old model cell phone, or…
Cindy seized it, snugging it to her chest, and it let go with a loud burst of static hiss when she accidentally pressed a button.
She froze, holding her breath, waiting for the inevitable; the cannibal waking up and reaching for her.
It didn’t happen. There was only stillness, and silence.
Cindy paused, her hands shaking, her kidneys aching. If attacked, she needed to scream to alert Sara and Tyrone. She also needed to find a weapon. The radio had some heft, but she couldn’t risk damage by throwing or swinging it. The first aid kit was in a metal box. Heavier and stronger.
Still no sound. Cindy hadn’t exhaled yet.
If she had to defend herself, she needed her hands free. Carefully feeling around the walkie-talkie, she discovered what she sought; a belt clip. Ever so slowly she hooked it onto the top of her pants.
Silence continued to pervade the tent. The cannibal wasn’t moving at all.
Cindy let her air out slowly, through her teeth, in an extended, soft hiss. She wanted to take another breath —her heart was thumping like mad—but she was too frightened.
She began to back up, nice and easy, the quiet pressing down on her like a weight, when the obvious hit her.
That’s when the cannibal sprung up, winding his filthy arm around Cindy’s mouth before she had a chance to scream.
Sara felt ready to explode. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since Cindy crawled into the tent, but each second seemed like a little stretch of eternity in hell. Not being able to see her, not knowing what was happening to one of her kids, made Sara’s imagination run riot with atrocities.
She forced herself to count the seconds. A minute was more than enough time for Cindy to find the radio. After a minute, Sara was determined to go in after her.
Sara began a slow count to sixty.
“How long Cindy been in there?” Tyrone nudged her.
“Not long,” she whispered back.
The numbers ticked through Sara’s mind, and she pictured them as she thought of them, each one big and red and sounding like a gong.
By the time she reached number twenty, it felt like a year had passed.
“I’m going after her.”
Sara held Tyrone back. “Give her a minute.”
“Been more than a minute.”
The number thirty shone like a spotlight in Sara’s head. “He’s still asleep. She’s okay.”
“There were two of those cannibals,” Tyrone said.
Number thirty-four hung in the air, then disintegrated. “Two?”
“I just had a bad thought. Maybe the other guy is in the tent.”
“Oh… shit.”
Sara abandoned the count, springing up from the crouching position, making her way through the thicket to the campsite.
She crept over to him, crossing the damp ground where blood had mixed with the dirt, making mud. Bits of sinew clung to her hiking boots, and organ meat squished beneath her feet. On the ground, next to him, were some filthy eating utensils, dried bits of gore stuck to them.
Sara stood next to the sleeping cannibal, raising up her foot, ready to stomp down on his neck.
The cannibal opened his eyes.
Sara brought her heel down as hard as she could. She put her weight into it, twisting her hips, trying to separate his head from his body.
But he moved at the last moment, and her foot hit his shoulder.
Then Sara was stumbling backward, thrown off balance, and the cannibal was on his feet and eyeing her malevolently, crouching in an attack position. He’d picked up his cutlery, the blood-stained fork in his right hand, a rusty steak knife in his left. Sara found her center, spread her feet, and waited for the charge.
Behind her, in the tent, Cindy screamed.
That distracted Sara long enough for the cannibal to slip inside Sara’s defenses, feinting with his left, jabbing the right at Sara’s thigh.
The fork penetrated her jeans, her skin, her muscle, and stuck firmly in the bone.
Sara spun, whipping her elbow around, hitting her attacker squarely in the nose. The cannibal staggered back, arms pinwheeling, and then tripped and fell onto his ass, right in the middle of the campfire.
He laid there for a second, then began to flap his limbs, almost like he was making a snow angel in the burning ashes. He cried out—trying to turn over—his legs getting tangled in some of the firewood—getting to his feet—slipping and falling face-first—getting to his feet again with his hair and beard on fire—and finally running into the woods, screaming like a police siren as he retreated into the night.
That’s when the pain hit. Sara doubled over, her hands fluttering around the utensil sticking out of her leg, afraid to touch it. This was worse than a charley horse, reducing Sara’s world to nothing but an agonizing throb. She whimpered, saw Tyrone in her peripheral vision. He was streaking out of the woods and heading for the tent.
Sara slammed her eyelids closed, clenched her fingers around the fork handle, and yanked.
She staggered sideways, her balance, her stomach, her mind all going wavy. Jerking her eyes open, Sara oriented herself and limped to the tent, ducking inside, seeing Tyrone struggling with a man, a man who was growling and biting Cindy on her shoulder. Cindy beat at his head and whined like a kicked dog.
Sara made a fist, pressing her thumb down hard across the top of her index finger knuckle, and threw the punch.
Her thumbnail jabbed into the cannibal’s eye. He opened his teeth and howled, allowing Tyrone to snake his arm across his neck. Sara grabbed his torn, filthy shirt, and she and Tyrone manhandled him out of the tent, forcing him to his knees. The eye she’d poked was bleeding. The other one was bloodshot and… crying.
He ceased struggling, his arms limp at his sides.
“I… am… bad… man.” His voice was odd, somewhere between a croak and a hiccup.
Sara paused. She was hurt, and sick to her stomach, and part of her knew she needed to end this monster’s life, but another, bigger part saw he was not only docile, but quite possible in need of help himself.
“Who are you?” Sara asked.
“My… name …John.”
Cindy crawled out of the tent, crying. She held a white gym sock to her bleeding shoulder.
“What’s your last name, John?”
He blinked. His body shook with sobs, but there were no tears.
“Don’t… know.”
“How many of, uh,
“Many.” The wildness in his red eyes was still there, but behind it was a tinge of sanity. “Like… animals. We… hunt. We… kill. We… eat.”
Sara bent down, wincing at the pain in her leg. “What happened to you, John?”
“Brought… here…” He swallowed, and moaned. “Doctor… did… something… to… brain.”
“Dr. Plincer?” Sara asked.
