Trapped

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bone had caught on something.

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

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

Someone’s pelvis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock Island Prison.

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

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

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

She held the torch, grateful for both the light and the warmth it emitted. In only her bra, the night air gave her goosebumps. Tyrone walked at her side. He held the gun, now cool enough to touch, in his left hand. His right hand was wrapped in his T-shirt. After fleeing the campsite, Cindy had insisted on examining his injuries. His left only had a few small blisters. His right looked like raw hamburger.

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

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

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

“Smell that?” Tyrone asked.

Cindy stopped, sniffed the air.

Her mouth watered.

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

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

“Tyrone…could that be…?”

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

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

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

“Don’ look,” Tyrone said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you shoot lefty?”

“Did okay back at camp.”

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

“You ain’t doin’ it, Cindy.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Which was a lie. She was terrified. But even scarier than shooting some cannibals was thinking about what would happen if they caught her and Tyrone.

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

“Let me see you hold the gun.”

“I ain’t playin’”

“Neither am I. Hold it.”

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

“Give me the gun, Tyrone.”

“No way.”

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

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

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

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