Fresh Flesh (23 page)

"If you really want to die—"

"No more games!" Walkins was shaking, his
face red. He was clearly breaking down. "This is my home, not
yours, not Templin's, not anyone else's. She's mine too. I'm taking
her with me."

Kyle Roberts laughed heartily.

"Come on, little man. Let's get this over
here and now. Come get some."

PROBLEMCHILDPROBLEMCHILD!

Kyle drew his knife and gestured with his
other finger. "C is for Crowd. The crowd is cheering you on,
problem child."

It didn't last long.

Exhausted, Richard reached the camp. In time
to see the fight commence in one corner and Jessica in the other,
nearest the campfire, slumped over with her arms and legs tied to
two poles with a zombie-like expression.

You bastard, Roberts
. As he drew
closer he realized it was Walkins and Roberts fighting. Seth
Everson didn't appear in the camp at the moment.

Neither of the battling men noticed Richard
as he limped across the camp to the spot where Jessica was tied
up.

He heard both men shouting obscenities at
each other.

Two lunatics raging for order. Walkins yelped
in pain. Roberts growled.

Richard lifted Jessica's head and put his
finger on her lips, "Shhhh."

He cut her down and started to half-drag,
half-carry her out of the camp. He got to the edge of the ramp and
only turned back once.

But once was all it took to see the winner of
the fight standing over the slain, repeatedly kicking the dead body
with sadistic glory screaming: "C is for Chaos! C is for
Chaos!"

Despite the pains in his leg he drag-carried
Jessica through the ravine and away into the night.

The fire was dying to be fed.

He dragged the bloody body by its legs and
dropped it in the blaze. The flames caught the ragged clothing and
quickly melted to Donald Walkins' body. In seconds the foul smell
of burning flesh swept across the camp.

Roberts watched the defeated face of Walkins
melt into an ash-gray skeleton. A complete sizzling meltdown taking
the thinnest flesh first: eyes, nose and mouth exposing a red
tongue which quickly blackened and burned off. Soon Kyle was
staring at a biology textbook skeleton, the scary white fleshless
thing on Halloween, the new Donald Walkins.

The very dead Donald Walkins.

"Burn bastard, burn!" Roberts raised a fist
high in the air. "Burn until your nothing but cinders and ashes.
Burn."

And with the fire growing hotter, hungrier,
Walkins' flesh obliged.

When at last the fire began to die down, Kyle
turned and stared at the black ravine surrounding the camp.

Templin had stolen Jessica back and was
wounded out there. He couldn't go far.

Too dark. The coward will hide under the
darkness.

DAMN YOU, WALKINS!

Where was Seth?

Seth would report back. Seth was not a
problem child. Seth knew who was in charge and how to treat him.
Soon Seth would return.

There was no escape. On his island nobody
escaped. He had wasted too much time today and missed opportunities
to have Templin killed. No more playing around.

Kyle sat down on the dirt and watched the
burning body in the fire. Nightmare visions danced in his dark
green eyes.

He waited for Seth to return, grinding a
knife into the ground.

Jessica wanted to go back to the southwest
beach where she'd first been found. The trip with Richard's leg was
a slow one, but they made it about an hour later. Richard kept
asking her what happened and all she would say was: "The southwest
beach."

When she saw the beach she washed in on under
light of a full moon, she raced out into the cold ocean tide.
Before she knew it she was waste deep in the ocean. Under the water
she tried to scrub Kyle Roberts filth out of her. As if she had a
stubborn stain inside her flesh-cloth.

"Why?" She beat the top of the water with
fists. Why had the ocean decided to spare her? What was she
supposed to do? She was devastated that Kyle Roberts had violated
her body. He had collected something from her that didn't belong to
him. Now she felt anger rise inside her that scared her. She wanted
to march back into that camp and do monstrous things to Kyle
Roberts.

She was scared of what the island had made
her become.

A wave approached and crashed over her
head.

Go ahead, take me back out there. Reclaim
me. Do it. I dare you.

Underwater, she opened her eyes.

Two months ago.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Edward
Stanton asked.

"My 7-up is fine." Jessica replied.

"What's wrong with you? You've been distant
since we left from San Francisco."

"The sea is getting rougher. We should turn
back."

"We'll be fine. We're in your boat, the good
LADY STANTON." He leaned in and kissed Jessica's cheek. "Now come
out from down below and let's join our friends on the deck."

Jessica took Edward's hand and followed him
to the deck of the yacht. When she emerged the first thing she saw
were waves violently crashing against the side of the yacht.

The waves were like outstretched fingers.

She saw the face of a monstrous creature in
the wave, its shadow grew over the boat.

Soon, salty ocean water filled her lungs and
she drifted and fell. . .

A hand pulled her out of the water, back from
the grip of the waves. Richard swam with her in his arm back to the
shore, wincing. He pushed the wet strands of hair out of her
eyes.

"Why didn't you let me go?"

"After all we've been through? I'm not going
to let you go."

"Richard."

"Not the best time for a swim."

"This island scares the hell out of me,
Richard. I want to go . . . anywhere else but here."

"I know."

"
He
scares the hell out of me."

"Guess that makes two of us," Richard said as
they reached the shore. "When you're ready to tell me what happened
with Roberts, I'll be here."

She smiled. She couldn't talk about what
Roberts had done to her yet.

"Man, this ocean water stings."

Jessica reached out and touched his shoulder.
"I'm growing fond of you."

His eyebrows rose.

"Yes, thank you for rescuing me." She leaned
in and kissed him on the lips. Surprised, his arms went to her side
but then fell into the moment and he hugged her tighter. He kissed
her back.

The night crowded around them watching
god-like. The wind whispered secrets. The waves never stopped
crashing.

The next morning, over five thousand miles
east of the island in Washington D.C., the world sizzled in August.
Bright rays lit up the steps of the White house.

Outside it was the perfect Courier and Ives
summer scene; something you might hang on the family room wall. The
Secretary of Defense trudged through the beauty into the White
House.

"Mr. Secretary." The President spoke when he
entered the oval office.

"You asked to see me, Mr. President?"

"Yes."

The Secretary took a seat directly across
from the President.

"I have been consumed with ADP1982 and the
recent Navy report that a civilian may have shipwrecked there."

"And?"

"And to tell you the truth, I'm surprised
this hasn't happened sooner." The President's voice carried a tinge
of anger. "Here so early in my administration and we have to
untangle this mess."

The Secretary raised his hand and set it on
the edge of the desk. "Mr. President, if I may, the evidence
concerning the Stanton shipwreck is heavy speculation on the Navy's
part. I urge you not to be disturbed—"

"Not disturbed? Do you realize what you're
saying? There's a chance innocent civilians have shipwrecked there.
Perhaps even a woman. Somebody's daughter."

"But sir, you read my recommendation?"

"Yes, and I think it is rubbish. Pardon me,
Mr. Secretary, but I don't wish to turn my back on this project any
more. I want a SEAL team sent in there."

"Sir, that is loaded with problems."

"An extraction team could go in, assess and
take control of the island. If the woman is there, then they could
make their best attempt to get her out. It's easy to end any
speculation with ground intel."

"Sir, let's assume there is a survivor from
the Stanton shipwreck on the island. Somebody's daughter, as you
said. What do we do with her? Are we going to hope she comes back
and doesn't say anything about the island?"

The President slammed the file down on his
desk. "We can't sit on our hands!"

"Sir, if this becomes public it could. . ."
the Secretary didn't finish the obvious.

Project ADP1982 was the type of scandal that
could implicate several politicians on Capitol Hill, not only the
office of the President.

"At least my plan of action doesn't include
ADP1982 becoming public," the Secretary of Defense said.

"Doing nothing risks a leak too. The Stanton
estate is in shambles. If they weren't so busy chasing his money
they'd be quadruple checking the reports and sending ships out
there. We don't know that they still won't do that. The Coast Guard
is cooperating with the Navy and it seems for now everybody is
buying that the Stanton party all died at sea."

"It's been over eleven years without a leak.
And besides, no matter what is done to prevent it, there has always
been the chance of a leak."

The President's eyebrows rose, but he did not
comment.

"I believe that to attempt a search, and
subsequently, a rescue," the Secretary said, "it would be futile.
If there is someone, and hopefully it's not Stanton's wife. God
help her, I fear what those. . .convicts will have already done to
her."

"The project is a grave mishap and must be
shut down."

"I thought that was already your decision,
sir."

"And how do you feel about it?"

"Perhaps you're right. With the current
Stanton situation things could spiral out of control. Closing the
program and starting the cleanup process makes sense."

"I'm glad you agree with me, Mr. Secretary."
A small silence followed.

The Secretary prodded, "In what way, sir, do
you believe we should go about ending it?"

"In the only way it was meant to end," the
President said grimly, "total destruction."

"So you still want the SEAL team in there,
but not on an extraction mission? To target and terminate?"

"No." The President grabbed the other file on
his desk. When he stared down at the aerial photograph of the
island he realized what else bothered him about ADP1982. It was the
island's eerie topography. From one of the aerial photos taken it
looked like something else than an island, something almost. .
.alive. There was one angle shot where he swore he could see the
face of a monstrous creature.

An image the President couldn't get out of
his mind.

"Admiral Bodecker has an Iowa class ship in
his fleet," The President said. "Tomorrow at noon let's do the new
Tomahawk testing on the island."

The Secretary nodded, making notes.

"Those prisoners were denied death and we owe
each and every one of them to fulfill their executions. As for the
woman, let's pray the Navy's speculation is wrong and she's sitting
at the bottom of the ocean."

"And what about the newest convict for the
program, Wally Adamson? He's prepped and scheduled to fly out later
today, Mr. President."

The President stood up and looked through
cracked venetian blinds at a sky devoid of clouds. He'd almost
forgotten about the convict who had the nickname Torque. An odd
aspect of Adamson's file came to him: Adamson was
looking
forward
to being exiled on the island. According to the files
the President had reviewed, Adamson was the only prisoner who had
ever felt this way.

"Mr. Adamson can have his death wish."

They both looked at the wall clock. The
inhabitants on the island had twenty-seven hours left to live.

The steady hum of the airplane slicing
through the sky wasn't the only thing Torque had to endure. It was
bad enough being chained like Houdini, but being forced to listen
to the non-stop heckling from Tweedledee and Tweedledum sitting
across from him was pure torture.

"They say he hasn't said a word since he lost
it at that Southern Fried Chicken," said the over-nourished
Dee.

"Looks like a psycho," replied Dum.

"I bet his momma abused him and shit."

"Probably never got any pussy either."

"No, I guess he was married at one time."

"Yeah? Bet she was dogmeat."

"Oooo, check it out, we got his eyes lit up
over that one." Dee pointed straight at him. "What was it
Wally-boy, was she a real bow-wow, or what?"

Nina
.

"He won't answer ya'," Dum replied. "Doctors,
psychologists, everybody says he don't have no voice since he
snapped."

"For what he did to those people he should
have no dick."

Dum chuckled, "He probably doesn't have one
anyway." They found their cruelty hilarious.

Torque thought about saying something to
them. Shock them. Everyone believed he had no voice left; the
trauma of what had happened had spoiled his will to speak.

But that wasn't it at all.

He was waiting.

Waiting for his calling.

Satan would tell him when the time was right.
And when the call came he'd be ready. . .

"Well Wally, looks like we're almost at your
new home," it was Dum speaking as he drew his gun and pointed it at
Torque's heart. Dee copied his mentor, but pointed his gun less
threateningly.