Trapped

“Lester knows. The boy and the girl should come with Lester.”

Lester smiled. Cindy was shocked to see fangs in the big man’s mouth.

Tyrone shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He backed up a step, pulling Cindy with him.

“Lester won’t hurt the boy and the girl. That would make Martin angry. They should come with Lester.”

“Where’s Martin?” Cindy asked.

Lester took another picture.

“Stop taking pictures and tell me where Martin is!”

The strength in her voice surprised her. It must have surprised Lester too, because his smile became a deep frown.

“The girl yelled at Lester. Lester doesn’t like that.”

Tyrone pulled her closer. “You know where Martin is, man? Then tell us.”

It hit Cindy all at once, like a physical blow. Lester. Lester Paks. This was the serial killer Sarah had told them about, the one that crazy doctor had experimented on.

Lester moved toward them, spreading out his arms. His reach was so wide he looked like he could hug a truck. “Lester will take the boy and girl to Martin. They will come with Lester. Martin will be so happy.”

When Lester got within five yards he’d officially gone from menacing, to threatening, to terrifying. She and Tyrone continued to back up, but Lester’s strides were so big he’d be on them in only a few seconds.

“The boy and the girl shouldn’t try to run. Lester gets angry when they run.”

That’s when someone grabbed Cindy from behind.

Sara couldn’t find the kids.

After hearing Tom’s screams, she quickly stuck her head back through the window and into the cabin to grab something she saw inside. By the time she had it, the screaming had stopped.

Her first intention was to go after Tom, to protect him, to save him, and without considering anything else she’d impulsively headed in the direction of his cries.

But Sara wasn’t sure where he was, or even how far away, without the sound cues. Even worse, once she lost sight of the boat she became lost, unable to find her way back. That meant she’d abandoned Cindy and Tyrone.

She spent a good minute studying the compass, panicking to the point of hysteria, and then decided to follow a south-west direction, keeping as quiet as possible, listening for their voices.

Luckily, she found them, coming up from behind and placing a hand on Cindy’s shoulder so she didn’t get trampled by their quick pace.

Unluckily, they weren’t alone.

The man chasing them was so grotesquely tall it was almost funny. But unlike the cannibals, he had short hair and was clean shaven, and his clothes, though odd, looked relatively new.

Sara raised the weapon in her hand, pointing it at the tall man.

“Stop,” she said, Not loud enough to attract undesired attention, but hard enough to show it wasn’t a request, but rather an order.

The tall man stood still, his arms still outstretched. “The woman has a flare gun.”

Sara had hoped it would be mistaken for the real thing, but she rolled with it. “And if you come any closer, I’m going to shoot it at you. It doesn’t shoot bullets, but I’m pretty sure it can set you on fire.”

He lowered his arms and titled his head at an angle, like a confused dog.

“Is the woman Martin’s wife?”

She wasn’t prepared for the question, but she answered. “Yes. I’m Sara.”

“Lester will take the Sara woman to Martin.”

“Where is Martin?”

“Martin is at the prison. With Tom boy, and Georgia girl, and Doctor.”

“Doctor Plincer.” Sara felt the lump in her throat. “And you’re Lester Paks.”

“Lester is Lester Paks. Doctor Plincer is Lester’s friend. Martin is Lester’s friend. The Sara woman should come with Lester.”

Sara’s hand was shaking now. She wanted this man to get the hell away from her and the kids. But first…

“Is Joseph there? Joe? Joe Randhurst?”

Lester smiled, baring teeth that looked like they belonged to an alligator. “Yes. Joe is there.”

Sara limped in front of Cindy and Tyrone, putting herself between them and the serial killer. Her gun hand was shaking, but she made sure her words were strong.

“Thank you for talking with us, Lester. But we aren’t going to go with you right now.” She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. “We’d like you to go away.”

Lester pulled something out of his pocket, and Sara cringed, trying to shield the kids. But Lester didn’t have a weapon. It was only a camera.

He snapped a picture, the flash momentarily blinding her.

“The Sara woman is pretty.”

Sara blinked a few times, tried to focus.

“Thank you for the compliment, Lester. Now you really do have to go. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

Lester took another picture.

“I’m serious, Lester. It’s time for you to leave.”

A tongue flicked out of Lester’s mouth, running across his bottom lip. “Lester is going to ask Martin. Lester will ask. Lester wants permission. Lester wants permission to bite the Sara woman’s pretty face off.”

He opened and closed his jaw several times, his sharp teeth making clicking sounds.

“Get. The fuck. Back.” Sara said. “Now.”

Lester raised the camera, took one more picture, and then slipped into the woods.

Sara stood guard for a moment, listened to the woods. All she heard were crickets.

“That was seriously effed up,” Tyrone said. “I would have shot his ugly ass.”

Sara nodded. “Me too. But the flare gun is empty. I couldn’t find any cartridges.” She looked over her shoulder. “Let’s get going. I think we’re really close.”

Sara led them through the woods, following the compass, the water sounds getting stronger until…

“It’s the beach,” Cindy said, her enthusiasm making her sound ten years younger.

Sara was relieved as well. That relief became excitement when she saw the running lights of a boat moored offshore. She headed for the boat, her leg hurting a little bit less, her energy level kicking up several degrees.

“Do we have to swim to it?”

“No, Cindy. The Captain will use the dinghy again.”

The dinghy was a sixteen foot inflatable, shaped like a large U. It sat five. When they’d arrived at the island, it took two trips to get everyone from the boat to the shore. Sara listened for the outboard motor, but the lake was quiet.

“Maybe he just got here,” Tyrone said.

“Or maybe he’s already here.”

Sara spun around. Captain Prendick stood on the sand. Sara’s joy in seeing him was immediately dampened when she saw the rifle the pistol in his hand. It was pointed at her.

“Drop the flare gun, Mrs. Randhurst.”

“Captain, what are—”

He fired. The bullet went well over Sara’s head, but the sound was so loud and such a surprise she almost fell over.

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

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

Prendick shrugged. “I’m his supply man. He needs something, he pays me to get it for him. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship. Now start heading up the shore. Anyone tries to run, they’re a cannibal snack.”

“What do we do?” Cindy whispered.

“What he says.”

They began to march back the way they came. But Sara wasn’t ready to give up yet. Being at Dr. Plincer’s tender mercies was a worse proposition than fighting it out with the wild people. Prendick obviously hadn’t called the Coast Guard, like he said. But maybe he didn’t know she had. Which meant it was just a question of stalling him until they arrived.

“You’re probably taking us to our deaths,” she said, over her shoulder.

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

“If it’s money you want…”

Prendick grinned, and it was an ugly thing. “I was wondering when you’d get to that. Everyone tries that, eventually. I’d happily listen to any offer, but the problem is the pay-off. You could promise me money, but then instead go to the police when we get back to the mainland.”

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

“Again, what’s to stop you from going to the authorities?”

Sara glanced at the water, looking for other boats. There were no other lights for miles. She stopped walking, and stared at Prendick.

“Maybe I can offer you something else.”

He smiled. “I get that offer a lot, too. But there’s still the law thing. I let you go, I get in trouble.”

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

“Maybe I can convince you I won’t say anything.”

Prendick shook his head. “I find you very attractive, Mrs. Randhurst. But I’ll be honest, here. Having to hold a gun on a woman while I make love to her isn’t exactly a turn on.”

“I’ll hold it for you,” Tyrone said.

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

Sara felt herself deflate.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Prendick said. “The radio I gave you was broken. Only worked on my frequency.”

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

“I told you to pick another island, Mrs. Randhurst. I tried to insist. But you wanted this one. Now turn around and get to walking, or I will shoot you.”

“You’re a bastard,” Sara said, with as much venom as she could muster.

“I’ve been called worse, by better. Now move your ass, bitch. Or you can walk the rest of the way with a broken jaw.”

Captain Prendick pulled the heavy iron door closed, then wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.

He’d lied to Mrs. Randhurst. Several times, actually. But the doozy was when he’d told her he didn’t enjoy making love to a woman while holding a gun to her head.

He actually liked it quite a lot. In fact, the last three times Prendick got laid involved that very scenario. Had he been alone with Sara on the beach, he would have definitely gotten his groove on.

But those kids had been there too. Not that Prendick had any sort of performance anxiety. It just wasn’t easy to drill some broad while making sure they didn’t run off.

After they were safely locked up, Prendick did seriously consider throwing Mrs. Randhurst up against the bars and going at it.

But he didn’t do it. He’d wanted to. It’s not like it mattered. Everyone who came here was as good as dead. Giving them a final toss before they met their maker was throwing a starving dog a bone.

Heh heh. Bone.

The Randhurst woman, though, didn’t have that desperate, needy, broken look about here. She looked like, if given the chance, she would kick Prendick’s ass.

So he locked her up with the kids, and left horny and frustrated.

It never occurred to Prendick to try anything with the girl. She was too young, and he considered himself a good man.

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

Those damn wild people?

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

If they were following him now, he’d do the same thing. But this time, he wouldn’t miss.

Prendick had never taken a life, but he would if he had to. He wasn’t some rube, unable to defend himself. If cornered, he knew he could be as bad as they come.

He flicked the safety off on his pistol and dared those bastards to try something.

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

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

He was in an old prison cell, but like none he’d ever seen before, and Tyrone had some jail experience. These were the size of his walk-in shower at his mom’s house. There were dozens of them, all lined up next to each other, in a large room that smelled like a basement where the sewer line backed up.

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

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

That asshole captain locked them up after marching them here, then jetted. And if the place wasn’t dank and scary enough, somewhere else in the building, someone was screaming like mad. Tyrone tried hard to block it out, to not think about it, but he was pretty sure it was Laneesha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!” Cindy shouted. “Who are you?”

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

“Martin…” the man said again.

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

“Martin? Is that you, Martin?”

“Sara? Frick…where am I?”

Tyrone recognized the voice. Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Martin.” Sniffle. “Martin saved me.” Sniffle. “From Lester.”

“How did you get here, Tom?”

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

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

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

“Sara!” Tom yelled.

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

“Martin? Wha…”

Sara fell to her knees, then onto her side.

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

But Tyrone knew.

“You one of the bad guys, ain’t you?”

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

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

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

“You son of a bitch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin winked, then carried Sara out of the room.

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

“I care,” he said.

But for some reason that made her cry even harder.

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

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

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

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

On the other side of the room, there was an old wooden chest, a wheelchair, and a pegboard, on which a wicked assortment of knives and saws hung.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

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

“Martin, what’s—”

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

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

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

“Six years ago, Joe went missing. You were with him, on his boat. You came here.”

“Keep going.”

“Plincer got you both. The cannibals brought you to him.”

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

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

“Did you know it was Plincer’s Island?” Sara’s voice was quavering.

“No. What I said in my campfire story was true. Joe and I and six others. Two friends of his, and four women.” He sat down. “Did you really think I was faithful all these years?”

Sara said nothing.

“Incredible. Either I’m that good, or you’re that naïve. One of the women, the one I was fucking, actually did get seasick. And we did beach the boat. And the cannibals did attack. Joe and I got away, but Lester found us. Took us back to the doc.”

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

“Plincer made you evil,” she stated.

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

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

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

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

“The orange ribbons on the trees…”

Martin nodded. “That was me. After I did my disappearing act at the campsite, I changed the ribbons to lead everyone to the prison. But those feral fuckers got the jump on me. I was so caught up in playing Mr. Nice Guy Martin, telling scary stories, I forgot my gun in my backpack. You really did save my life, Sara. Allow me to thank you for that.”

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

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

Sara retreated into her caregiver role, summoning up a bit of anger and righteous indignation. “Where’s Laneesha and Georgia?”

“Plincer gave Laneesha to Subject 33. He’s had her for a while now. I doubt there’s very much left of her. He’s got some sort of device. Personally, it gives me the creeps.”

“And Georgia?”

“Bad girl, that Georgia. We both know she was faking her remorse. I think she was hiding more than that. We’re taking good care of her.”

“Martin,” Sara tried to put all of her feelings into her voice. “These are our kids. You have to help them.”

“We never had kids, Sara. None of them wanted to grow inside of you. These kids are a bunch of social miscreants. Always have been. Always will be. I’ve been doing society a favor, taking them out of the gene pool all these years.”

Sara didn’t like this conversation at all, but she especially didn’t like the turn it just took. “What are you talking about, Martin?”

Martin leaned in close, smiling. “Do you really think we’ve had eleven runaways since we opened the Center?”

Sara narrowed her eyes. “What did you do, Martin?”

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

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

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

Sara gagged, throwing up on the cot mattress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin tossed another at her.

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

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

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

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

“Martin… no more.”

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

Martin rushed at her, making Sara cringe.

“I…I love you, Martin.”

His smile was demonic. “And I hate you, Sara. Hate you with every fiber in my body. Hate you so much, in fact, that I’ve got something really special planned for you. Remember Paulie Gunther Spence?”

The memories came hurtling back. Being eleven years old, locked in the trunk with Louise, forced to hear all of the horrible things he did to her.

“I read the coroner’s report, Sara. I know all about what he did to your friend. And I know how you were locked in the trunk of the car, listening to every atrocity. Unfortunately, I don’t have a car here. Too tough to get it up the stairs. But I do have this.”

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

“Martin... please… don’t.”

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

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

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

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

The lid closed, catapulting Sara into absolute darkness.

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

Martin knocked on the top of the trunk.

“So here’s what’s going to happen, Sara. I’m going to leave you in there. I don’t know for how long. Maybe a few days. Just like with Paulie, I’m going to make you wait for so long that you’ll be happy when I finally open it up to kill you. That’s what you used to tell me, those nights when you couldn’t get to sleep. You told me you wanted him to open the trunk and kill you, just so you didn’t have to wait anymore. How fucked up is that?”

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

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

No. Please not that.

“Then when I finally take you out, I’m going to finish what Paulie started. I’m going to do to you what he did to Louise. I’ve even got all the same props. The hammer and nails. The battery acid. I found the same model power sander, though it’s been discontinued for many years. Apparently it was recalled by the company. Due to—and you’ll love this—being unsafe. But it sure worked well on Louise’s knees, didn’t it? You heard it. You know how much it hurt her.”

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

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

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

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

“Please,” Sara whispered.

“Did you say something, hon?”

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

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

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

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

“Martin?”

There was only silence. Silence, and smothering darkness.

“Martin!”

And just like with Paulie Gunther Spence, Sara heard a faint chuckle.

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

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

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

But instead of shame, Georgia felt strangely proud. More than proud. She felt strong, powerful. Like she could conquer the world. She let the fantasy take hold, Georgia sitting on a throne perched up on top of a mountain, and beneath her on all sides, crosses. Crosses with people nailed to them, screaming and begging for mercy. Crucifixions as far as she could see. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions.

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

The image made her tingle all over.

She rubbed her eyes again, considered the procedure Doctor Plincer had performed on her. Not a pleasant memory, but the pain was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of self. Sleeping with Lester had shown Georgia how strong she could be. But even that paled next to how she now felt. That old Georgia was a weakling. This new Georgia was unstoppable.

With this newfound feeling of absolute power came an overwhelming urge to hurt somebody. Anybody. Hurt them horribly.

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

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

TO GEORGIA GIRL

FROM LESTER

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

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

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

HAVE FUN

Georgia smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

“How you doin’?” he asked.

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

“You need to pee, I can turn away.”

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

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

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

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

“Cool. Sounds like you beat it.”

“You think?”

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

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

“How’s your hand?”

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

Cindy smiled, gave his hand a much gentler squeeze.

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

“Good morning.”

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

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

Lester strolled up to them slowly, casually. He was holding a broomstick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Tyrone boy will put on the handcuffs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let Lester see.”

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

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

The cuffs jangled the concrete floor.

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

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

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

“Jesus! Stop it! I can’t do it!”

Lester jabbed him again, this time in the leg.

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

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

Lester hit him in the ribs this time.

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

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

“I’m trying.” Hic. “I… I can’t.”

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

“The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

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

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

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

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

“Show Lester.”

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

“No!” Cindy cried.

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

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

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

But it was too late. Lester was coming over.

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

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

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

“It’s a surprise,” Lester said.

“But these people are important?”

“Very important.”

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

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

“No. That wouldn’t be good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning. Breakfast is here.”

Plincer waited, and after a few seconds Subject 33 put his hands through the slot in the second door. They were caked with dried blood.

“One plate or two?”

Subject 33 held out two fingers.

“Excellent.”

Doctor Plincer filled two plates with French toast, and set them on the floor of the antechamber, along with two glasses of OJ, forks, and syrup. After locking up, he pushed the cart down the hall to Martin’s room.

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

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

The doctor had taken a normal man and made him into a Level 6. Martin was truly evil, but also able to keep his tastes hidden and function within society. Function at a very high level. He’d been successful in maintaining both a job and a marriage, while keeping his killing secret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have any idea where Martin is?”

Lester shook his head.

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

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

Time to find out.

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

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

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

The procedure had been a success.

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

“Good morning. I made French toast.”

Georgia stared at him, neither hostile nor fearful.

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

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

Georgia’s eyes lit up. “When?”

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

“Those aren’t my friends.”

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

“Sure.”

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

“I must ask you, tell you, to stay back. We need to establish some mutual trust first. You understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doctor Plincer again faced the staircase, but going down was always easier, and the cart was considerable lighter. Then it was back to the kitchen. There were many pieces of French toast left, but no one on hand to eat them. He didn’t care for the dish himself. He supposed he could toss them out a window, let the ferals find them. Or maybe give them to the children in the cells downstairs.

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

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

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

Such a shame, such a waste.

When the last slice hit the can, he changed his mind and fished out all the food he’d thrown away. Piling it onto a paper plate, he went to the front door, checked the peephole for ferals, and then it opened up and left the plate on the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was my gun in the pile as well?

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

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

“Hello, Prendick.”

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

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

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

“It’s not a cage. It’s a gridiron.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t bought the boat yet. Most of the money the doctor gives me goes to the airlines. I have a mother in Florida that I visit all the time. Seriously, you have to believe me.”

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

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

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

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

“I haven’t paid it off yet. I swear.”

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

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

“Martin! Wait! We can talk this out!”

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

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

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

“Where’s that boat title, captain?”

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

“Of course.”

“Do I have your word?”

“Cross my heart.”

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

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

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

Prendick felt the gridiron shift.

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

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

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

Kong opened his eyes. He’d gotten exactly one hour of sleep. Not ideal, but it would do. He got out of bed and went into the toilet. The whore was tied up in the bathtub. She’d died sometime during his slumber. No big loss there, but an inconvenience. Kong had desired a shower, but he found bathing with corpses to be distasteful.

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

It would appear that even American Chinese worked at being punctual.

He greeted the two new arrivals in Mandarin, and was pleased when they answered back in kind. Kong hadn’t met either of them before, and didn’t plan on seeing either of them again. One held an oversized metal briefcase, the other a large, empty suitcase. This also pleased him. They had planned ahead.

“The whore is in the bathtub,” he told them, using his native tongue. “Next time, send someone with a stronger constitution.”

The man with the suitcase nodded, apologized, and hurried to the bathroom as Kong turned his attention to his companion.

“Show me,” Kong ordered.

The man placed the briefcase on the bed, popped the latches, and opened the lid.

Kong stared. He didn’t so much as flinch, but he was shocked that something worth so much money was so small.

Kong told the man to leave, so entranced by what was on the bed that he wasn’t even aware he’d used the word qing, meaning please, as if making a request rather than a command.

The man bowed, then hurried into the bathroom. The shower came on—the men rinsing away the blood. A minute later, the duo were lugging out a bulging and obviously heavy suitcase.

Kong paid them no mind as they left. There were also papers in the briefcase, but Kong didn’t bother checking them, knowing they were in order. He closed the lid and shook his head, marveling at what Westerners considered valuable. For the same price he could get a hundred such items in China, any of which would make this pale in comparison.

But then it would be difficult to carry a hundred items in one small case. He gave Plincer a modicum of respect for his ingenuity. There weren’t many items that were portable, legally obtainable, could easily pass through airport security, and were worth twenty-five million dollars.

Kong didn’t bother checking his watch because he already knew the time in his head. His plane would be in a little over an hour, enough time for him to endure a bland, banal representation of what people in this country considered breakfast. Hopefully one of those garish airport restaurants served Wulong tea, though he wasn’t holding out much hope.

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

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

That was because her eyeballs were gone.

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

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

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

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

letmediepleasegodletmedieplease…

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

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

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

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

She couldn’t do either while stuck in a trunk.

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

Should have let the bastard hang there.

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

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

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

Small, but packed full of hope.

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

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

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

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

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

Keep cool. Stay focused. You can do this.

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

I’m free.

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

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

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

He wasn’t. The room was empty.

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

She recoiled. Though Sara had never seen the knife Paulie Gunther Spence had used on Louise, the monster had described it in perfect detail. Martin had found a match for the one in Sara’s imagination. It was horrible looking, with a seven inch blade, and a serrated back that seemed capable of sawing through wood.

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

Now to go get the kids.

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

One came from behind her. A toilet flush.

Sara hurried into the nearest room. It looked a lot like Martin’s, with a bed and a table piled high with gore-stained tools. Alongside the wall was a large wooden crate.

Footsteps, from the hall. Getting closer.

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

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

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

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

“Uuuuuuhhhhnnnn,” it said.

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

“Uuuuuuuhhhhhnn.”

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

The thing wiggled. “Uhhhhhnnnnnn.”

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

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

Familiar.

“Uhhhhhhhhhnnn.”

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

My god. It was Martin’s brother, Joe.

“Lester said he’ll change the bedding later. Be quiet, or Lester will get angry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, Joe,” she whispered.

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

Sara ran to the hallway, focusing on the task ahead rather than dwelling on what she’d just done. Seeing Lester disappear around a corner, Sara went the other way, down the long corridor, which dead-ended at a door. A large, iron door, with a slot in the center and a bar across it.

“Here comes Lester, and Lester is angry.”

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

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

There was nothing to hear.

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

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

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

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

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

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

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

A bathroom? A closet?

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

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

It’s coming from the bureau.

She paused, moving closer.

The bureau rattled.

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

And someone was inside.

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

Martin said a goodbye that probably wasn’t even heard, then took off. He was anxious to get started on Sara. Gun cocked and eyes scanning the trees for ferals, he headed back to the prison.

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

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

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

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

“Tom. Tom, you awake, dog?”

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

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

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

“Tommy boy, I think it’s a key.”

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

“Can you reach it?”

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

“Try your legs, man.”

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

“Try turning on an angle, Tom.”

“No duh.”

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

“Careful, Tom.”

“I know what I’m doing, Tyrone.”

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

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

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

Then the lights came on.

“Tommy. Someone’s coming.”

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

“I found it.”

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

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

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

See? I can focus when I have to.

“Hello, Tom. What is this?”

Frick. Martin.

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

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

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

Tom howled, doubling over. Martin leaned forward and frowned, feigning concern.

“I sense a bit of distress, Tom.”

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

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

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

“Leave him alone,” Tyrone said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hells no.”

“Hells yeah,” Martin mocked.

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

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

Martin smiled, and it scared Tom to his core.

“He’s going to tell us what to do to you, and we’re going to do it. Happily, I should add. So you three should actually feel pretty good about yourselves. You’ve defied all expectations, and done something productive with your lives. Something useful. Every ritual needs sacrificial lambs. The bloodier, the better.”

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

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

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

A human outline.

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

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

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

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

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

Someone inside the box screamed, making Sara flinch.

What the hell were these things?

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Jesus. Laneesha.”

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

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

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

She had to get Laneesha out of there.

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

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

“Kill me,” Laneesha croaked.

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

That’s when Sara sensed someone behind her.

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

Not Lester. Not Martin. This was the one who had done this to Laneesha.

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

It was a man. A fat man, naked except a black rubber apron that stretched from his chest to his thighs. He’d come out of the door—the bathroom door—Sara had been about to open. His hair was gray and shoulder-length. His chubby cheeks glistening with sweat over several days’ worth of stubble. His bare skin was lined with long, parallel scabs, like stripes, some of them still bleeding. In his right hand he was clenching a meat hook.

That should have been shock enough, but Sara stared into the man’s eyes. His smiling, pea green eyes, and she felt if she were being sucked into them, falling down a deep, dark hole.

She saw those eyes a thousand times in her nightmares.

They peered at her whenever the lights went out.

Even with all that had happened on the island, those eyes were still the single most terrifying thing Sara had ever seen.

They belonged to Paulie Gunther Spence, the man who abducted her when she was eleven years old.

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

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

But now someone had killed him.

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

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

Subject 33.

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

He stormed out his room, heading down the corridor.

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

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

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

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

Paulie did the foster home shuffle for several years, eventually running away at fifteen and joining a travelling carnival. He lived the life of a carny for a decade, and the work suited him. Especially since it gave him easy access to children.

He never grabbed a kid while on the job. That would have been stupid. But he talked to the kids as he worked the game booths and operated the rides, and those who didn’t know better would give him their last name when he asked. Sometimes they’d even tell him where they lived.

The question that he cared about most, though, was whether the kid had a dog, what kind of dog it was, and if the dog was their responsibility.

Then Paulie would wait until after hours, use a phone book or the Internet to find the child’s house, and then wait in the shadows for the child to let his dog out for the night. Many of the suburbs the carnival visited had big back yards with plenty of good places to hide, and Paulie only chose them if the dogs were small breeds.

Most times, it was a bust, offering Paulie no bigger thrill than some window peeping fantasies and jerking off on the azaleas. But every so often, he got lucky. The kid opened the patio door, and Paulie grabbed him.

Twelve children in ten years. Their screams were like candy. None lived to tell the police.

Then Paulie messed up. One of the kids he took yelled so loud it brought unwanted attention. Paulie was arrested. He did most of his time in isolation, because every time he was put into general pop his fellow inmates tried to kill him; the unwritten convict code for dealing with child molesters. When he got out he had to register as a sex offender. Which meant no working around kids. Which meant no more carny life.

Paulie got a job in construction, saw his court appointed shrink once a week and fed him bullshit about how well he was adjusting, and cruised the malls for young meat.

He did okay. It surprised him how many parents let their precious little children run around unsupervised. He was fine for a few years until he got greedy and tried to grab two girls at once. Someone saw him, which led to the cops checking the parking lot security tapes, which led to his car being IDed, which led to him being caught before he’d gotten the chance to enjoy both little morsels.

This time he went away for life, and they locked him in solitary and threw away the key.

He rotted in that hole for more than a decade. Then that military stiff came to visit, giving him the chance to not only get free, but to kill again. Paulie was happy to sign on.

But he didn’t know a crazy doc was going to shove needles into his brain, taking away his ability to speak, and changing his lust to kill into an all-engrossing, unquenchable thirst.

Every waking moment, Paulie existed only to indulge his need. But rather than a blessing, it was an awful burden. Whenever Paulie was without a victim, he was compelled to take his bloodlust out on himself. Every square centimeter of his body was covered with self-inflicted cuts. The pain was intolerable, but the urge to cause pain—even if it was to himself—always won out.

So he tried to keep his victims alive as long as possible. A difficult line to walk, because hurting them felt soooo good.

One day, he would get out of this place. Then he would have his revenge on the doctor who did this to him.

But until then, there were perks.

Like this juicy little tidbit with the utility knife.

Paulie never forgot one of his children. Especially the ones that got away.

He just had to get her in his pain box.

The box was based on years of testing and experimenting. Every skewer positioned and angled so it wouldn’t hit anything vital. Paulie’s biggest wish was to get the doctor in there.

But until that day came, this was a tasty little substitute.

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

Paulie Gunther Spence stared at her. Through her. Sara knew he could read her thoughts, sense her helplessness.

He lowered the meat hook and gave her a lopsided grin. Then he walked slowly to Sara’s left, stopping at a dresser.

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

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

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

That’s when the door burst open.

The sound was enough to break Sara out of her frozen state. In one smooth motion she dove sideways, tucked her elbows in, and rolled lengthwise under the bed, the utility knife clutched to her chest.

“You! You killed my pet!”

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

But he wasn’t looking at Sara. He was looking at Paulie Gunther Spence.

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

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

Laneesha’s insides came out, spilling onto the ground, some of them sliding under the bed and onto Sara. She shoved her knuckles into her mouth and bit down to keep from screaming.

Lester turned, raising the knife.

“Now Lester will kill Subject 33.”

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

Pointing right at Sara.

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

Lester lunged.

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

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

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

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

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

The meathook clanged to the floor and bounced away, and Sara locked eyes with the fallen killer, less than two feet between them. Paulie’s pea green eyes were no longer the sadistic, powerful eyes that haunted Sara’s dreams. These eyes belong to a desperate, frightened man. A human being, not a monster.

Then Paulie stretched his hands under the bed and grabbed Sara’s wrist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Payback was a bitch.

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

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

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

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

Martin headed that way.

Whatever hold Paulie Gunther Spence had on Sara over the years, whatever spell he’d woven to keep her in near-constant state of fear, was now gone.

Instead, it was replaced by rage.

Paulie gripped her wrist, his eyes huge with panic, trying to drag her out into the open.

No way in hell that was going to happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or a drill.

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

Sara slowly slid out from underneath the bed, avoiding the blood on the floor and refusing to look in Laneesha’s direction. She was halfway to the door when she realized what a cop-out that was. Taking a deep break, she forced herself to face the cabinet.

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

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

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

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

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

Martin.

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

Can I do this?

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

His footsteps reverberated through the stone corridor, getting closer.

I can do this.

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

It’s so dark in there.

She climbed in anyway, forcing herself to squat down, the pain in her leg making her wince.

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

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

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

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

And then the darkness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something was wrong. He felt it.

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

There, by the trunk.

Martin walked over, bending at the waist to pick up the object on the floor.

“Trying to get away? You naughty girl.”

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

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

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

“Goodness, what has happened?”

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

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

“Eating too much and lack of exercise.”

Subject 33 groaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lester held his fingers apart.

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

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

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

“Not right away,” Lester said.

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

“Subject 33 killed the Joe pet.”

“How did he get out of his room?”

Lester shrugged. So did Martin.

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

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

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

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

Martin and Lester both turned to leave.

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

“I’m sure.”

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

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

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

Sara listened, as hard as she could, but the darkness seemed to clog her ears. Had Martin left? Or was he still there, silently waiting, ready to grab her when she opened the trunk?

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

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

He wasn’t. The room was empty.

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

When her heart rate slowed a bit, she made her way to the work table and picked up the cordless drill. The bit was thick, four inches long. She squeezed the trigger and it whirred to life. Then she noticed something potentially more interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

Keep going. Save the kids.

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

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

Yes or no?

Sara palmed the knob and gave it a deft turn.

Locked.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

That was Georgia’s voice.

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

“Sara? Is that you?”

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

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

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

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

No good. The key wouldn’t turn.

She gave it the standard key-jiggle, bumped the door with her shoulder, and tried again.

It worked. Sara pocketed the key and pushed the door open. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the room. Sara saw a bed, a dresser, but no Georgia.

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

“Georgia?”

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

“Georgia! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, now that you’re here.”

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

“Georgia?”

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

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

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

Blood on the floor. Blood and rat parts.

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

“It’s me, Georgia,” she pleaded. “It’s Sara.”

“I know who you are, bitch.”

The girl lunged again, but this time she feinted before the swing, throwing Sara off balance. Before she could recover, Georgia had plowed into her, doubling Sara over and knocking her onto her back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Georgia looked up at Sara and snarled.

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

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

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

Sara. How the hell did she get free?

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

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

Martin went down.

Then Sara was running for the exit, reaching for the ice pick and yanking it free, pulling the door shut behind her. After confirming the door was locked, she stuck the pick in her pocket, scooped up the hammer and drill, and limped down the stone stairs. They came to an end at the cell room, which was brighter with the lights on, but not by much. She gingerly touched her leg wounds and noted they were bleeding again.

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

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

“Sara!”

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

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

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

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

“Tyrone, can you pick locks?”

“Why, ‘cause I’m black?”

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

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

Cindy tucked the ice pick away and wielded the drill.

“That might work, too,” Tyrone said.

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

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

The battery was dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin lashed out with a backhand, knocking the little brat across the room. “Don’t touch me, or any other Level 6, ever again. That’s the only rule. That and put on some goddamn clothes.”

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

Wait a sec. The hinges are on the inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sara, please. Go.”

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

“There you are!”

“I’ll be back for you.” Her fingers briefly touched Cindy’s.

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

Nothing happened.

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

“Sara!” Cindy yelled.

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

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

The door opened to a foot wide, maybe an inch or two less. Sara crammed herself into the space, sandwiched between the door and the frame, fitting her head through sideways. But her body wouldn’t follow suit, her chest was too big.

I’m stuck.

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

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

Let the air out of the tires.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She has no place to run. You can find her after the company leaves.” Plincer glanced up at Lester. “And why, might I ask, are you sulking?”

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

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

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

Kong waited for the engine to cut off before he removed the protective hearing muffs from his ears. All the tension he’d worked off with the whore was back, and then some. After a particularly miserable plane flight sitting next to a hairy fat man in first class, he had to endure the half hour car trip from Sawyer to the helicopter pad. One of the men assigned to meet him—Lau Yung-ching—deemed it necessary to make small talk during the ride, an unfortunate side-effect of being in the States too long.

The chopper ride itself was as loud and bumpy as Kong guessed it would be, and Lau, who turned out to be the pilot, had apparently felt he’d lost face when Kong told him to shut up. As a result, Lau had flown with many unnecessary turns and drops, trying to rattle Kong. If they’d been in China, Kong would have had him arrested and tossed in one of the jails he supervised.

Perhaps Kong would still have a chance to, once China was the undisputed world power.

There had been many hurdles to overcome, but the director of the Jinzhong prison system believed destiny led him here, to Plincer’s Island.

It began with spies, well-placed moles in America’s military, keeping an eye out for weapons research. When the Army ended its deal with Plincer, Kong was happy to step in.

The USA was far too short-sighted, not grasping the bigger picture. These days, war was won by intelligence and technology. But throughout history, it was ruthlessness that decided the victor.

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

An army with no mercy was a fearsome force.

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

China had seven million troops. But languishing in China’s many prisons were another seven million.

Kong had plans for his incarcerated countrymen. Plans that involved the serum and procedure Dr. Plincer had developed to enhance a subject’s aggression.

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

Imagine a thousand such psychopaths unleashed on a city. Imagine a hundred thousand let loose in Russia, or America.

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

Like that catch phrase Kong had seen on one of America’s annoying late-night infomercials. You could just set it, and forget it.

Kong wouldn’t only have the power to keep China safe. He’d have the power to topple governments, to destabilize economies, to engineer anarchy and mass destruction.

And he could have it all for just twenty-five million dollars. A pittance.

He unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed his metal suitcase, waiting for the rotor blades to stop turning before he exited the chopper because he disliked his carefully combed hair to be blown around. The pilot, Lau, would stay with the helicopter. Lau’s partner, a burly man named Chow Kar-wang, would accompany Kong to the meeting and act as muscle if needed.

So far, Chow had kept silent. But he had been corrupted by American influence for too long, and Kong knew it was only a matter of time before the bodyguard disappointed him in some way. It shouldn’t matter. Intel reported that Plincer lived alone on the island, except for his Level 6 subjects and a few wild people who didn’t respond well to the procedure. Kong didn’t expect any trouble. Still, it was somewhat reassuring to see the bulge under Chow’s left armpit, knowing it meant a firearm.

The clearing they’d landed in was ugly. Ugly trees, Ugly ground. Ugly sky. Nothing at all like the serene forests of China. Kong would commit suicide if he were forced to live in such an ugly country.

The prison, also ugly, was less than fifty yards away. Kong walked briskly, and Chow matched his pace, scanning the treeline, watching for trouble. Perhaps he wasn’t as incompetent as Kong had surmised.

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

Almost immediately it creaked opened, but so slowly that Kong ordered Chow to assist.

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

“Good morning, Mr. Kong. Welcome to my island.”

Kong was grateful the doctor didn’t attempt to shake hands. Who knew what germs this filthy man carried?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kong nodded, keeping silent in his belief that any war where Americans killed Americans was a good one.

They approached to the tall man and his companions.

“Mr. Kong, these are three of my Level 6s. High level functioning, perfectly rational.”

“But totally psychotic,” Kong said.

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

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

“Do they follow orders?”

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

Kong gestured for Chow to hold the metal briefcase while he opened it.

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

“Yes. Complete with bill of sale. Where are the notes and the serum?”

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

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

“Certainly. Pick one of the Level 6s and tell them what to do.”

“What are they capable of doing?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

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

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

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

That probably wasn’t true. Kong knew that most men had their limits, and only a special few could commit atrocities without being affected by it. Even the Chinese, the superior race on the planet, had their limits.

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

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

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

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

She hoped, needed, for the helicopter to be the good guys, coming to the rescue. Even with a gun, what was she going to do? Kill Martin, Plincer, Lester, and Paulie Gunther Spence? Sara had never fired a gun, but she knew most held six bullets, and people could be shot multiple times without dying.

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

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

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

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

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

Someone is cooking meat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her stomach grumbled, and she cursed herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked anyway.

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

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

That meant his boat was still here. If the helicopter route didn’t work, maybe they could sail off this godforsaken rock. But first she had to find…

The gun.

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

Sara took one careful step toward it, and then she felt her ears get hot, like her body could sense that a person was staring at her.

She looked up.

A person was staring.

In fact, all eighteen of them were.

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

In one hand, she gripped the bloody filet knife.

In the other, she gripped something even more exciting.

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

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

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

Tom’s intestines wouldn’t stretch any farther.

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

Then, without a word, she cut Tom open.

It got really bad after that.

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

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

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

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

“Now do his eyes.”

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

“Now do his genitals.”

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

“Now do his scalp.”

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

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

“Now do the girl.”

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

He blinked again.

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

He blinked once more, and then twitched his fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gramma had been frickin’ right all along.

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

Then one of them said, “Get her.”

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

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

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

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

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

But then, for the first time in a really long time, Sara got lucky.

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

Orange ribbons led to the prison.

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

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

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

Cindy. Tyrone. Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he replied.

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

Georgia removed a plastic baggie, filled with powder.

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

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

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

He couldn’t let her go out like that.

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

But this display wasn’t for Georgia.

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

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

Then he realized, fuck it.

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

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

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

“Back the fuck away, Georgia.”

Tyrone turned.

Sara.

Kong wasn’t easily impressed, but the chubby’s girl’s zeal in mutilating the boy was something he’d never seen before. He hadn’t thought women could be so delightfully cruel. If he could use the serum to create an army of likeminded women, the possibilities were limitless.

Then some other woman, obviously far less in control, ran up to the children and fired a gun into the air.

What an interesting turn of events.

Chow reached into his jacket for his gun, but Kong held up a finger, stopping him. This new woman was obviously not a threat. She was haggard and bleeding and out of breath, and she held the gun like it was a cobra she wished to throw away. Kong wanted to see how this played out. Wanted to see how the chubby girl reacted to this new threat.

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

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

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

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

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

Fascinating.

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

Kong was liking this serum more and more.

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

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

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

Then a handful of dirty people rushed out of the woods. These must have been the mistakes the doctor had mentioned. Wild people, for whom the procedure didn’t go as planned. They threw themselves at Lester and Martin, snarling and slobbering and brandishing…was that silverwear?

What these dirty people lacked in technique, they apparently made up for in savagery. Kong became concerned.

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

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

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

That’s when Kong’s concern became fear.

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

Then a man cried out, “Jiu ming!” Save me.

The bodyguard assigned to protect Kong was calling for help, but Kong found no amusement in the irony, and he certainly didn’t offer assistance of any kind. Kong didn’t even turn around to see what had happened. He was too intent on running for the helicopter.

Kong rounded the corner and saw the chopper in the distance. That idiot, Lau, was probably napping. He’d better wake up immediately and start the engine, because Kong could sense he had several of those dirty people chasing him. He chanced a look.

More than several. Five or six.

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

Locked.

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

Kong banged on the door. Once he got inside he was going to strangle that fool. Revise that; after he got inside and was taken to safety, he would strangle him. But first there were be an extended session with his bamboo rod. Lau would suffer before his death.

Then the unthinkable happened. Kong Zhi-ou, exalted director of the Jinzhong prison system, the man who was going to lead China to world supremacy, was dragged away from the helicopter in utter disbelief.

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

But why? What could these savages possibly want?

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

They’re biting me.

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

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

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

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

The helicopter’s speaker system crackled and came to life. The last human voice Kong ever heard was that idiot Lau’s. Even worse, he used English.

“Now it is you who has lost face, Mr. Kong.”

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

He had no takers. Apparently these American savages liked their meals alive and kicking.

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

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

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

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

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

Hello, Subject 33.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Help me!”

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

Georgia.

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

“You two stay here,” Sara said.

Cindy shook her head. “Don’t.”

“I have to help her.”

“She killed Tom.”

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

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

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

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

Sara nodded.

“Please help!”

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

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

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

“Sara!”

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

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

A ketchup wrapper.

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

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

“Burn, bitch.”

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

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

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

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

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

Sara stepped in front of Cindy, tugging her own shirt up over her head, swatting at Georgia. But that only fanned the flames, making them bigger.

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

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

That’s when she saw Lester walking toward them.

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

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

It wasn’t.

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

Lester Paks watched the Sara woman standing over Georgia girl. First the Joe pet. Now this.

Lester was so angry his teeth were clenched, something he tried to avoid because their sharp points made his gums bleed. His gums were bleeding so badly his cheeks began to bulge.

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

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

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

At least, most of him was..

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

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

The three people ran north, probably not knowing why. This pleased Lester. The lake was very close to the north. Close and high up, more than thirty feet above the water. When they reached the ledge, there would be no place left to go.

Lester ran faster, closing the distance between them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My teeth. My teeth. My beautiful teeth.

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, the second step was a long one.

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

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

Maybe I will see Georgia girl in hel—

The thought ended with an abrupt crunch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sara shrugged. “No bullets left.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

She checked the compass, fount east.

“Come on, guys. Let’s go.”

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

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

“Great,” he said. “Some ugly ho.”

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

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

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

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

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

“The Euro is stronger than the dollar, Cindy.” Sara said, suddenly nervous to be holding it. “This painting is worth about 25 million dollars.”

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

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

Sara jerked in the direction of the voice.

Martin.

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

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

The doctor would suffer with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop. I don’t handle pain well.

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

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

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

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

When Lester joined the fun, Martin tagged along.

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

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

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

“No,” Sara said.

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

“Cindy, Tyrone, get behind me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re out of your mind,” he said.

“You won’t shoot. I know you.”

“The hell I won’t.”

Then he fired.

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

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

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

The hunting knife. That awful, horrifying hunting knife.

He slashed.

Sara blocked with the painting.

He thrust.

Sara blocked with the painting.

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

I can see my reflection in the blade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tyrone raised the suitcase again.

“No,” Sara ordered.

Tyrone looked at her. So did Martin.

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

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

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

In a brief flash of lucidity, Plincer reflected on his legacy, and came to a startling, ironic conclusion. The doctor thought he’d created four Level 6s; Lester, Subject 33, Martin, and Georgia. This high level of evil didn’t appear in nature. It had to be enhanced.

But Plincer realized, with a jolt, that a Level 6 could, and did, exist without enhancement.

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

I’m a Level 6. I’m the worst one of all.

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

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

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

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

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

Cindy was the only one with two good hands, so she had to start the dinghy’s engine and steer it out to Prendick’s boat. She was awkward at first, but quickly got the hang of it, and was actually smiling by the time they got there.

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

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

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

“I don’t think the Van Gogh Museum willingly sells their paintings,” Sara said, figuring the Chinese men must have done something unlawful to persuade them. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to buy it back.”

“For twenty-five million?”

“I don’t know, Tyrone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really interested in my body?”

They kissed, and Sara gave them their privacy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There would be authorities coming soon. They’d stay for a while, and round up the few remaining ferals. They would search the prison, and discover the lab, and the serum, and take all of it away.

It didn’t matter what they took. It didn’t matter how hard they searched. They wouldn’t find the prison’s secret room.

Mordecai Plincer built the secret room during the civil war. The door was brick, and it looked exactly like the prison walls, carefully balanced on hidden hinges. The seams blended into the brick’s design, making it impossible to see, even if you were standing right next to it.

The secret room had a toilet, and a sink, and electricity. Dr. Plincer updated it when he came to the island, ten years ago. He’d picked workers who wouldn’t be missed, and after the secret room was modernized, they succumbed to Plincer’s experiments.

The secret room was the perfect place for Lester to heal.

He needed to stock the room first, of course. All the food from the kitchen would last maybe a week, so Lester would have to supplement it. Two or three of the corpses should tide him over. The freezer was large enough.

Lester would also need drugs, antibiotics, and pain killers, from the lab. The fall from the cliff had shattered his left arm. He wasn’t sure if he could set the bone himself, but he would have plenty of time to try while he waited for the authorities to leave.

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

Lester guessed it would soon become a landmark.

Landmarks meant visitors. Lots of visitors.

All he had to do was be patient.

Lester Paks closed his eyes and smiled a toothless smile.

He could feel himself getting better already.