Trapped

healing their psyches, Sara teaching them how to integrate into society.

And now, with the funding for the Center being cut, Martin was cut off from Sara as well. He’d hoped, on Plincer’s Island, to bond with Sara in a way they’d never bonded before.

But being attacked and hunted like animals hadn’t been part of the plan.

Martin hurt. His swollen hands throbbed in time with his pulse, and his face felt like it had been pulled off and sewn back on off-center. But these aches disappeared when he saw the tribe of crazies cross his path only a few dozen feet ahead.

Being caught by them once was enough for a lifetime, and the thought that they might get Sara or Laneesha was unacceptable. Because of this, his pain was surpassed by a surge of adrenalin that made him grab both women and drag them and Jack to the ground so they wouldn’t be seen. The trio collectively held their breath. Martin’s imagination boiled with images of horrific tortures and screaming victims, and he squeezed his eyes shut and decided, if need be, he’d fight to the death right here rather than let those bastards take him again.

The tribe moved closer, not bothering with stealth, marching single file and slapping wayward branches out of their way. Martin felt Laneesha squirm, and he kept hard pressure on her shoulder, preventing her from bolting and giving away their position.

Laneesha whimpered, a single sharp vowel, brief but unmistakably human. And loud enough to be heard by the hunters.

Martin watched as one of the feral people fell out of line, cocking a head in their direction. He took two steps toward them and stopped again, sniffing the air like a dog. This man was fatter than the others, his shoulders broad and powerful looking.

Again Laneesha squirmed, kicking some dead leaves, making a shuffling sound.

Dark as it was, Martin could see the hunter raise his arm. He was holding an ax.

Martin felt the tension in his legs, wondering how he could spring up from a prone position. He adjusted his toes, silently digging them into the ground for traction, forcing his crippled hands to grasp some loose dirt to throw in their attacker’s face.

Then there came a scream.

Not from Martin or the women, and not from any of the hunters. This came from deep in the forest, shrill and agonized, a sharp note that went on and on.

The axman turned toward the scream, then lumbered back into the woods.

Martin let out his breath. “Let’s wait a minute,” he whispered, his jaw throbbing and his tongue and cheeks feeling like he’d just gargled acid. “Make sure they’re gone.”

“Who’s screaming?” Laneesha said.

“I don’t know.”

“Martin.” He felt his wife’s hand grip his shoulder. “That’s one of our kids.”

Martin placed a thumb and forefinger on his eyes, rubbed them gently. “We don’t know that.”

The scream returned, a high-pitched chord that Martin could feel in his molars.

“That’s Meadow,” Laneesha said.

“We don’t know it’s Meadow, Laneesha.”

“Jesus, what are they doin’ to him?”

“Laneesha, you have to stay calm.”

“It’s Meadow. I know his voice. What could make him scream like that?”

Sara clutched Martin’s arm. “We have to help him, Martin.”

“Sara, I counted eight, eight, of those people. And even if it is Meadow, and it might not be, someone is making him scream like that. We have no idea how many of them there are on this island.”

Sara got up onto her knees. Their son was in his sling, asleep. Martin admired the child’s resilience.

“We still have to try,” his wife said.

Martin put his hand on the small of her back. “We will. I promise. But we need to get back to the campsite first.”

Another scream, weaker this time, ending in a horrible sob.

“We don’t have time,” Sara said, standing up.

Martin debated whether or not to tell her, and decided he had no choice. He painfully got to his feet and caught up with Sara, who was already heading toward the scream.

“Sara, I have something at the campsite we can use.” He paused. “A gun.”

Though he couldn’t see it, he could imagine the shocked look on his wife’s face.

“A gun, Martin?” Her voice was sharp. Sara didn’t like weapons of any sort. Knives especially, but guns were high on her list too. “Why the hell do you have a gun?”

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

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

“It’s hidden.”

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

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

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

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

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

“The orange ribbons.”

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

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

“This is one fucked up trip, Martin.”

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

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

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

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

Her touch was gentle but firm.

Much as it hurt, he grasped her hand back.

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

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

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

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

“Give…the… girl… and…we… let… you… go.”

He smiled when he said it, revealing a witch’s mouth of blackened and missing teeth.