Trapped

her direction. Sara waited, still as a deer, her injured leg beginning to cramp up, then shake.

The cannibal didn’t see her, and she continued forward.

Three quarters of the way there, she could finally see the gridiron. It was an awful thing, like a giant outdoor grill. She tried not to look at Meadow, caught in the middle. She tried not to look at the parts the people were eating.

She looked anyway.

It was nightmarish, a warped combination of familiarity and obscenity.

It also wasn’t Meadow in the fire. Though charred, and partially devoured, Sara saw enough of the body to tell it was Captain Prendick.

Which meant his boat was still here. If the helicopter route didn’t work, maybe they could sail off this godforsaken rock. Maybe they could all actually live through—

That’s when Jack began to cry.

She immediately shoved a finger in his mouth. He showed no interest in sucking, batting her hand away.

“Shhhh,” she whispered. “Please.”

He filled his lungs, his eyes squeezing shut, his tiny mouth stretching open, preparing to shout out to the whole world that he was there—

And Sara covered his mouth, muffling the howl.

Quiet, Jack. You have to be quiet.

Jack clenched his fist and his little arms shook in rage. Sara removed her hand, and the tail end of his cry echoed throughout the woods.

Sara took a quick peek at the ferals. No one had noticed her yet, but any second they would hear Jack’s cries. She scurried backward, retreating, and then noticed another group of the wild people, passing through the forest. Heading her way.

We’re surrounded.

Jack drew in another breath. He was getting ready for the biggest howl yet. Sara hunkered down, grabbing her son roughly by the arms, giving him a little shake.

He needed to stop crying. He needed to stop crying right now. The past twelve hours had been the most horrible of Sara’s entire life, and she was exhausted and hurt and hungry and scared and completely overwhelmed.

Stop crying.

Stop fucking crying.

Sara felt a swell of rage toward her innocent child, and prepared to shake him even harder. If this little bastard didn’t shut up they were both going to die.

Stop crying, damn you! STOP IT!

Her rage only lasted a millisecond. But it scared her almost as much as the cannibals did.

Sara choked back a sob, then gently touched Jack’s cheek, her whole hand shaking with tremors.

He screamed, but it was one of those screams that was so strong, so high-pitched, that the only real sound that came out was air.

Sara knew the tantrum would be coming next, Jack getting so worked up that it would take him forever to calm down.

Behind her, the ferals ventured closer.

Sara wiped a tear off of Jack’s face with her thumb, then reflexively stuck her finger in his diaper.

Wet. He’s wet! That’s why he’s crying.

She had his onesie and diaper off in five seconds, a consummate pro at this. In the sling pocket was a fresh diaper, and with cannibals less than five yards away she fastened it onto his little butt, shoved him back in the sling, shoved her breast in his mouth, and rocked him back and forth, hoping for a miracle.

And then she felt one. Jack sucked in a huge breath, then latched on to her nipple.

She dropped down onto her side, cradling Jack in her arms as he nursed, pressing her back into a bush as the feral party walked past and joined the feast.

Jack’s fingers grasped onto her belly, giving her a squeeze.

Maybe they’d live through this after all. But first she had to find…

The gun.

It was only a few feet away, right at the roots of a dogwood bush. Even better, it wasn’t a revolver. It was one of those guns that had the bullets in a clip, which meant it probably held more than just six.

Sara carefully got to her feet, staying in a crouch. She took one careful step toward the gun, and then she felt her ears get hot, like her body could sense that a person was staring at her.

She looked up.

A person was staring.

In fact, all eighteen of them were.

Georgia tingled all over. She felt deliciously alive, and though she wasn’t prone to smiling she couldn’t get the smile off her face.

In one hand, she gripped the bloody filet knife.

In the other, she gripped something even more exciting.

She strolled up to the man in the uniform, the one called Tope, the muffled screams in the air almost musical in how they conveyed pain.

Then, abruptly, she stopped, her arm jerking back.

She tugged a bit harder, but it was no use.

Tom’s intestines wouldn’t stretch any farther.

Cindy had her eyes squeezed shut, and wished she could squeeze her ears shut as well. Of all the horrors of the past day, nothing could compare to when Georgia walked over with that knife. She was humming, actually humming, like this was some sort of game.

Then, without a word, she cut Tom open.

It got really bad after that.

In a perverse way, Cindy was grateful for the mouth gags. If she’d been forced to hear Tom beg, or scream at full throttle, Cindy was sure she would have lost her mind.

She peeked at Tyrone, who was also closing his eyes.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Cindy was finally straightening out her life. She finally found a good guy to be her boyfriend. She’d kicked drugs and her sentence was almost up and she was excited to become a waitress, of all stupid things, because that’s what regular teenagers did and she so wanted to be regular.

Cindy tried to picture her parents, when they used to look at her with love instead of suspicion, tried to hear their voices rather than the voice of that horrible General giving Georgia orders.

“Now do his eyes.”

Cindy wondered if her body would ever be found. If her mom and dad would ever know what happened to her. She wondered if they would care. She wondered, absurdly, if there was some way for an autopsy to be done, and it could show her parents, her family, her old friends, the whole world, that Cindy Welp died clean and sober, not a trace of meth in her system.

“Now do his genitals.”

Cindy wished she could say goodbye to them. To tell them how sorry she was, but even more than that. To thank them, for all they’ve given her. To make them understand that she could finally understand. To say I love you one last time.

“Now do his scalp.”

Cindy chanced another peek at Tyrone, and he was peeking at her. All the potential, all the possibility, they shared it in that one long look. Cindy had a brief, intense fantasy, something far beyond becoming a waitress. She stared at him and saw herself through his eyes, in ways she never dreamed of. As a wife. A mother. A grandmother. Someone who was important to other people. Someone needed. Someone loved.

A tear rolled down Tyrone’s face. Cindy realized she was crying too.

“Now do the girl.”