Martin snuck over, raising his palm to give the chest a good whack and scare the crap out of her, when he heard Lester yell something down the hall.
Odd. Lester never yelled. Not in the years Martin had known him. Something must be happening.
He left Sara to her personal hell and went into the corridor.
Another yell from Lester.
It seemed to be coming from Subject 33’s room.
Martin headed that way.
Whatever grip fear had over Sara since her youth disappeared when this ghoul grabbed her baby.
Instead, her fear was replaced by rage.
Taylor gripped Jack’s little arm, his bloodshot eyes huge with panic, trying to drag her son from her grasp.
Sara still held the utility knife, and she used it without hesitation, slashing at his knuckles, his hands, his arms. Digging deep and twisting the triangular blade.
Taylor released Jack, his soundless lips flapping as Lester tugged him away from the bed. Taylor’s arms scoured the floor, trying to grab onto something, finding only bits of Laneesha.
Sara watched, awestruck, as Lester placed a huge foot on Taylor’s flabby backside, leaned down, and plunged the knife into his back. Taylor flopped around for a bit, like a fish on a pier, his mouth wide in a silent scream.
Then, all at once, he stopped moving, a sail that ran out of wind.
She stared, knowing Lester wasn’t going to stop there. While part of her said she should turn away, another part wanted to watch as Lester cut Laneesha’s killer into a million little pieces. Indeed, Lester tugged out the knife and raised it again. But his plans were interrupted when the door opened.
“Lester? Aw, shit, Lester! What did you do?”
Sara felt herself grow very cold. Martin had walked into the room.
Jack heard his father’s voice and cooed happily. Sara felt around and stuck her finger back into his mouth.
Lester squinted at the knife like he didn’t know how it got there. Then he looked at Martin.
“Subject 33 killed the pet. So Lester killed Subject 33.”
“Dammit, Lester, you can always get a new pet. Plincer’s going to be pissed at you.”
Martin knelt down, felt Taylor’s neck. Though Sara thought nothing could shock her any more, Martin’s callous disregard for his brother’s death made him even more horrible.
“He’s still alive. Help me get him to the lab.”
They each grabbed a leg, and dragged Taylor across the bloody floor, out the door.
Sara waited. She needed to figure out what to do next. She still had four kids left. The three in the cells, and Georgia, wherever she was being held. But those cells were solid. She would need tools to get in. A saw, or a pry bar.
There was a drill in Martin’s room, on his tool bench.
Sara slowly slid out from underneath the bed, avoiding the blood on the floor and refusing to look in Laneesha’s direction. She tucked Jack back into his sling and was halfway to the door when she realized Laneesha deserved better than that. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to face the cabinet.
“I’m sorry,” Sara whispered, feeling the words stick in her throat. “I know you believed we go someplace, after we die. If you’re right, and you can hear me, I’m making you a promise. If…no…
Sara closed her eyes but could still picture the ruined, bloody thing before her.
“I also promise, even if I die trying, to get every one of those fuckers who did this.”
Sara snuck out into the antechamber, and then peeked around the corner before committing to the hallway. Once she deemed it clear she moved quickly, on the balls of her feet, pausing by Martin’s doorway. She heard voices, from the spiral staircase ahead of her.
“…sick of dragging this heavy bastard. The wheelchair is in my room. I’ll go get it.”
Sara hurried into his room, frantically looking for a hiding place. It was too well lit in here to hide under the bed. But there wasn’t any place else. Except…
She gaped at the trunk, her legs feeling weak. The alternative was facing Martin with the utility knife—which had too small a blade to do any serious damage. Plus Martin attended the same judo class as she did. Sara had more experience, but he was stronger and outweighed her by sixty pounds. She silently cursed herself for making him take classes with her.
His footsteps reverberated through the stone corridor, getting closer.
Utility knife clenched in a death-grip, Sara cautiously lifted the trunk lid.
She cradled Jack’s head and climbed in anyway, forcing herself to squat down, the pain in her leg making her wince.
But she couldn’t get herself to close the lid.
Martin’s footsteps drew closer, practically outside the room.
Sara eased the lid down, watching her light get smaller until it was a thick line… a thinner line… just a speck…
And then the darkness.
It assaulted her like a freezing wind, making her want to scream while also taking her breath away. A minute ago, a second ago, she’d been empowered, a woman on a mission. But the dark reduced her to jelly. She wasn’t even sure if she could keep hold of the utility knife.
Sara strained to hear outside the trunk. Was Martin in the room yet? What was he doing? Would he notice the lock on the trunk was broken? What if he opened the lid? Would she even be able to defend herself while holding her baby?
Then there was a huge banging noise and the trunk shook and Sara screamed and dropped the knife, the darkness swallowing it, and her.
Martin slapped the top of the trunk and was rewarded with a cry of absolute terror from the woman he exchanged vows with.
“You okay in there, honey? I don’t want you thinking I’ve forgotten about you.”
Sara’s crying continued, and it was so infantile it almost sounded like a baby.
Martin went to the wheelchair, parked next to the tool bench. It had shackles on it, and was useful for moving people around. An elevator would have been more useful, but Lester was pretty strong and there weren’t many people he couldn’t lift by himself.
Subject 33, however, had to weigh three hundred and fifty pounds. He’d really let himself go since Plincer locked him in that room. Martin made a mental note to bring him a Nordic Track or something on his next visit. If the fat bastard pulled through.
He wheeled the chair to the doorway and then abruptly stopped.
Something was wrong. He felt it.
Martin turned around, scanning the room. Work bench. Dresser. Peg board. Bed. Trunk.
“Trying to get away? You naughty girl.”
Martin walked over, bending at the waist to pick up the object on the floor. Chereese’s tanned hide was lying in a pile, like a dropped leather jacket. Martin had put all of his skins away, but somehow had overlooked her. He
