Trapped

“I don’t even remember his name,” Doctor Plincer said. “Isn’t that funny? My second greatest success. He was a soldier, I think. In bad shape when I got him. Broken back. And animals—wolves or coyotes or some other such apex carnivore—had been snacking on him. Bad shape, nearly dead. I can relate, let me tell you. But I patched him up. Even better than that. I enhanced him.”

Subject 33 stuck his tongue through the slot and licked the air.

“But he doesn’t follow orders,” Doctor Plincer continued. “Not at all. He hasn’t even spoken a word since the procedure. He writes me notes. That’s how he tells me what he needs. The last few have been, well, rather odd.”

Subject 33’s tongue disappeared, and then those red eyes were back. Wide and staring. Laneesha wanted to turn away, but couldn’t.

“He’s building something in there. I’ll be damned if I know what it is. Here I am, a future candidate for the Nobel Prize, and I can’t figure it out. Besides enhancing his appetites, the procedure also seemed to amplify his intelligence. So he leaves me notes, I order the parts, and give them to him when the supply boat comes. I’m curious to know what he’s building, but I’m too frightened to look. Some sort of pain machine, I suspect. The lambs I bring to him scream like I’ve never heard screams before. And, believe me, I’ve heard screams. Lester is very good at making people scream. I know this firsthand. But Subject 33… well, whatever he’s doing to those people, it’s inhuman.”

The doctor knocked twice on the iron door.

“I’m bringing her to you. Please assume the position.”

The eyes disappeared, and Laneesha watched Subject 33 turn around and stick his hands through the slot, palms up. They were bent and twisted and covered with gnarly scars, like the fingers had been cut off, broken, and sewn back on in the wrong places.

Laneesha shrank into her chair. “Old man, please don’ put me in there.”

Doctor Plincer reached into his pocket, removed a dart pistol. He winked at Laneesha. “He’s my greatest triumph, but he’s difficult to control. The second door in the antechamber isn’t locked. He can open it any time. But he stays in there, because he knows if he doesn’t I won’t give him food. Or any parts for his infernal machine. So he behaves, but I still can’t trust him. That makes me proud, in a way. I created an evil so powerful it only answers to itself.”

The doctor lifted the iron bar off the door, then opened it, keeping his pistol aimed at the inner room, at the slot in the second door.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, please. You should enjoy this one. Plenty of fire in her. Maybe she’ll last you two weeks. That’s your record, isn’t it? For keeping one alive? Two weeks, isn’t it?”

Still facing the inner door, the doctor backed up, walking carefully around Laneesha. Then he began to push her wheelchair into the small room, toward that second door. Laneesha’s eyes were locked on Subject 33’s ruined hands. On top of their deformities they were filthy, fingernails cracked, blood caked under them.

“No.” Laneesha shook her head. “No no no no no…”

“Please leave the wheelchair in the antechamber. I’ll pick it up when I bring breakfast in the morning. I’ll assume breakfast for two, unless you leave me a note stating otherwise. I know sometimes the lambs don’t have the strength to eat. Especially after the first night. I’m making French toast.” The doctor stared down at Laneesha. “Do you like French toast, dear?”

“You can’t leave me with him. Please. I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all.” Laneesha couldn’t stop the tears. “I have a daughter. Her name is Brianna. Please don’t put me in there with him.”

Doctor Plincer patted her head. “I won’t likely see you again. Or more to the point, you won’t see me. I’ll see you when he discards the remains. But, truth told, there haven’t been very many remains lately. The machine has something to do with it, I suspect. What can he be building in there? I don’t know. But you…you’ll soon find out, my dear, dear girl.”

The doctor backed away, and Laneesha heard the iron door slam closed behind her, the crossbar falling into place. She strained against her bonds, strained so hard she saw stars.

Subject 33 removed his hands from the slot, then he opened his door.

Laneesha’s scream would be the first of many.

Tom walked along the beach. He was still a little out of breath from his sprint. One moment he was holding a gun—an actual gun—then the next moment Tyrone was on top of him, and the next moment…

What the hell were those things?

Tom knew they were people. No duh. But they looked more like wildmen. All they needed were leather undies and some spears, and Tom could picture them hunting dinosaurs.

For about a zillionth of a second he felt bad for leaving Cindy and Tyrone there. He wasn’t really gonna shoot either of them. But those frickin’ wildmen looked crazy, and Tom knew when to fight and when to run, so he ran. Through the forest, through the trees, all the way to shore. And now he didn’t know what to do next.

So he began to walk around the island. It wasn’t a big island; Sara said it was only a few miles across. Tom figured he would keep walking until someone found him. It’s not like Sara and Martin were going to leave him here. They were responsible adults. Even if Tyrone told them about the gun, they still had to take him back to Michigan.

Tom tried not to think about the wildmen.

He walked, and walked some more, and then the beach sort of ended and rose up, becoming kind of a cliff with trees on it. Tom climbed, staying away from the edge, and kept heading in the same direction. The night was cool, but he was sweating and really thirsty and kind of hungry too. He thought about drinking lake water, but heard that all the water in the great lakes was dirty and could make you sick.

That’s when he smelled it. Barbecue.

He paused, trying to figure out where it was coming from. Obviously, Sara and Martin had come back to camp, and now they were cooking something. And then Tom shook his head, wondering how he could have been so gullible.

The wildmen. They were fake.

It must have been part of Martin’s stupid plan to scare them all. In fact, one of them might have even been Martin, all dressed up to look like a wildman. And Tom took it for the real thing, like a dummy.

No, not like a dummy. It wasn’t Tom’s fault he was scared. He was off his meds. He always acted stupid off his meds.

Which was a perfect excuse for why he pointed the gun at Tyrone and Cindy. It wasn’t Tom’s fault. It was Sara’s fault, for not giving him his Risperdol. Which meant they couldn’t punish him for anything.

Tom headed into the woods, toward the barbecue smell. He couldn’t wait to dig in.

Georgia stared at Lester’s pet, her hands over her mouth, the odor so bad it made her stomach roil. At first, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. It looked like a giant, pale worm. But then she noticed the buttocks, the shoulder blades, the bumps of the spine beneath the dirty flesh.

It was a torso. No arms. No legs. Just a body with a head attached. And it smelled awful.

“Go on, Georgia girl,” Lester said. “Touch the pet.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Is it dead?”

“The pet is not dead.”

Lester kicked the crate, and Georgia watched in awe as the head swiveled up and faced them.

“Uhhhhhnnnnnn,” it said.

Georgia dropped her hands. “Holy shit. This thing is freaking alive?”

The man’s face was a ruin. Eyes gone. Ears gone. A big scar across the scalp. When he opened his mouth to make that hideous sound, Georgia noted the tongue was also missing.

“The pet Lester’s best friend,” Lester said. “Except for Doctor.” He glanced sideways at her, showing his fangs as he smirked. “And Georgia girl.”

“Did you do this to him, Lester?”

He nodded. “It took a long time. Lots of cutting.”

Georgia stared, fascinated. It was at once the most horrible and most amazing thing she’d ever seen.

“Want to see the pet do the funny dance?” Lester asked.