Trapped

“Do you know how to work the radio? Can you call the coast guard?”

“No. I don’t understand what any of these buttons mean.”

“I’ll call them right now. I’m in the area, only a few miles away, so I should be able to get there quickest. Can you make it to the spot where I dropped you off?”

Sara glanced into the black void of the woods, her hands shaking. “I don’t think so. We’re lost.”

“Do you have a compass?”

“Yes.”

“Follow it north-east. That’s where the beach is. If you reach the cliffs, you went too far north, so go further east. I’ll meet you there in an hour, maybe less.”

“Thank you, Captain. Please hurry.”

“I will. Over and out, Mrs. Randhurst.”

Sara held the walkie-talkie, wondering what to do next. Though she had a responsibility to Cindy and Tyrone, and a duty to get them to safety as soon as possible, Sara wasn’t going to leave without the others. But she couldn’t go after Martin and the kids by herself. She needed the Coast Guard, or the police, or a whole Army platoon to do that. And she certainly couldn’t do it dragging Cindy and Tyrone along. She had to get them on the boat before she searched for anyone else.

Hopefully, Captain Prendick would arrive with the cavalry.

Sara considered turning the dials, pressing a few buttons, to see if she might be able to raise the Coast Guard herself, but she was afraid she would change the setting and no longer be able to contact Prendick. Besides, there wasn’t time to play with the radio. Three cannibals had already found their campsite. Sara didn’t want to spend any more time here than necessary.

Just in case any of the others showed up, she found a notebook and left a message.

We went north-east, to the beach, to wait for the boat. Captain Prendick is coming with help. Hide nearby and wait for us to return. Sara, Tyrone, and Cindy.

She left the notebook open to that page, sitting on the ground near the fire. For a few seconds she wondered if maybe she should use a stick to point north-east, but her time in the woods had shown Sara how easy it was to lose your sense of direction.

Sara took a last, lingering look at John, his head askew and his red eyes staring off into infinity, and told the kids it was time to go.

Captain Edward Prendick got off the radio with the Coast Guard, and wondered if everything was going to work out okay.

Prendick considered himself a good man. He loved his mother, and visited her on every holiday, Labor Day and Valentine’s Day included, even though she lived out of state and it cost a fortune. He treated other people with decency and respect. He had an aquarium on board his boat, which contained a single goldfish, named Goldie, which he’d dutifully taken care of for more than five years.

That’s why the distress call from Mrs. Randhurst was, well, so distressing.

Rock Island was a bad place. It even had an aura about it. An evil vibe. And something shady was definitely going on there.

He’d tried to warn them, to get them to camp elsewhere. But they’d been insistent.

Now he was forced to head back there. Something he didn’t relish at all.

“Mama told me not to become a sailor, Goldie.”

Goldie was asleep in his tank. Or her tank. Prendick didn’t know if it was a boy fish or a girl fish. Actually, he didn’t know if Goldie actually slept, either. She certainly didn’t close her eyes and start snoring. But sometimes she’d stay in one place for an extended period of time, not even moving when he fed her, and Prendick assumed she (or he) was sleeping.

He glanced from the tank to the locked cabinet next to it. A gun cabinet, containing two revolvers and a rifle. Prendick checked the GPS and turned the wheel, silently praying he wouldn’t have to use them.

Tom didn’t think he could possibly be more frightened, and then the giant kissed him.

His first reaction was shock. Not only was the act totally unexpected, but it was so frickin’ gross, so frickin’ sick, that Tom didn’t know what the hell to do.

The obvious answer—push the freak away—scared Tom even more. This guy was so big and scary that rejecting him didn’t seem like an option.

So Tom closed his eyes as the psycho explored his mouth with his tongue, nibbling on his lips with those horrible needle teeth and making an awful, moaning sound in his throat.

Worst of all, this was technically Tom’s first French kiss. Yuck.

It was almost as bad as realizing he’d eaten Meadow.

Tom endured it, staying stock-still, praying for it to end. Eventually it did, and this crazy Lester person looked down at Tom and patted him on the head.

“Mmm,” Lester said. “Tom tastes yummy.”

Lester moved in closer, like he was going for another kiss. Tom leaned away and quickly said, “Uh, are you the one that cooked my buddy?”

The giant shook his head. “Lester doesn’t cook people. He likes to eat his raw.”

That was enough for Tom. He shoved Lester as hard as he could, then broke the land-speed record for sixteen-year-old boys and ran the hell out of there. It was too dark to see, and the trees were everywhere, so he stuck his hands out ahead of him to avoid busting open his head. When he did finally hit the tree, he was spared a concussion, but it hyper-extended his pinky, which hurt worse than just about anything Tom ever felt before.

He was cradling his injured finger, wondering how to get it to stop throbbing, when someone grabbed his shirt from behind.

“Tom shouldn’t have run from Lester,” the giant whispered in his ear. “Now Lester is taking Tom back to his playroom.”

“My finger,” Tom said, whining. “I think I broke my finger.”

Lester grabbed both of Tom’s wrists, encircling them like handcuffs. He raised them to his lips, and then— oh god no—he put the jutting pinky into his mouth.

Tom felt like throwing up again. Lester swished the finger back and forth in his mouth, causing such incredible waves of pain that it made the darkness come alive with orange and blue flashes. Tom began to beg, and when that didn’t stop the manipulation he fell to his knees and alternated between crying and screaming. There was no possible way the pain could get any worse.

Then the biting began.

General Alton Tope slugged down his fourth shot of scotch. It was a single malt, but a young one, and the alcohol burned his throat. The private who brought him the liquor needed a lesson in the selection of fine spirits, but he was grateful to the lad nonetheless.

He glanced at the OSST monitor again, frowning at the new population count.

Twenty-six.

Jesus, they’re dropping like flies.

General Tope understood the chain of command. He lived by it. Orders were orders, and the soonest he could get to Rock Island was tomorrow. There was no leeway.

He hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

Tyrone hurried through the woods alongside Cindy, three steps behind Sara. His palms were slathered in burn cream, which contained a topical anesthetic. It didn’t really kill the pain, just sort of turned some of the throbbing into tingling. He could manage.

Cindy had a finger stuck in his belt loop, which was a poor substitute for holding hands. But the persistent tug made him feel closer, connected. After they’d dressed, Cindy had been the one to apply the burn cream. It hurt, and the ointment smelled foul, but her tenderness and dedication touched Tyrone. For a moment, he actually felt like a kid again, way back when safety was taken for granted, and love was given freely, and life had possibilities.