Trapped

He found the two foam plugs by the base of the lamp, and spent a minute taking off his prosthetic ears and shoving the plugs into the holes. When the cries were dulled to a whisper, Plincer placed his glasses where the earplugs had been, switched off the light, and rested his head back on the pillow.

Oops. Almost forgot.

Plincer flicked the lamp back on, sat up, and spent a minute picking the facial putty out of the divots in his nose, chin and cheeks. Specifically made for burn victims, this make-up was used to smooth out scar tissue. It didn’t hold up to close scrutiny, giving his complexion an artificial dullness, and when it dried it would flake off, making him look like he had crumbs on his face. Still, it was preferable to looking like a loaf of headcheese.

When he had a decent sized ball of it, he set that next to his glasses and again killed the light.

The doctor actually did sympathize with the poor suffering girl. Sympathize, and empathize.

Plincer rested his hands on his bare chest and ran his fingers over the rubbery scars. There were several dozen gnarled, shiny bumps, in precise, even rows. It felt like touching a truck tire.

The plastic surgeons weren’t able to do skin grafts, because there was no place on the doctor’s body where skin could be harvested. His arms, legs, back, and even buttocks had the same scars.

Scars from Lester.

Doctor Plincer knew, firsthand, what it was like to be completely at the mercy of a psychopath. After the court ordered Lester into Plincer’s care, the doctor had been so intent on curing the teenager he hadn’t given enough thought to precautions. Lester was smart, and managed to escape his room one night and sneak into the doctor’s.

For two days, Doctor Plincer had been victimized by the boy. Lester stripped him naked, tied him up, and began the methodical process of biting him over his entire body.

Human beings can clench their teeth with a hundred and fifty pounds of force. It hurt worse than being pinched with pliers. Not to mention the obscene intimacy of it. Plincer often imagined he could still feel Lester’s lips, his warm breath, his slick tongue, on his skin. Followed by the piercing, tearing pain.

Plincer had screamed during the ordeal. Screamed until his throat went numb. And when Lester finished, when he’d covered almost every bitable square inch on the Doctor’s body, he started over. Nibbling off the scabs. Reopening the wounds. Ramping the agony up to surreal levels.

The maid saved Plincer’s life. Coming in for the weekly cleaning, she heard the doctor’s whimpering and called the police.

Doctor Plincer needed over two hundred stitches and staples, and three pints of blood. The most extensive reconstruction work was done on his face and genitals, to little effect. It took him weeks to recover, and Plincer knew that perhaps he never truly did get over the psychological aspects of the attack.

But he didn’t blame Lester, any more than he could blame a shark for following its nature. When Plincer healed, he resumed his experiments with Lester. But instead of curing him, he enhanced him, making the boy even more evil.

The world didn’t care about him curing psychotics. But it turned out people were willing to pay big bucks to Plincer to create psychotics.

So strange how life works out.

Plincer sighed, digging another bit of putty out of the gap in the bridge of his nose and flicking it off into the dark. Funny, that he’d still have so much vanity he had to put on his face before the new arrivals saw him. He had no reason to care if they saw his disfigurement or not. Even if one of the female visitors on the island took a liking to Plincer, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Lester had bitten off those parts of him.

Chalk it up to an old man’s pride, Plincer thought. We’re all entitled to our little idiosyncrasies.

He sighed deeply and burrowed his head into his pillow. If all went as planned, by this time tomorrow he would no longer have money troubles.

Plincer allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps he should write a letter to his accountant, have him invest in a company that made ear plugs.

If the meeting went as well as Plincer anticipated, there would soon be a lot of screaming, all around the world.

The flashlight from the first aid kit was small, but it had a nice bright LED bulb. Sara clenched it between her teeth and bit down, hard, as she peeled off her jeans. The wound didn’t look too bad when she cleansed it; just four tiny punctures and a growing oval bruise. But it bled like hell and wouldn’t stop. Sara knew that a vein, or maybe an artery, was torn beneath the sin, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. She settled for wrapping it as tight as she could, then putting on a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater.

While Sara chugged a bottle of water she went through the backpacks, searching for anything useful. She pocketed some fingernail clippers, a lighter, and a compass when something caught her attention. Resting unfolded on the ground, like a dead dove, were the divorce papers.

Seeing them brought a lump to her throat.

Martin, her Martin, was out there, in the woods, with their son. So were Tom and Laneesha and Georgia. Of course she worried about Jack, and the others, who were like surrogate children.

But I’m worried sick about him, too.

The thought surprised her. Here they were, a signature away from never seeing each other again, which was something Sara initiated. Yet the thought of Martin being killed—it scared her down to the marrow.

Sara reached down, picked up the papers, and crumpled them into a ball.

If we get out of here, Martin, we’re going to find a way to make it work between us. I swear.

Then she left the tent to check on the kids. Both Tyrone and Cindy had put on shirts. Cindy had opted for something less baggy and a bit more flattering, a gray button-down top that showed she had a waist. Tyrone was in a familiar red and blue plaid shirt, but it wasn’t familiar on him.

“Meadow’s,” he said, noticing Sara’s stare.

She nodded at him. They’d told her about Meadow, and Sara had compartmentalized that particular horror, sealing it away until she had time to deal with it.

“I’m going to use the radio.” She knew she didn’t need to add anything else, but she said it anyway. “Stay on guard. There are twenty more of them out there.”

Sara studied the walkie-talkie, a Core-Sea VHF One Way Radio. On its face were an LCD screen, which was empty gray, a tiny red light near the base, and half a dozen buttons including wx band, 16/9, band, hi/lo, and mem. She had no idea what any of that meant. There were two equally confusing dials on the top, and a large black call button on the side. Sara hoped Captain Prendick already had it set to his unique channel or frequency, so she pressed call.

“Um, I’m calling for Captain Prendick, or the Coast Guard, or anyone who can hear me. This is Sara Randhurst. I’m stranded on Rock Island in Lake Huron with my husband, baby, and five children. We’re under attack, and one of my children was…” The words wouldn’t come out. “We need immediate help.”

She released the button and waited for a response. There was only silence.

“Please, we’re fighting for our lives. Can anyone hear me?”

More silence. Sara stared at the buttons, wondering which one to try, and then the radio squelched at her.

“Mrs. Randhurst, this is Captain Prendick, I read you, over.”

Sara felt like crying in relief.

“Captain, thank God, there are people on this island. They’re trying to kill us. You have to call for help.”

“Did I hear you correctly, Mrs. Randhurst? Someone is trying to kill you? That’s an uninhabited island, over.”

“Not anymore. Please. You have to hurry.”

“Is this some kind of joke, Mrs. Randhurst. There are stiff penalties for using a marine radio for pranks.”

“This isn’t a joke, Captain. I swear. We’re under attack. You have to believe me.”

Sara waited, hoping he would believe her.