Trapped

knowing he’d be unable to swing his body back up, and knowing what dropping down meant.

Then Jack began to shift. Martin only had one shoulder strap around him, having moved too quickly to buckle the second strap or the waist belt. Jack moved along Martin’s back, under his armpit, and hung over his belly. He opened his tiny eyes, looked up at Dad, and gurgled happily.

Martin’s arms began to burn, then tremble, then unbend slowly, like the air being let out of a pneumatic jack. Below him, the axman continued to gnaw on that large round object. But it was only a matter of seconds until he looked up. Martin knew his best chance was to move closer to the trunk, find a toe hold. But he wasn’t sure his hands would hold out.

Jack gurgled again, blowing a tiny baby spit bubble that burst against his father’s neck.

Martin reached out an aching hand for a grip near the trunk.

His fingers missed the branch.

Jack’s sling slid right off his shoulder.

Martin frantically reached down, catching the strap, tangling Jack only a foot above the cannibal. The hand still holding the tree felt like it had been set on fire. He let out an involuntary grunt.

The cannibal kept his attention focused on his snack, and didn’t see the baby swinging over his head.

Martin summoned up his last bit of strength, swung Jack’s sling in a wide arc, and the strap hooked onto a broken twig.

Jack apparently enjoyed the quick motion, because he squealed with joy.

The cannibal looked up.

The tug was sudden and violent, ripping Martin’s hands from the bough. He slammed into the ground on his side, the shock of the impact making him bite his already injured tongue. Inches from his nose was a severed, cooked head, much of its face eaten away.

Martin instinctively rolled left, just as the ax struck where he’d been lying. Martin continued the roll until he had room to get his hands and knees up under him. A moment later he was on his feet, dizzy and hurting, but with his fists raised. He looked up, saw Jack hanging precariously from the tree branch. Then he took another quick look at the head.

Meadow.

“That was one of my kids,” Martin said softly. “My kids. You think you can kill one of mine?”

The axman was large, powerful, with thick arms and a neck like a tree stump. But when he swung the ax again, aiming at Martin’s chest, he showed his weakness. The bigger man was slow.

Martin side-stepped the swing and kicked out his foot, connecting between the axman’s legs. The he grabbed the ax handle and twisted it sideways, trying to tug it from its owner’s thick fingers.

Leverage and momentum were on his side. The axman grunted, stumbling forward, and Martin did a quick spin, propelling the weapon around, burying the head into his adversary’s shoulder. The axman howled, dropping to his knees.

“My kids, asshole.”

It took six more whacks before the creature was dead. Martin surveyed the carnage, breathing heavily, and then reached up to pull his son from the tree.

Jack was blowing more spit bubbles.

“Let’s go get Mommy.”

Martin adjusted Jack so the sling was in front, made sure both straps and the belt were secure, and then went to go find his wife.

General Alton Tope was career Army, and those under his command joked that when he nicked himself shaving he not only bled red, but white and blue as well. For more than thirty years he practiced keeping his face unreadable, his thoughts invisible, but anyone looking at him in his bedroom would have noticed obvious signs of worry creasing his weathered features.

He loosened his tie and undid his top collar button, poured himself the last finger of twenty-one-year-old Dalwhinnie single malt, recapped the bottle and placed it in the empty waste can next to his desk, and took the glass over to the bureau. General Tope set the scotch on top and used both hands to open the cabinet doors, then took a moment to frown at the OSST monitor. He tapped the flatscreen with his left hand and retrieved the liquor with his right, bringing the rocks glass to his mouth and smelling notes of heather and honey amid the ethanol vapors.

The monitor flickered on, showing an orbital view of a familiar green planet in perfect high-definition color. He touched the familiar mitten shape of Michigan, and took a sip while waiting for the Orbiting Strand Satellite Telescope to track his command. The whiskey was warm and smooth, and he finished it too quickly.

Self control, Alton. Always. Get a hold of yourself.

He went back to his desk and opened the drawer where he kept his spare bottle. It wasn’t there. His maid knew he was to always have a spare on hand, and the lack of one meant she’d either forgotten to stock it, or taken it for herself.

General Tope shook off his annoyance. It was a forgivable mistake, and he was a forgivable leader. In the morning, he’d write her a brief note as a reminder. He set the empty glass on his desk and returned to OSST.

The image got bigger and bigger, zooming in to Lake Michigan, and ultimately Rock Island, at a viewing distance equivalent to three hundred feet above it. The picture was too dark to make out anything, so he pressed the top corner of the monitor and opened the onscreen operations panel. He switched the view to infrared and had the telescope software calculate a body count.

The number surprised him.

Twenty-seven.

According to the read out, there were twenty-seven people on the island.

But that shouldn’t be. That had to be wrong.

He had the program recalculate.

“Twenty-seven,” he said, reading the reconfigured total.

General Tope’s brow creased even further. Certain key military personnel knew about Rock Island. It had been on their radar for quite some time. He pondered what this new development meant, and realized he should have acted sooner.

“Tomorrow,” General Tope said. “I’ll take care of it all tomorrow.”

Then he picked up the phone, apologized to his secretary for the late hour, but instructed her to find him a bottle of single malt scotch, even if they had to send a platoon to break into the nearest liquor store to do so.

The interior of the tent was warm and sour, smelling of fresh blood and old sweat. Though the light was low, on her left Cindy could make out the shape of a person wrapped in a sleeping bag—the dirty, hairy man she’d seen earlier, the one who tried to grab her and Tyrone. He snored wetly, making the hair on Cindy’s arms stand on edge.

Cindy’s first reaction was to back up, get the hell out of there, and she went so far as to lean toward the exit. But her limbs stayed put. The radio was in that tent, and it was their only chance to get off this island alive. So she ignored all the voices in her brain screaming at her to leave, and instead inched forward.

There were backpacks to her right, their contents strewn about, probably by Tom. Cindy squinched her eyes, not even sure what the radio in question looked like. Before she rushed bravely in, possibly to her own death, she should have at least asked how big it was. In the dimness she could make out some clothing, Jack’s crib, a stack of cans, and something square-shaped. Were radios square? She crawled closer to the square thing, keeping the instinct to flee at bay.

The snoring cannibal kept a steady rhythm, every snort a reminder that death was less than three feet away. As Cindy got closer she saw a familiar red cross on the box.

A first aid kit. Tyrone needs this for his hands.

She picked it up and carefully placed it on the ground behind her, near the entrance. Then she began to paw through the discarded clothing.

After carefully setting aside one of Martin’s shirts, Cindy noticed a tiny red light, no larger than a BB. She reached for it, touching something hard and rectangular. Her fingers brushed over an antenna. It was either a very