JACK KILBORN ~ TRAPPED (41 page)

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

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

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

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

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

My teeth! My teeth! My beautiful teeth!

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, the second step was a long one.

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

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

Maybe I will see Georgia girl in hel—

The thought ended with an abrupt crunch.

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

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

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

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

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

But unconsciousness still didn’t come.

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

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

The others looked.

The prison door. It was open.

They snarled and hooted and ran inside.

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

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

Sara shrugged. “No bullets left.”

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

“
Yes.”

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

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

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

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

She checked the compass, located east.

“
Come on, guys. Let’s go.”

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

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

“
Great,” he said. “Some ugly ho.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sara jerked in the direction of the voice.

Martin.

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

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

The doctor would suffer with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop! I don’t handle pain well!

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

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

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

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

When Lester joined the fun, Martin tagged along.

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

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

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

“
No,” Sara said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“
You’re out of your mind,” he said.

“
You won’t shoot. I know you.”

“
The hell I won’t.”

Then he fired.

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

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

“
Run!” Sara yelled.

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

The survival knife. That awful, horrifying survival knife.

He slashed.

Sara blocked with the painting.

He thrust.

Sara blocked with the painting.

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

I can see my reflection in the blade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tyrone raised the suitcase again.

“
No,” Sara ordered.

Tyrone looked at her. So did Martin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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