare him. Screw those two anyway. It wasn’t like anything Tom did mattered at this point. The Center was closing and Tom was going off to some frickin’ boot camp. Let them worry themselves to death.

He yawned again, stretched out his arms, and stood, looking for something that would serve as a pillow. There was some sort of cloth near the coals, and he bent down and picked it up, immediately recognizing it.

Meadow’s shirt.

Huh. Weird. But then, Meadow had to be in on the prank too, pretending to get grabbed in the woods. Maybe he was in the trees right now, waiting to jump out.

Tom turned in a full circle, scanning the treeline. It looked just as dark and quiet as ever.

Then Tom did something he almost never did. He doubted himself.

For just a fraction of a second, he wondered if maybe this wasn’t all some big joke, and that there actually were cannibals in the woods. Hell, that mystery meat he just stuffed himself with could have even been a person.

Tom was all about impulse, forging ahead, not looking back. Doubt and guilt existed only as fleeting thoughts. Without his ADHD medication, Tom couldn’t be still long enough to spell the word worried, let alone act worried.

So he dismissed the doubt as soon as it came, rolled Meadow’s shirt into ball, and propped it behind his neck as he stretched out onto the ground, facing a severed human hand.

Tom jerked back into a sitting position, unable to believe what he just saw. He looked again.

A hand. Cooked and fleshy, except for three skeletal fingers that had no meat on them.

Never one to pay attention to his surroundings, Tom twisted around quickly, his eyes scanning the ground for the first time. In short order he found four rib bones, a burned lump that looked like a kidney, and a partially eaten leg that still had the foot attached.

“No way. No frickin’ way.”

He reached out, touched the leg bone.

It wasn’t a plastic prop. It was the real thing. And the blackened, melted shoe still attached had a green Nike swoosh on it, just like Meadow wore.

Tom threw up so hard and fast it felt like his throat was being torn out. That’s when the tall thin man with the camera stepped out of the woods and snapped his picture.

Martin’s lower body slipped off the branch, then his chest followed the lead. He hung in a chin-up position, his feet dangling within reach of the axman sitting beneath him. Martin held this position, his fingers screaming at him, knowing he’d be unable to swing his body back up, and knowing what dropping down meant.

His arms began to burn, then tremble, then unbend slowly, like the air being let out of a pneumatic jack. Below him, the axman continued to gnaw on that large round object. But it was only a matter of seconds until he looked up. Martin knew he was in a vulnerable position, knew his best chance was to swing over to—

The tug was sudden and violent, ripping Martin’s hands from the bough. He slammed into the ground on his side, the shock of the impact making him bite his already injured tongue. Inches from his nose was Meadow’s cooked head, much of his face eaten away.

Martin instinctively rolled left, just as the ax struck where he’d been lying. Martin continued the roll until he had room to get his hands and knees up under him. A moment later he was on his feet, dizzy and hurting, but with his fists raised.

“That was one of my kids,” Martin said softly. “My kids. You think you can kill one of mine?”

The axman was large, powerful, with thick arms and a neck like a tree stump. But when he swung the ax again in an arc aimed at Martin’s head, he showed his weakness. The bigger man was slow.

Martin ducked the swing and kicked out his foot, connecting between the axman’s legs. The he grabbed the ax handle and twisted it sideways, leveraging it from its owner’s thick fingers. Leverage and momentum were a fighter’s best weapons.

The axman grunted, stumbling forward, and Martin did a quick spin, momentum propelling the weapon around, burying the head into his adversary’s shoulder. The axman howled, dropping to his knees.

Martin finished him off, making extra sure the beast was dead.

“My kids, asshole.” Then he headed off to look for Sara.

He was called Kong Zhi-ou in the People’s Republic of China, and was on Homeland Security’s no fly list, so his passport was under the name Sonny Lung. He spoke British English perfectly, even affecting the accent. And he was running late.

There wasn’t much he could do about that at 20,000 feet, infuriating as it was. Kong liked order, and the predictability that came with it. Being on time was something that should be a given, not a wish. But no one had chosen Kong to run this airline, so all he could do was order another cup of tea from the portly flight attendant and try to keep his anger bottled up.

If the pilot was telling the truth—and he was American so Kong suspected he wasn’t—the flight would touch down at Chicago’s O’Hare airport in a little over an hour. Too late for him to catch the connecting flight to Sawyer International. That gave Kong a choice between staying in Chicago for a few hours, then boarding the early Sawyer departure, or chartering a helicopter at O’Hare and flying that straight to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

He knew, even at this late hour, finding a chopper would be easy. Kong represented the premier world power, and had that power’s unlimited resources backing him. But he disliked the noise of helicopter rides, and involving more people in this venture meant more trails to hide. So Kong accepted the fact he’d be stuck at the O’Hare Hilton for a brief four hour stay.

Kong didn’t worry whether or not they had a room, because he’d already made reservations. He even arranged for a bit of entertainment, just in case the anticipated delay materialized. Planning ahead was one of the reasons Kong was so successful.

The tea came. Even in First Class it was insipid, almost unpalatable. He sipped it anyway, allowing his anger to build. He’d work it off later, after he landed.

Closing his eyes, Kong thought about the future of his country. China’s military was one of the largest in the world, more than twice the size of America’s. But it was underequipped. Even spending over twenty billion dollars in the last six years on arms wasn’t enough to guarantee its superiority. The war with the West was coming, sooner than many thought, and to win it China needed more manpower and more weapons.

Which is why the meeting with Doctor Plincer was so intriguing.

If all worked out, Kong would leave his position as director of the Jinzhong prison system, and take a new, more lucrative appointment with the People’s Liberation Army. He, Kong Zhi-ou, would ensure China could not only ably defend itself from its enemies, but if necessary, conquer them.

Kong didn’t smile often, but the thought of the Western world under Chinese rule brought a tiny one to his lips. He sipped more tea and waited patiently for his plane to land.

The interior of the tent was warm and sour, smelling of fresh blood and old sweat. Though the light was low, on her left Cindy could make out the shape of a person wrapped in a sleeping bag—the dirty, hairy man she’d seen earlier, the one who tried to grab her and Tyrone. He snored wetly, making the hair on Cindy’s arms stand on edge.

Cindy’s first reaction was to back up, get the hell out of there, and she went so far as to lean away. But her limbs stayed put. The radio was in that tent, and it was their only chance to get off this island alive. So she ignored all the voices in her brain screaming at her to leave, and instead inched forward.

There were backpacks to her right, their contents strewn about, probably by Tom. Cindy squinched her eyes, not even sure what the radio in question looked like. Before she rushed bravely in, possibly to her own death, she should have at least asked how big it was. In the dimness she could make out some clothing, a stack of cans, and something square-shaped. Were radios square? She crawled closer to the square thing, keeping the instinct to flee at bay.

The snoring cannibal kept a steady rhythm, every snort a reminder that death was less than three feet away. As Cindy got closer she saw the familiar red cross on the box.

A first aid kit. Tyrone needed this for his hands.

She picked it up and carefully placed it on the ground behind her, near the entrance. Then she began to paw through the discarded clothing.

After carefully setting aside one of Martin’s shirts, Cindy noticed a tiny red light, no larger than a BB. She reached for it, touching something hard and rectangular. Her fingers brushed over an antenna. It was either a very old model cell phone, or…

A walkie-talkie.

Cindy seized it, snugging it to her chest, and it let go with a loud burst of static hiss when she accidentally pressed a button.

She froze, holding her breath, listening for the inevitable sound of the cannibal reaching for her.

There was only silence.

Cindy waited, her hands shaking, her kidneys aching. If attacked, she needed to scream to alert Sara and Tyrone. She also needed to find a weapon. The radio had some heft, but she couldn’t risk damage by throwing or swinging it. The first aid kit was in a metal box. Heavier and stronger.

If he wakes up, scream first, then go for the kit.

Still no sound. Cindy hadn’t exhaled yet.

If she had to defend herself, she needed her hands free. Carefully feeling around the walkie-talkie, she discovered what she sought; a belt clip. Ever so slowly she hooked it onto the top of her pants.

Silence continued to pervade the tent. The cannibal wasn’t moving at all.

Cindy let her air out slowly, through her teeth, in an extended, soft hiss. She wanted to take another breath—her heart was thumping like mad—but she was too frightened.

Just get out of there. Get the hell out.

She began to back up, nice and easy, the quiet pressing down on her like a weight, when the obvious hit her.

Why isn’t he snoring anymore? Could he be awake?

That’s when the cannibal sprung up, winding his filthy arm around Cindy’s mouth before she had a chance to scream.

Sara felt ready to explode. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since Cindy crawled into the tent, but each second seemed like a little stretch of eternity in hell. Not being able to see her, not knowing what was happening to one of her kids, made Sara’s imagination run riot with atrocities.

She forced herself to count the seconds. A minute was more than enough time for Cindy to find the radio. After a minute, Sara was determined to go in after her.

Sara began a slow count to sixty.

“How long Cindy been in there?” Tyrone nudged her.

“Not long,” she whispered back.

The numbers ticked through Sara’s mind, and she pictured them as she thought of them, each one big and red and sounding like a gong.

By the time she reached number twenty, it felt like a year had passed.

“I’m going after her.”

Sara held Tyrone back. “Give her a minute.”

“Been more than a minute.”

The number thirty shone like a spotlight in Sara’s head. “He’s still asleep. She’s okay.”

“There were two of those cannibals,” Tyrone said.

Number thirty-four hung in the air, then disintegrated. “Two?”

“I just had a bad thought. Maybe the other guy is in the tent.”

Sara abandoned the count, springing up from the crouching position, marching through the thicket to the campsite.

It’s murder, Sara. You can’t murder another human being. Not while he’s asleep.

She stormed over to him, crossing the damp ground where blood had mixed with the dirt, making mud. Bits of sinew clung to her hiking boots, and organ meat squished beneath her feet.

This is cold-blooded. It’s not even self-defense.

Sara stood next to the sleeping cannibal, raising up her foot, ready to stomp down on his neck.

He’s asleep for chrissakes. You’re killing a defenseless, sleeping man.

The cannibal opened his eyes.

He’s not asleep anymore.

Sara brought her heel down as hard as she could. She put her weight into it, twisting her hips, trying to separate his head from his body.

But he moved at the last moment, and her foot hit his shoulder.

Then Sara was stumbling backward, thrown off balance, and the cannibal was on his feet and eyeing her malevolently, crouching in an attack position. He’d picked up his cutlery, the blood-stained fork in his right hand, a rusty steak knife in his left. Sara found her center, spread her feet, and waited for the charge.

Behind her, in the tent, Cindy screamed.

That distracted Sara long enough for the cannibal to slip inside Sara’s defenses, feinting with his left, jabbing the right at Sara’s thigh.

The fork penetrated her jeans, her skin, her muscle, and stuck firmly in the bone.

Sara spun, whipping her elbow around, hitting her attacker squarely in the nose. The cannibal staggered back, arms pinwheeling, and then tripped and fell onto his ass, right in the middle of the campfire.

He laid there for a second, then began to flap his limbs, almost like he was making a snow angel in the burning ashes. He cried out—trying to turn over—his legs getting tangled in some of the firewood—getting to his feet—slipping and falling face-first—getting to his feet again with his hair and beard on fire—and finally running into the woods, screaming like a police siren as he retreated into the night.

That’s when the pain hit. Sara doubled over, her hands fluttering around the utensil sticking out of her leg, afraid to touch it. This was worse than a charley horse, reducing Sara’s world to nothing but an agonizing throb. She whimpered, saw Tyrone in her peripheral vision. He was streaking out of the woods and heading for the tent.

Now there’s two of my kids in danger.

Sara slammed her eyes closed, clenched her fingers around the fork handle, and yanked.

She staggered sideways, her balance, her stomach, her mind all going wavy. Jerking her eyes open, Sara oriented herself and limped to the tent, ducking inside, seeing Tyrone struggling with a man, a man who was growling and biting a screaming Cindy on her shoulder.

Sara made a fist, pressing her thumb down hard across the top of her index finger knuckle, and threw the punch.

Her thumbnail jabbed into the cannibal’s eye. He opened his teeth and howled, allowing Tyrone the snake his arm across his neck. Sara grabbed the man’s torn shirt, and she and Tyrone manhandled him out of the tent, forcing him to his knees. The eyes she’d poked was bleeding. The other one was bloodshot and…crying.

He ceased struggling, his arms limp at his sides.

“I’m a bad man,” he croaked.

Sara paused. She was hurt, and sick to her stomach, and part of her knew she needed to end this monster’s life, but another, bigger part saw he was not only docile, but quite possible in need of help himself.

“Who… are you?” Sara asked.

“My name…is…John.”

Cindy crawled out of the tent, crying. She held a white gym sock to her bleeding shoulder.

“What’s your last name, John?”

He blinked. His body shook with sobs, but there were no tears.

“I can’t remember.”

“How many of, uh, your group, are on this island?”

“Twenty of us. Maybe more.” The wildness in his red eyes was still there, but behind it was a tinge of sanity. “We live like animals. And we enjoy it.”

Sara bent down, wincing at the pain in her leg. “What happened to you, John?”

“Someone brought me here. I don’t remember who. Brought me to the doctor. He did something…to my brain.”

“Dr. Plincer?” Sara asked.

John made a nodding motion, restricted by Tyrone’s grip.

“Maybe we can get you help, John.”

“I don’t want help. I’ve…done things. Killed people.”

“Maybe that’s not your fault.”

John’s eyes changed, going from docile to filled with rage. “It is my fault. I wanted to do all of those things. I still want to. Right now I want to tear you open and eat your beating heart.”

He grabbed Sara’s hair, pulling her close, his ugly mouth opening to bite her face. His breath was hot and the few teeth he had left were tinged red.

Tyrone pulled him back, muscling him to the ground. They wrestled for a moment, and then everyone heard the crack.

Both Tyrone and John stopped moving. Then, slowly, Tyrone disentangled himself, letting John slump onto his face, unmoving.

John blinked. “I…I can’t feel my body.”

Tyrone scooted further away on his butt and elbows. “I think I broke his neck, man. I think I broke his fuckin’ neck.”

John let out a breath, blowing dirt away from his mouth. His eye darted around, frantic.

“You have to kill me.”

Sara went to Cindy, peeled the sock back. The bite was ragged, ugly, but not very deep. She limped over to the tent and almost stepped on the first aid kit. She picked the box up and opened it. Inside were bandages, hydrogen peroxide, acetaminophen, and—thank God—a mini flashlight.

John began to wail. “They’ll come back and eat me alive. Kill me. Please.”

“Tyrone. Come here.”

After pouring peroxide on Cindy’s shoulder, Sara had Tyrone hold out his hands. She dumped half the bottle into his palms, the blisters foaming pink and gray from blood and dirt.

“There are bottles of water inthe tent. Get a few, and each of you take some painkillers.” She handed him the acetaminophen, which he gingerly took using two fingers. “Don’t come out until I say so.”

Sara and Tyrone exchanged a knowing look, and he nodded, putting his arm around Cindy and leading her away. Sara moved over to John. He looked pathetic, sad, terrified. Human.

“I want a priest. Can you get me a priest? I want to confess my sins.”

“I’m sorry, John. There aren’t any priests here.”

With effort, Sara sat down next to him.

“I’ve done things. Horrible things. And I’ve enjoyed them. Killing and raping and eating people. Something is wrong, in my head. I need—I hunger—to hurt others.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Sara put a tentative hand on his matted hair.

“New people would come to the island. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes they were brought here. The doctor kept most of them, but he would give us a few. I think it amused him. Like throwing a mouse to cats.”

Sara closed her eyes, softly patted his head.

“One time, I remember, there was a girl. I got to her before the others did. Got to her and took her to a private spot. I ripped off her clothes. Then I took a stick. A big stick—”

His eyes got big, his smile growing as he talked. Sara placed her other hand under John’s chin, winding her fingers in his hair.

The crack wasn’t as loud this time. More like a pop.

Lester peered at the vomiting boy through the viewfinder, then pressed the button again. The flash went off, and he looked at the screen on his digital camera to see how the picture came out.

Very nice. He glanced up at the boy, who was looking around, wondering what was happening.

Time for Lester to show him.

Lester tucked the camera into the bib pocket of his overalls and walked out of the scrub brush. He smiled at the boy’s reaction, a mixture of fear and awe.

“The boy shouldn’t try to run. It will just make Lester mad.”

Lester strolled over, appearing casual but ready to bolt if the boy took off. But the boy stayed on his knees, mouth hanging open, some barf on his chin.

Kind of sexy.

Lester stood next to the boy and peered down at him. He reached down, and with his index finger, caressed the lad’s cheek.

“What is the boy’s name?”

“T…Tom.”

“Lester.”

Lester glanced down at the mess Tom made, locking his eyes onto one of the bigger chunks. He tried to remember all the things he’d ever put in his mouth, but knew he’d never be able to remember them all. If Lester could bite it, he had. But he didn’t think he’d ever eaten something that had already been eaten by someone else.

Unable to control the impulse, Lester snagged the piece of meat from the puddle of stomach acid. He opened his jaws and tossed it in like popcorn.

Tangy.

“Lester has a girlfriend,” Lester said, chewing.

“That’s…uh…cool.”

Lester nodded. “Does Tom have a girlfriend?”

Tom’s eyes were very wide. He shook his head. “No.”

“That’s sad. Does Tom have a boyfriend?” Lester asked.

The boy shook his head again.

“That’s good.” Lester got on his knees. He still towered over the boy, and had to lean down.

“Lester doesn’t have a boyfriend either. What a lucky day for Tom and Lester.”

Lester felt Tom scream in his mouth as he kissed the boy’s deliciously tangy lips.

Doctor Plincer got under the bed covers, then reached onto the nightstand for his earplugs. Subject 33 was really coaxing some screams out of his new playmate, and Plincer needed to get some sleep before the meeting with Kong Zhi-ou.

He found the two foam plugs by the base of the lamp, and spent a minute taking off his prosthetic ears and shoving the plugs into the holes. When the cries were dulled to a whisper, Plincer placed his glasses where the earplugs had been, switched off the light, and rested his head back on the pillow.

Oops. Almost forgot.

Plincer flicked the lamp back on, sat up, and spent a minute picking the facial putty out of the divots in his nose, chin and cheeks. When he had a decent sized ball of it, he set that next to his glasses and again killed the light.

The doctor actually did sympathize with the poor suffering girl. Sympathize, and empathize.

Plincer rested his hands on his bare chest and ran his fingers over the rubbery scars. There were several dozen gnarled, shiny bumps, in precise, even rows. It felt like touching a truck tire.

The plastic surgeons weren’t able to do skin grafts, because there was no place on the doctor’s body where skin could be harvested. His arms, legs, back, and even buttocks had the same scars.

Scars from Lester.

Doctor Plincer knew, firsthand, what it was like to be completely at the mercy of a psychopath. After the court ordered Lester into Plincer’s care, the doctor had been so intent on curing the teenager he hadn’t given enough thought to precautions. Lester was smart, and managed to escape his room one night and sneak into the doctor’s.

For two days, Doctor Plincer had been victimized by the boy. Lester stripped him naked, tied him up, and began the methodical process of biting him over his entire body.

Human beings can clench their teeth with a hundred and fifty pounds of force. It hurt worse than being pinched with pliers. Not to mention the obscene intimacy of it. Plincer often imagined he could still feel Lester’s lips, his warm breath, his slick tongue, on his skin. Followed by the piercing, tearing pain.

Plincer had screamed during the ordeal. Screamed until his throat went numb. And when Lester finished, when he’d covered almost every bitable scare inch on the Doctor’s body, he started over. Nibbling off the scabs. Reopening the wounds. Ramping the agony up to surreal levels.

The maid saved Plincer’s life. Coming in for the weekly cleaning, she heard the doctor’s whimpering and called the police.

Doctor Plincer needed over two hundred stitches and staples, and three pints of blood. The most extensive reconstruction work was done on his face and genitals, to little effect. It took him weeks to recover, and Plincer knew that perhaps he never truly did get over the psychological aspects of the attack.

But he didn’t blame Lester, any more than he could blame a shark for following its nature. When Plincer healed, he resumed his experiments with Lester. Curing him. Enhancing him.

Plincer sighed, digging another bit of putty out of the gap in the bridge of his nose and flicking it off into the dark. Funny, that he’d still have so much vanity he had to put on his face before the new arrivals saw him. He had no reason to care if they saw his disfigurement or not. Even if one of the female visitors on the island took a liking to Plincer, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Lester had bitten off those parts of him.

Chalk it up to an old man’s pride, Plincer thought. We’re all entitled to our little idiosyncrasies.

He sighed deeply and burrowed his head into his pillow. If all went as planned, by this time tomorrow he would no longer have money troubles. He’d even be able to buy some better, more modern equipment, and have enough left over to feed those unfortunate ferals for a while.

Plincer allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps he should write a letter to his accountant, have him invest in a company that made ear plugs.

If Kong was going to do what Plincer anticipated, there would soon be a lot of screaming, all around the world.

The flashlight from the first aid kit was small, but it had a nice bright LED bulb. Sara clenched it between her teeth and bit down, hard, as she peeled off her jeans. The wound didn’t look too bad when she cleansed it; just four tiny punctures and a growing oval bruise. But it bled like hell and wouldn’t stop. Sara knew that a vein, or maybe an artery, was torn beneath the sin, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. She settled for wrapping it as tight as she could, then putting on a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater.

While Sara chugged a bottle of water she went through the backpacks, searching for anything useful. She pocketed some fingernail clippers, a lighter, and a compass when something caught her attention. Resting unfolded on the ground, like a dead dove, were the divorce papers.

Seeing them brought a lump to her throat.

Martin, her Martin, was out there, in the woods. So were Tom and Laneesha and Georgia. But Martin…

I’m more worried about him than the kids.

The thought surprised her. Here they were, a signature away from never seeing each other again; something Sara initiated. Yet the thought of Martin being killed—it scared her more than anything else.

Sara reached down, picked up the papers, and crumpled them into a ball.

If we get out of here, Martin, we’re going to find a way to make it work between us. I swear.

Then she left the tent to check on the kids. Both Tyrone and Cindy had put on shirts. Cindy had opted for something less baggy and a bit more flattering, a gray button-down top that showed she had a waist. Tyrone was in a familiar red and blue plaid shirt, but it wasn’t familiar on him.

“Meadow’s,” he said, noticing Sara’s stare.

She nodded at him. They’d told her about Meadow, and Sara had compartmentalized that particular horror, sealing it away until she had to time to deal with it.

“I’m going to use the radio.” She knew she didn’t need to add anything else, but she said it anyway. “Stay on guard. There are twenty more of them out there.”

Sara studied the walkie-talkie, a Core-Sea VHF One Way Radio. On its face were an LCD screen, which was empty gray, a tiny red light near the base, and half a dozen buttons including wx band, 16/9, band, hi/lo, and mem. She had no idea what any of that meant. There were two equally confusing dials on the top, and a large black call button on the side. Sara hoped Captain Prendick already had it set to his unique channel or frequency, so she pressed call.

“Um, I’m calling for Captain Prendick, or the Coast Guard, or anyone who can hear me. This is Sara Randhurst. I’m stranded on Rock Island in Lake Huron with my husband and six children. We’re under attack, and one of my children was…” The words wouldn’t come out. “We need immediate help.”

She released the button and waited for a response. There was only silence.

“Please, we’re fighting for our lives. Can anyone hear me?”

More silence. Sara stared at the buttons, wondering which one to try, and then the radio squelched at her.

“Mrs. Randhurst, this is Captain Prendick, I read you, over.”

Sara felt like crying in relief.

“Captain, thank God, there are people on this island. They’re trying to kill us. You have to call for help.”

“Did I hear you correctly, Mrs. Randhurst? Someone is trying to kill you? That’s an uninhabited island, over.”

“Not anymore. Please. You have to hurry.”

“Is this some kind of joke, Mrs. Randhurst. There are stiff penalties for using a marine radio for pranks.”

“This isn’t a joke, Captain. I swear. We’re under attack. You have to believe me.”

Sara waited, hoping he would believe her.

“Do you know how to work the radio? Can you call the coast guard?”

“No. I don’t understand what any of these buttons mean.”

“I’ll do it. I’m in the area, only a few miles away, so I should be able to get there quickest. Can you make it to the spot I dropped you off?”

Sara glanced into the black void of the woods, her hands shaking. “I don’t think so. We’re lost.”

“Do you have a compass?”

“Yes.”

“Follow it north-east. That’s where the beach is. If you reach the cliffs, you went too far north, so go further east. I’ll meet you there in an hour, maybe less.”

“Thank you, Captain. Please hurry.”

“I will. Over and out, Mrs. Randhurst.”

Sara held the walkie-talkie, wondering what to do next. Though she had a responsibility to Cindy and Tyrone, and a duty to get them to safety as soon as possible, Sara wasn’t going to leave without the others. But she couldn’t go after Martin and the kids by herself. She needed the Coast Guard, or the police, or a whole Army platoon to do that. And she certainly couldn’t do it dragging Cindy and Tyrone along. She had to get them on the boat before she searched for anyone else.

Hopefully, Captain Prendick would arrive with the cavalry.

Sara considered turning the dials, pressing a few buttons, to see if she might be able to raise the Coast Guard herself, but she was afraid she would change the setting and no longer be able to contact Prendick. Besides, there wasn’t time to play with the radio. Three cannibals had already found their campsite. Sara didn’t want to spend any more time here than necessary.

Just in case any of the others showed up, she found a notebook and left a message.

We went north-east, to the beach, to wait for the boat. Captain Prendick is coming with help. Hide nearby and wait for us to return. Sara, Tyrone, and Cindy.

She left the notebook open to that page, sitting on the ground near the fire. For a few seconds she wondered if maybe she should use a stick to point north-east, but her time in the woods had shown Sara how easy it was to lose your sense of direction.

Sara took a last, lingering look at John, his head askew and his red eyes staring off into infinity, and told the kids it was time to go.

Captain Edward Prendick considered himself a good man. He loved his mother, and visited her on every holiday, Labor Day and Valentine’s Day included, even though she lived out of state and it cost a fortune. He treated other people with decency and respect. He had an aquarium on board his boat, which contained a single goldfish, named Goldie, which he’d dutifully taken care of for more than five years.

That’s why the distress call from Mrs. Randhurst was, well, so distressing.

Rock Island was a bad place. It even had an aura about it. An evil vibe. And something shady was definitely going on there.

He’d tried to warn them, to get them to camp elsewhere. But they’d been insistent.

Now he was forced to head back there. Something he didn’t relish at all.

“Mama told me not to become a sailor, Goldie.”

Goldie was asleep in his tank. Or her tank. Prendick didn’t know if it was a boy fish or a girl fish. Actually, he didn’t know if Goldie actually slept, either. She certainly didn’t close her eyes and start snoring. But sometimes she’d stay in one place for an extended period of time, not even moving when he fed her, and Prendick assumed she (or he) was sleeping.

He glanced from the tank to the locked cabinet next to it. A gun cabinet, containing two revolvers and a rifle. Prendick checked the GPS and turned the wheel, silently praying he wouldn’t have to use them.

Tom didn’t think he could possibly be more frightened, and then the giant kissed him.

His first reaction was shock. Not only was the act totally unexpected, but it was so frickin’ gross, so frickin’ sick, that Tom didn’t know what the hell to do.

The obvious answer—push the freak away—scared Tom even more. This guy was so big and scary that rejecting him didn’t seem like an option.

So Tom closed his eyes as the psycho explored his mouth with his tongue, nibbling on his lips with those horrible needle teeth and making an awful, moaning sound in his throat.

Worst of all, this was technically Tom’s first French kiss. Yuck.

It was almost as bad as realizing he’d eaten Meadow.

Tom endured it, staying stock-still, praying for it to end. Eventually it did, and this crazy Lester person looked down at Tom and patted him on the head.

“Mmm,” Lester said. “Tom tastes yummy.”

Lester moved in closer, like he was going for another kiss. Tom leaned away and quickly said, “Uh, are you the one that cooked my buddy?”

The giant shook his head. “Lester doesn’t cook people. He likes to eat his raw.”

That was enough for Tom. He shoved Lester as hard as he could, then broke the land-speed record for sixteen-year-old white boys and ran the hell out of there. It was too dark to see, and the trees were everywhere, so he stuck his hands out ahead of him to avoid busting open his head. When he did finally hit the tree, he was spared a concussion, but it hyper-extended his pinky, which hurt worse than just about anything Tom ever felt before.

He was cradling his injured finger, wondering how to get it to stop throbbing, when someone grabbed his shirt from behind.

“Tom shouldn’t have run from Lester,” the giant whispered in his ear. “Now Lester is taking Tom back to his playroom.”

“My finger,” Tom said, whining. “I think I broke my finger.”

Lester grabbed both of Tom’s wrists, encircling them like handcuffs. He raised them to his lips, and then—oh god no—he put the jutting pinky into his mouth.

Tom felt like throwing up again. Lester swished the finger back and forth in his mouth, causing such incredible waves of pain that it made the darkness come alive with orange and blue flashes. Tom began to beg, and when that didn’t stop the manipulation he fell to his knees and alternated between crying and screaming. There was no possible way the pain could get any worse.

Then the biting began.

Kong Zhi-ou placed the keycard into his the slot on the door to his suite and waited for the red light to turn green. It didn’t. He removed the card and tried again.

Still red.

He closed his eyes, feeling the rage simmering just beneath his skin. The flight had been unbearable, the delays unacceptable, and the airport loud and smelly even at this hour. If he didn’t release some of this stress soon, he was going to burst.

“Zhi-ou xiānshēng?”

The voice was meek, female, coming from inside the room.

“Shì.”

The door opened. Standing there, in a pink kimono with her head bowed, was an Asian girl. He pushed her aside, then locked the door behind him.

Spread out on the bed were a new shirt, slacks, underwear, and socks. Kong hated to travel with luggage. He was sure—if his orders had been followed specifically—the bathroom would contain fresh toiletries, as well as a kimono for him and something for the girl. But first things first.

He ordered the whore to kneel down. She cowered but didn’t move. Didn’t she understand Mandarin? He walked to her, roughly tilting up her chin to look at her face. She certainly looked Chinese. Seventeen or eighteen years of age. Too old for his taste, but he’d make do.

“On your knees,” he said again, this time speaking Cantonese.

She bowed, then knelt. Kong sneered. How he hated Americans. This girl was undoubtedly raised in Chicago’s Chinatown and had never been to the home land. She probably thought Cantonese was the language all Chinese people spoke, rather than just an insignificant seven percent minority. Stupid, ignorant whore.

He ordered her to disrobe. She obeyed, and the sight infuriated Kong even further. On her shoulder, the size of his fist, was a hideous port wine birthmark. Word of Kong’s treatment of prostitutes must have preceded him, and he’d been sent an expendable one. Someone would be punished for this insult.

“Do I please you?” she asked.

He struck out, slapping her in the cheek, ordering her to not speak again unless she was spoken to. Then he loosened his tie and went into the bathroom.

His toiletries were there, as was the requested forty centimeter length of bamboo. Kong picked it up, tested its flexibility. The switch was thin and firm, with just enough spring in it.

He cracked his neck and undid his collar button, walking back to the girl.

“You may cry, but don’t you dare make a sound,” he said, raising the stick.

The whore couldn’t even do that right, and ten minutes into the beating Kong was forced to gag her.

God, how he hated Americans.

Tyrone hurried through the woods alongside Cindy, three steps behind Sara. His palms were slathered in burn cream, which contained a topical anesthetic. It didn’t really kill the pain, just sort of turned some of the throbbing into tingling. He could manage.

Cindy had a finger stuck in his belt loop, which was a poor substitute for holding hands. But the persistent tug made him feel closer, connected. After they’d dressed, Cindy had been the one to apply the burn cream. It hurt, and the ointment smelled foul, but her tenderness and dedication touched Tyrone. For a moment, he actually felt like a kid again, way back when safety was taken for granted, and love was given freely, and life had possibilities.

“Do you think we’ll get out of here?” Cindy had asked, not meeting his eyes.

“We will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I won’ let nuthin’ happen to you.”

Then she looked at him and all at once Tyrone felt nervous. Because he knew what he wanted to do, and the risks involved. Funny, there they were, surrounded by cannibals, and the thing that scared him most at that moment was leaning in for a kiss and being rejected.

But he did lean in. Cindy’s eyes got wide, then closed, and his lips lightly touched hers.

For ten beautiful seconds, all was right with the world.

Now they were trekking through the forest, heading for shore. That kiss had felt so right, but it had raised the stakes. Tyrone had spent so long just caring about himself, he’d forgotten all the pressure that came with caring about someone else. He couldn’t let anything happen to Cindy. Not now. He’d die first.

Sara got slightly ahead of them, even while limping, so Tyrone picked up the pace. She kept the light cupped in her hand, only flashing the beam occasionally to check the compass.

Tyrone always liked Sara. She was one of those people who actually wanted to help. She didn’t pretend to understand all the things the kids at the Center were going through. She didn’t make the mistake most adults did, trying to relate. Unless you were bangin’ and jackin’ and scoring drugs and hootchie mamas and livin’ day by day, how the hell were you supposed to know what the thug life was like? But Sara never fronted like that. She just showed the kids how they could change their lives if they tried, and that was cool.

But Tyrone hadn’t known how strong Sara actually was. He watched when she broke that guy’s neck. That was some tough as hell shit. Tyrone felt better knowing she had his back.

Sara stopped again. When she shined the light on the compass, Tyrone saw a face behind her. A crazed, snarling, charred and bloody face, the long hair and beard half-melted away, the burned lips and swollen to twice their size.

The cutlery man.

He lunged at Sara, his knife and fork raised. Tyrone shot forward, pulling Cindy off her feet, straight-arming the cannibal in the shoulder. The shock of the impact made Tyrone stagger back, and it knocked the cutlery man sideways. Then the pain came, starting off slow like a distant train, speeding in to become huge and loud and unstoppable.

Tyrone fell to his knees, staring at his right hand. The skin on his palm, already blistered and loose, had sloughed off.

A roar, almost like an animal, drew Tyrone’s attention upward, and he watched the cutlery man’s attack, the knife slicing down through the air, a perfect angle to bury itself into his neck.

Then, just as fast, the cutlery man was knocked to the side, the knife spinning harmlessly in the air and dropping to the ground.

Sara pivoted and brought her other foot around, landing this second kick on the cannibal’s face. Another inhuman roar escaped the burned man’s ruined lips, and even though his face looked like one of those Picassos in the art book Martin made them read, he continued to come at them.

The cutlery man dashed forward, and Sara turned slightly, bumping out her hip, flipping the cannibal over. She immediately followed up by dropping her knees onto his chest, and raising her fist back.

But she paused.

Why wouldn’t she hit him? Why didn’t she kill the fucker?

The cutlery man used the advantage, flailing at Sara’s bad leg, stabbing it with his fork.

Sara cried out, knocking his hand away. She hit him twice more. First in the nose, snapping his head back. Then in his bare neck.

The cutlery man’s eyes rolled up. He clutched at his throat, bucking Sara off and rolling onto his knees. Tyrone saw that the cannibal couldn’t breathe, that Sara must have broken something in his neck.

Cindy crouched next to Tyrone, her arm around his back, burying her face in his shoulder. Sara got to her feet, limping worse than before, then touched Tyrone’s head.

“We need to keep going.”

Tyrone didn’t move. The pain wasn’t what immobilized him. It was the terrible spectacle of watching the cutlery man desperately try to gasp for breath. The madness and evil in his eyes had been replaced by a very human look of raw panic. Seeing that made Tyrone understand why Sara had hesitated.

This wasn’t a monster. It was a human being. A suffering, dying, human being. And it was horrible to watch.

Then the cutlery man brought his rusty fork up to his own throat, stabbed it in, and tore a big hunk out.

The blood sprayed in Tyrone’s face, accompanied by a sound not unlike the whoosh of a fire extinguisher. Then the cannibal raised the fork again, a piece of him still hanging from it, and leapt to stab Sara, who was turned away.

Again Tyrone reacted, both hands up, blocking the cannibal’s attack. Again Tyrone’s raw palm hit the cutlery man’s filthy shirt.

Sara noticed the movement and spun around, dodging the thrust, striking at the cutlery man’s throat and temporarily losing her fist in the hole. She pulled away with a sucking noise, and the cutlery man fell to his knees, then onto his side, convulsing.

The pain built, getting stronger and stronger, and this time when the train hit Tyrone couldn’t handle it and everything went blurry, then black.

Conflicting feelings assailed Sara so quickly she felt like she was playing emotional ping-pong. Rage and pity, fear and triumph, disgust and elation, concern and regret. She wasn’t sure whether to scream, weep, or laugh. Sara held everything back, including the pain in her thigh, and went to Tyrone, lying on his back. She sat next to him, stretching her leg out, and checked his pulse.

Tyrone’s eyelids fluttered, then opened, his wince expanding into a rictus of pain.

“Cindy, the med kit is in my backpack. We need to wrap his hand up.”

Cindy dug into the bag. Sara held up Tyrone’s wrist.

The boy’s palm looked like he’d dipped it in red paint. His whole arm was shaking, and he had a far-off look that made Sara question his connection with reality. She touched his forehead. Cool and clammy.

“Tyrone, can you hear me?”

“Huh?”

“It’s Sara. You need to stay awake. Cindy, when you’ve got the kit, put the pack under his feet to elevate his legs. Also, give me that vial of ammonia.”

Cindy handed over the bottle. Sara avoided looking at the cannibal, who was still twitching. She pulled the stopper and waved it under Tyrone’s nostrils. He tried to turn his head, but she kept it close until he lifted up his good hand to push the ammonia away.

“We have to get going,” Sara said. “Can you understand me?”

“Hand hurts bad,” he mumbled.

“Can you understand me, Tyrone?”

“Yeah.”

Cindy raised Tyrone’s feet, increasing the blood flow to his brain.

“Can you wrap his hand?” Sara asked.

Cindy nodded and got to work. Sara took the time to examine her new injury. It was just a few inches below the previous one, and not bleeding as badly. Sara found an Ace bandage in the kit and wound it tight around both her wounds. Then she checked her watch.

Half an hour until the boat arrived. Hopefully the Coast Guard was en route as well. Sara pulled the radio off her belt and pressed the button.

“Captain Prendick, this is Sara Randhurst. Can you hear me?”

A few seconds of quiet, then, “I hear you, Mrs. Randhurst. I should be there soon.”

“How about the police?”

“I contacted them, and the Coast Guard. Both are on their way. Over.”

Sara pressed the call button, but didn’t speak. She wasn’t sure how to say what she was thinking without sounding paranoid. Not that she didn’t have good reason to be paranoid.

Captain Prendick must have guessed her intent, because when she released the button he was in mid-sentence. “…try it for yourself. Emergency frequency is on channel A, one, five, six, point, eight, zero, zero. Use the word mayday. The Coast Guard will respond. Over.”

“What do I press?”

“Hit the 16/9 button two times. That resets it to the emergency channel. Then hit it two more times to be able to reach me again. Over and out.”

Sara followed instructions, then pressed the call button again.

“Mayday, mayday, this is Sara Randhurst. I’m on Rock Island with several children and we need help.”

After a pause, a nasally voice said, “Mrs. Randhurst, this is the Coast Guard. We have been informed of your situation. Estimated time of arrival is nineteen minutes. We’ll be coming ashore on the north-east beach, over.”

“Thank you so much,” Sara said. She took a quick glance at the still-twitching cannibal and added, “Bring guns. Lots of guns.”

“Roger that, Mrs. Randhurst. Coast Guard over and out.”

Sara clipped the walkie-talkie to her belt and let out a long breath. They needed to get moving. Not only because of the danger, but because Sara didn’t want to sit still long enough to deal with everything on her mind. She and Cindy helped Tyrone to his feet, Sara shouldered the backpack, and the trio got on their way.

The woods were dark. Quiet. Scary. Sara stopped often to check the compass and scan the outlying foliage for pursuers. Tyrone was moaning softly, but not soft enough. Sara was afraid he might be heard.

Cindy whispered, “How much farther?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tyrone is really cold.”

“I think he’s going into shock, Cindy.”

“What do we do?”

“We keep going. Help is on the way. They’ll take care of him.”

A few steps later, Tyrone couldn’t walk anymore. Sara sat him down and handed Cindy a bottle of water.

“Make sure he drinks this.”

“Where are you going?” The teen looked panicked.

“I think I can hear waves. I’m only going a few yards ahead.”

“Please don’t leave us, Sara.”

Sara drilled her eyes into Cindy. “I won’t. You have my word. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Leaving Tyrone in Cindy’s capable hands, Sara pressed ahead. In just a few steps she found something. Not Lake Huron, but something that indicated the water was close.

A boat.

It was on its side, the hull split wide open, vines and overgrowth obscuring the outline. Sara guessed it had been here for years. She played the tiny flashlight beam across the bottom, up the side, to the stern, and the read the fading name painted there.

SS MINNOW

That was the boat from the TV show Gilligan’s Island. But it was also the name Martin had used in his campfire story, when he talked about the party of eight who had come to the island and were attacked.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. This must have been the boat he was talking about. But how could he have known? Unless…

Sara crept around to the other side of the boat, a growing feeling of dread creeping up her back. She had to fight the thicket, and branches poked at her hair and caught on her clothing. The cabin was setting on the ground, partially crushed like a stepped-on soda can. Two of the bridge windows were broken out. Sara shone the light through one, peering into the cabin interior.

The inside was filled with mud and dead leaves. Pieces of a deck chair, part of a life preserver, and various other detritus vied for space with an abandoned raccoon nest. Amid the mess, resting on a pile of disintegrating magazines, was a hardcover book that looked disturbingly familiar. The silver embossing on the cover was faded and dirty, but it clearly said, LOG.

Sara reached through the window, brushing the book with her fingertips. She leaned in further, snagged it, and then something screeched. Before she could pull back, it pounced, scrambling up her arm, over her shoulder, and racing into the forest.

Guess that raccoon nest wasn’t abandoned after all, Sara thought, leaning against the wreckage, clutching the book to her hammering heart. When her pulse returned to something resembling normal, she took a closer look at the log.

Please don’t let this be what I think it is.

The book was damp and smelled of mildew. The cardboard cover wilted as she opened it up. There, on the first page, Sara’s fears were confirmed. Handwritten on the first blank line was:

SS MINNOW, CAPTAIN JOSEPH RANDHURST

Joe. Martin’s brother.

Sara had always liked her brother-in-law. Joe was sort of like a more playful, less serious version of her husband. Rather than dedicating his life to making a difference, Joe preferred the life of leisure, day trading and blowing his money on travel and toys. Sara could remember the day Joe talked about buying a boat. He’d come over for Thanksgiving dinner, extolling the many virtues of living on the open water. The three of them killed four bottles of wine, and afterward Martin and Sara disregarded Joe’s plans. Joe always talked about doing silly things like that, but never did.

For Christmas that year, Sara had bought Joe the captain’s log book as a gag gift, a goofy nod to that memorable night.

That was six years ago. That spring, Joe disappeared.

Martin had taken some time off to search for him. He still continued to take occasional weekends to follow down some old lead or ancient hearsay, refusing to believe his brother was dead.

It seemed Joe had bought that boat after all. He’d apparently named it the SS Minnow, and taken it here.

Which meant Martin knew Joe had come here. After all these years, he’d followed his brother’s trail to Plincer’s island.

Sara shook her head, not wanting to believe it. How could her husband bring the children here? How could he risk all of their lives?

“I didn’t know there was anyone here, Sara. Jesus, I would never do anything to hurt you or the kids. You know that.”

But was that the truth? Was he so anxious to find his brother that he jeopardized all of them?

No, not Martin. Martin couldn’t have willfully brought them here if he thought it could do them harm.

Yet Sara couldn’t help but wonder. If Martin had kept this secret from her, what other secrets had he kept?

Sara was dwelling on that when she heard someone scream.

Martin followed the cries, hurrying through the woods as fast as he could.

Meticulous a planner as he was, he couldn’t have predicted all of the misfortunes that occurred on this trip. It was all his fault, he knew. Hopefully the consequences wouldn’t be as dire as they were shaping up to be.

He hurdled a cluster of Hawthorn shrubs and stopped dead, his flashlight focusing on Tom.

Tom wasn’t alone. A large man with sharp teeth was munching on his finger.

Martin’s first reaction was surprise. Then came disbelief, swiftly followed by anger.

“Hey! Freakshow! Get your goddamn hands off my kid!”

“Martin…” Tom whimpered.

The tall psychotic opened his mouth, releasing Tom’s finger; the bone was still attached, but the flesh had pretty much been stripped off. He smiled at Martin, flashing his vampire teeth.

“Martin. Tom boy hurt his finger. Lester is making it all better.”

Martin clenched his fists. “Lester better back the fuck off.”

Lester stuck his hands in his overalls, winked, and then quickly backed into the woods. Good thing, too. Seven feet or not, Martin was so angry he had been ready to throw himself at the larger man.

“Martin…”

Tom was on his knees, his body wracked by sobs. Martin went over, placed his hand on the teen’s shoulder.

“Easy, Tom. Easy. I’ve got you now.”

“That guy…that guy Lester…he was…”

“Lester is gone.” Martin’s eyes darted around the forest to make sure. “He won’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”

He patted the Tom’s back, then eased his hands under his armpits, gently guiding him to his feet. The kid looked shattered, and with good reason.

“We’ve got to find the others, Tom. Do you have any idea where they are?”

Tom sniffled, seemingly getting his control back. Then he looked at his hand and began bawling again. Martin could appreciate the pain and fear, but they didn’t have any time to waste.

“Tom, do you know where Sara is?”

“That’s my bone…Jesus Christ…my bone is sticking out.”

“You finger can be fixed,” Tom lied. “Now do you know where Sara is?”

“How can it be fixed?” Tom whined, drawing out his vowels. “Theeeere’s nooooo skiiiiiiiiin leeeeeeft.”

Martin put his hand on Tom’s chin, forcing the boy to look at him. “Focus, Tom. Sara. Where is she?”

“I dunno.”

“How about the kids. Cindy?”

“She’s with Tyrone. I think they’re still at the camp.”

“Meadow?”

“Oh, God. I aaaaaaaate Meeeaaaadooooow…”

Martin realized he wasn’t going to get anything out of Tom. He stared off into the woods, thinking of Sara, and felt like putting his fist through a tree.

Calm down. This island isn’t that big. You’ll find her.

Martin knew he would. He just hoped Sara would still be alive when he did.

Cindy used the rest of the burn ointment on Tyrone’s hand, then wrapped it in gauze. Her shoulder hurt like crazy, so she couldn’t even imagine the pain he must have been in.

“Sara said you need to drink this. When she comes back, I’ll ask if you can have more aspirin.”

Cindy tilted the water bottle up to Tyrone’s lips. Some spilled down his chin, but he managed to swallow a few gulps. She cupped his cheek. A few hours ago, Tyrone had been just another kid at the Center. But now Cindy felt such a wealth of affection for him she was ready to start crying.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Cindy fought the urge to hug him. “Sara will be back soon. The boat is coming. We’re gonna be safe.”

“Cool.”

“You’re in a lot of pain, huh?” After she said it, Cindy wanted to bury her head in a hole. Of course he was in a lot of pain.

“Ain’ so bad,” Tyrone said. “Cause you’re here.”

This time she did hug him. Cindy held the embrace until she realized how exposed they were. With neither of them paying attention, those wild people could sneak up.

“We need to watch the trees. Make sure no one is coming.”

Cindy took one side, Tyrone the other. The woods were quiet and dark, and though a sliver of moonlight broke through the tree tops, it was hard to see more than a few yards. Her eyes swept back and forth, like a security camera.

When she heard the scream it made her feel like she needed to pee again.

“That’s Tom,” Tyrone said.

“He doesn’t sound too far away.”

They listened, and the sound made Cindy want to claw her ears off. She didn’t like Tom, especially after he acted all crazy with the gun. But he didn’t deserve whatever horror was happening to him.

“You think they’re cooking him?” Her tone was hushed. “Like Meadow?”

“Dunno.”

“What should we do?”

“Wait here for Sara.”

Tom was begging now, screaming, “No!” and “Stop!”

What could they be doing to that poor kid? Something even worse than burning?

Then, after a very long minute, the screaming stopped.

Now what?

They waited. Cindy’s imagination went into overdrive. Was he dead? Were they eating him? Or did they gag him, like Sara had said they’d gagged Martin?

Cindy stood perfectly still, staring into the woods, waiting, hoping, to hear Tom scream again.

Then something flashed. Bright and quick, temporarily blinding her.

Cindy took a step back.

“Tyrone…”

“I saw it too.”

“What was it?”

“Maybe Sara comin’ back. She got a light.”

Another flash, lasting only a few milliseconds. From the thicket to their right. Cindy realized with a shock what it was.

“It’s a camera. Someone is taking our picture.”

Tyrone stepped in front of Cindy. “Who’s there? Answer me.”

Another flash. Cindy doubted the cannibals had a camera. So who could it be? And why didn’t they say anything? This was seriously freaking her out. Where was Sara?

“Maybe we should go,” Tyrone said.

“What about Sara? We have to wait for her.”

The bushes shook. Whoever had the camera was coming toward them. Cindy decided that Tyrone was right. The smartest thing to do was get the hell out of here, fast.

Tyrone apparently wasn’t waiting for her to approve, because he had his left arm around her waist and was already pulling her away. The pair had only taken three steps when they heard:

“You’re Martin’s kids.”

The voice was soft, almost effeminate, but definitely male. Whoever it was, he knew Martin. Cindy stopped and swung around to face him.

The man was ridiculously tall and thin. He wore blue denim farmer’s overalls, and even in the low light Cindy could see a smiley face button pinned to one of the straps.

Tyrone had also turned to look. “Who the hell are you?”

“Lester.”

Lester raised his camera and took another picture, causing Cindy to blink. She was still scared, and this guy totally qualified as creepy, but he seemed extremely relaxed. So far, his appearance was more menacing than actually threatening.

“Do you know Martin, Lester?”

“Martin is Lester’s friend.”

Cindy didn’t know if she bought that. But Martin was a psychologist, and he did work with all types of people.

“How do you know Martin, Lester?” she asked.

“Martin is Lester’s friend.” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “Would the boy and the girl like Lester to take them to Martin?”

God, did she ever. Martin was smart, and strong, and Cindy trusted him even more than she trusted Sara. But that didn’t mean she trusted Lester.

“Do you know where Martin is, Lester?”