Trapped

Dr. Plincer was balder, older, and uglier than in his press clippings from a decade ago.

“Good morning, General Tope. Welcome to my island.”

Tope noted the fresh blood on the doctor’s smock and was grateful Plincer didn’t attempt to shake hands.

“Good morning, Dr. Plincer.” He didn’t bother introducing Benson.

“Allow me to take you around to the back of the prison. We’ve decided to stage our demonstration outside. No need to worry about cleaning up afterward.”

He led them around the side of the building, to a small courtyard where six people were waiting.

One was an unusually tall man in overalls. He was flanked on either side by a chubby girl in jeans and a sweater, and a man in khakis and a button-down shirt.

Ten yards away from them were three teenagers. They stood with their hands behind their backs, each in front of a large, wooden pole. Tope noted their necks were tethered to the poles.

Good. No need to waste time hunting ferals.

“This area was used for the firing squad, during the Civil War. You’re familiar with the war between the states, I take it?”

General Tope nodded. He was familiar with every war in modern history.

“If you’re a collector, you might keep your eyes peeled for souvenirs. It’s pretty easy to spot old bullets and cartridges with the naked eye. See? There’s one right there. Might even be some Confederate DNA still on it.”

Plincer pointed at the ground.

This man is out of his goddamn mind, Tope thought.

“Can we get to it, Doctor? I have a meeting this afternoon.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

They approached the tall man and his companions.

“General Tope, these are three of my biggest successes. High level functioning, perfectly rational.”

“But totally psychotic,” Tope said.

“We prefer to use the term enhanced. The procedure enhances the brain’s aggression centers, triggering the neurotransmitter dopamine during violent acts. In layman’s terms, killing is an addiction. Causing harm gets them high.”

Tope frowned, simply because frowning made people try harder to please him.

“Do they follow orders?”

“But of course. Anything you’d like for them to do to our volunteers over there, they’d be happy to do. But first, I’d like to see the item I requested from you.”

Tope gestured for Benson to hold the metal briefcase while he opened it.

“Wonderful,” Plincer said, eyes twinkling. “The papers are in order?”

“Yes. Complete with bill of sale. I take it you’re an aficionado?”

The doctor shook his head. “No, not at all. I just have a healthy distrust of banks. And twenty-five million dollars, even in large bills, is a bit cumbersome.”

General Tope couldn’t care less. “Where are the notes and the serum?”

“Inside. I assumed you’d want to see the demonstration first.”

He nodded, closing the briefcase. “You may proceed, Doctor.”

“Certainly. Pick one of the enhanced and tell them what to do.”

“What are they capable of doing?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

Tope raised an eyebrow. He was getting more interested. “Torture? Mutilation? Rape? Murder?”

“Any and all of the above, if you wish.”

“Not to be rude, Doctor,” General Tope said, knowing he was being rude, “but I could order my bodyguard here to do any of those things, and he’d also obey.”

That probably wasn’t true. Tope knew that most men had their limits, and only a special few could commit atrocities without being affected.

“I have no doubt, General. But he wouldn’t enjoy it as much as they do. And he wouldn’t do it on his own if given the chance.”

“Fine,” Tope said. “The girl. Have her disembowel…” Tope studied at the three victims, then pointed. “That one.”

Sara was torn. Maybe the helicopter was sent by the authorities. Or maybe it was part of all the other bad things happening on this island.

So do I follow it, or search for the gun?

She hoped, needed, for the helicopter to be the good guys, coming to the rescue. Even if she had a weapon, what was she going to do? Kill Martin, Plincer, Lester, and Taylor? Sara had never fired a gun, but she knew most held six bullets, and some people could be shot multiple times without dying. And from recent experience on the beach, Sara knew guns were really loud. Firing one next to Jack’s fragile little ears would probably cause permanent hearing loss.

Perhaps she could use the gun to keep them at bay and save the kids, but they’d still be stuck on the island. Could she force Plincer to call Captain Prendick, and then force him to take them back to safety? It was sounding more and more far-fetched.

Or maybe she could save the kids and force the helicopter to take them to safety.

That made better sense. Get the gun. Take Plincer as a hostage. Then fly the hell out of here.

Now all Sara had to do was find a lone gun in two miles of forest.

She still had the compass, but realized it didn’t matter because she didn’t know which way to go. The cliff was north. The beach was east. But where was the gridiron?

That’s when another sense took over. Sara’s sense of smell.

Someone is cooking meat.

But Sara knew it wasn’t meat. It was something else. Her stomach threatened to tie itself into a knot.

Still, she had to follow it, because the smell would probably lead to her destination.

Tracking by smell wasn’t easy. Sara would take ten steps in a particular direction, lose the scent, and have to go back. The breeze was strong enough to mix and twist the odor, but not so strong she could simply follow it upwind.

But eventually Sara came upon something better than scent alone. Smoke.

Smoke could be followed. The thicker it got, the closer she got, and whenever the trees thinned out Sara could see the gray cloud climbing into the sky, the X marking the spot.

When she got closer, her mouth began to water, and she hated herself and her body for betraying her.

When she got really close, she saw that she wasn’t the only one drawn to the cookout.

At the sight of the first feral, Sara ducked behind an ash tree. She was still a good twenty yards away from the fire, and from Cindy’s earlier description, the girl had been only a few feet away when she lost the gun. Sara chanced another look, doing a head count.

It was tough to be accurate because of the bushes and tree cover, but she estimated there were between fifteen and twenty cannibals.

Sara didn’t like those odds. She had a bad leg and didn’t know the territory, plus it was daylight and much easier for them to see her. A chase would end in her being caught, and if she was caught…

Her stomach grumbled, and she cursed herself.

I’d just better make damn sure they don’t see me.

Sara moved slow and low, alternating her attention between the ferals and her footing. She didn’t want to step on a twig and make a sound, or worse, trip. The task absorbed her full concentration. Never before had she tried to be so precise in her movement, and never before was so much riding on her.

Halfway there and the sweat was running down Sara’s cheeks, stinging the cuts Georgia had made with the scissors.

Two-thirds of the way there and she had to stop and crouch lower when one of the ferals turned his head in