Trapped

She paused, moving closer, her arms wrapped protectively around Jack.

The bureau rattled.

That’s when Sara realized it wasn’t a bureau at all. It was something else. Something horrible.

And someone was inside.

After only a few minutes, Martin tired of Captain Prendick’s screams. The gridiron was as he’d remembered; hands-off and boring. There was nothing for him to do but watch, and Prendick was face-down so he couldn’t even see the man’s expressions.

Martin said a goodbye that probably wasn’t even heard, then took off. He was anxious to get started on Sara. He also needed another Vicodin—his cheeks really stung.

Gun cocked and eyes scanning the trees for ferals, Martin headed back to the prison.

Tom hurt. His finger felt like it was being crushed, burned, and sawed-off, all at the same time. Then that freakazoid Lester poked him over and over with that frickin’ nail, and each one was worse than a bullet wound combined with a snake bite, which was a guess on Tom’s part because he’d never actually been shot or bitten. But they hurt like frickin’ hell.

To make the whole thing even worse, he was thirsty, he was forced to watch Tyrone and that skank Cindy hold hands and make lovey-dovey eyes at each other, and he still had a little piece of Meadow stuck in his teeth that he couldn’t get out.

Tom wondered, obliquely, when someone was going to come and rescue him. Every time he’d ever gotten into trouble, there was always somebody there to bail him out. No matter how often he screwed up, it always could have been worse.

But this situation didn’t seem like it could get any worse. Plus, none of this was even his fault, except for going a little hyper with the gun, and getting that stringy thing wedged between his back molars. But Tom didn’t blame himself for what he ate. Sure, it wasn’t his food, but how was he supposed to know it was a person? Tom did, however, wish he’d taken smaller bites and chewed more carefully, because every time he touched that stringy bit with his tongue he felt like ralphing again.

“Tom. Tom, you awake, dog?”

Tom ignored Tyrone. If that guy minded his own damn business, Tom would have still had the gun, and he wouldn’t be in this frickin’ cell.

“Tom, man, I see something on the floor, near your cell. A few feet in front of your door.”

Tom refused to look. Screw that guy, and his skank.

“Tommy boy, I think it’s a key.”

Now Tom looked. Sure enough, sitting on the concrete like a brown dog turd, was one of those rusty old skeleton keys.

“Can you reach it?”

“I got handcuffs on, brainiac. How’m I supposed to reach it?”

“Try your legs, man.”

Tom decided to try his legs. The bars were close together, but he was thin, and he forced his right foot through the gap. Then he scooted closer. His knee was a little too big. He pushed hard, but it wouldn’t go in.

“Try turning on an angle, Tom.”

“No duh.”

Tom turned on an angle, bending his knee slightly, and it slipped between the bars. He inched closer, trying to touch the key with his toe.

“Careful, Tom.”

“I know what I’m doing, Tyrone.”

Tom shifted again, reaching a bit more, and accidentally kicked the key a few inches further.

“Shut up,” he said, even though Tyrone hadn’t said anything.

Tom laid down on his back, shimmying closer to the bars, pushing his thigh through almost up to his crotch. He felt around with his heel, listening for the tinkling sound of metal.

Then the lights came on.

“Tommy. Someone’s coming.”

Tom heard the tinkle, felt the bump under his foot.

“I found it.”

Footsteps echoed closer. Tom didn’t dare to look. He tried to focus all of his attention on getting that key.

“Just forget it, man,” Tyrone ordered. “Get your leg back in.”

But Tom wasn’t going to forget it. No frickin’ way. His concentration was razor sharp, rock solid. He carefully bent his leg, dragging the key closer, and closer, tuning out the oncoming footsteps, tuning out Tyrone’s pleas to quit.

See? I can focus when I have to.

“Hello, Tom. What is this?”

Frick. Martin.

Martin grabbed Tom’s ankle and lifted it up, revealing the key.

“Whoa. Someone made a mistake here. If you guys had gotten this, you would have probably all escaped.”

Martin crouched down, picking up the key and pocketing it. Then he yanked Tom’s leg. The action was sudden and violent, bouncing Tom’s groin against the iron bar. The pain was like a gong being rung; sudden strike… building up… and then resonating, lingering.

Tom howled, sitting up. Martin leaned forward and frowned, feigning concern.

“I sense a bit of distress, Tom.”

He jerked Tom’s leg once again, repeating the move.

“Would you like to talk about how you’re feeling?” Martin asked. “You know I’m here for you.”

It hurt so bad Tom couldn’t even inhale. His vision was peppered by swirling red and gold specks.

“Leave him alone,” Tyrone said.

“We’ll get to you in a moment, Tyrone. Right now it’s Tom’s time to talk.”

“You think you all badass? Why don’ you come over here, step in this cell wit’ me.”

Martin let go of his ankle, and thank God, because Tom didn’t think he could handle anymore. He pulled his leg back and brought his knees to his chest, curing up fetal on his side, staring as Martin walked over to Tyrone.

“Do you know what you are Tyrone? Sticking your chest out, trying to act tough? You’re a stereotype. Poor African American kid, no father, grows up on the mean streets and joins a gang. Would you like to know why you never hear any stories about gangbangers who grow up to be happy, productive members of society? Because there aren’t any.”

“You wouldn’t last two minutes in my hood.”

“That’s because I wouldn’t ever go to your hood, Tyrone. It’s full of losers. That’s what you are. Born a loser, die a loser. You’re a statistic, Tyrone. And you know what else? You’re not tough at all. When we’re finished with you, you’re going to be crying like a little baby.”

“Hells no.”

“Hells yeah,” Martin mocked.

Martin spread out his hands, as if welcoming a big group of people.

“You still don’t know why I brought you here. Of course, why should you? You’re not the best and brightest of our nation’s youth. You’re not even in the top ninety-eight percent. So I’m going to be a nice guy and tell you what’s going to happen. A man is coming to the island. A very important man, who is going to change the world. But he’s going to need to be convinced. So you’re going to help convince him.”

Martin smiled, and it scared Tom to his core.

“He’s going to tell us what to do to you, and we’re going to do it. Happily, I might add. Painful things. Bloody things.”

Tom couldn’t help it. He started to cry.