He flicked the safety off on his pistol and dared those bastards to try something.
There was no way in hell any wild people were going to get the jump on him. Guaranteed.
Tyrone kicked the iron bars again. That made fifty-eight times. Each impact made his right hand throb. He lifted his leg once more, going for fifty-nine.
He was in an old prison cell, but like none he’d ever seen before, and Tyrone had some jail experience. These were the size of his walk-in shower at his mom’s house. There were dozens of them, all lined up next to each other, in a large room that smelled like a basement where the sewer line backed up.
Cindy was in the cage to his right. Sara to his immediate left. There was also someone else locked up, a few rows back. Tyrone could hear rough breathing, see the outline of a person curled up on the floor of the cell, but it was too dark to see who it was, and Sara’s mini-flashlight beam didn’t reach that far. Repeated calls to the mystery figure provoked no response.
The bars, and the locks, looked older than hell. This was probably the civil war prison Martin had talked about in his campfire story. Regardless of age, the iron was still solid, and the bars didn’t budge an inch, even after kickin’ on them for half an hour.
That asshole captain locked them up after marching them here, then jetted. And if the place wasn’t dank and scary enough, somewhere else in the building, someone was screaming like mad. Tyrone tried hard to block it out, to not think about it, but he was pretty sure it was Laneesha.
It was hard not to think about what was happening to Laneesha, what they were doing to her. But as bad as Tyrone felt for his friend, what terrified him even more was the thought that he and Cindy would be next in line for the same treatment.
Tyrone kicked the door again, feeling the shock run up his leg and jar his burned hand, the clang reverberating across the room and fading away.
“It’ll be dawn soon,” Cindy said. “It’s getting brighter.”
Tyrone stared through the bars to a window in the brick wall. It was open to the outside, and had more iron bars set in it, like an old fashioned Wild West jail. Still looked pretty dark out, but he could make out the barest glimmer of pink. The captain had turned off the lights when he left.
Sara hadn’t said anything since being put in the cell. Before then she was all spit and fire, ready to throw down. Now she looked like a beat dog. Tyrone wondered if his court-appointed caregiver had finally reached the limits of her endurance.
He used the mini-flashlight to check the bars again. No progress.
All things considered, this was turning out to be a pretty shitty camping trip.
Tyrone reared back to kick again when someone mumbled, “Lester…”
It was a male voice, coming from across the room. The person in the cell.
“Hey!” Cindy shouted. “Who are you?”
Tyrone shushed her. While he was curious who this guy was, he didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention. And this island seemed to be full of folks looking to pay unwanted attention.
“Martin…” the man said again.
That single word seemed to rouse Sara from her stupor. She stood up and gripped the bars.
“Martin? Is that you, Martin?”
“Sara? Frick…where am I?”
Tyrone recognized the voice. Tom.
“Tom, we’re in a civil war prison. Are you okay?”
“I’m…sleepy. Everything is all weird looking. Tilted-like.”
“Can you remember how you got here? You mentioned Martin. Was he with you?” Sara’s voice sounded awfully desperate.
“I don’t know. It’s fuzzy. I remember…I was with Lester…aw, frick! My frickin’ finger!”
Tom began to whimper. Tyrone had no idea what Tom had been through, but he didn’t feel much sympathy for him. That boy needed to man up.
“Tom, please, tell me what happened. Do you know where Martin is?”
“Martin.” Sniffle. “Martin saved me.” Sniffle. “From Lester.”
“How did you get here, Tom?”
“We were…we were looking for you. Followed those orange thingies—the ribbons—on the trees. To get back to camp. But then we found these huge pile of bones.”
The lights went on, the surprise of it making Tyrone flinch. Footsteps echoed across the concrete floors, and Tyrone followed the sound, his eyes finally landing on—
“Martin!” Sara made a happy, squealing noise, reaching through her bars for her husband. Martin rushed to her, holding her arms.
“Sara!” Tom yelled.
Tyrone watched, unable to do anything, as Martin dug a syringe out of his pocket, jabbed it into Sara’s arm, and pressed the plunger.
“Martin? Wha…”
Sara fell to her knees, then onto her side.
Cindy said, “Martin? What are you doing?”
But Tyrone knew.
“You one of the bad guys, ain’t you?”
Martin smiled at Tyrone, walked over to him. “Bad as they come, brutha.”
Tyrone lunged at Martin, his left hand slipping through the bars, trying to grab the man’s neck. Martin stood just out of reach.
“You need to save your strength, Tyrone. Trust me. You’ll need it.”
“You son of a bitch.”
Martin turned away, taking a key from his pocket and unlocking Sara’s cell.
“He did that to me, too,” Tom whined. “Jabbed me with a needle and knocked me out.”
“Too little, too late, dumb ass,” Tyrone said.
Martin crouched down, pulled Sara’s arm over his shoulder, then hefted her up in a fireman’s carry.
“Martin?” Cindy’s voice was meek, disbelieving.
Martin glanced at her. “Let me say what a distinct displeasure it has been working with you pathetic little fuck-ups. You’re going to die today. Die in more pain than you can possibly imagine. And you know what, Cindy? Not a single person in the world is going to care.”
Martin winked, then carried Sara out of the room.
Cindy began to cry. Tyrone had no idea what to do. So he reached through the bars with his left hand, held Cindy’s, and squeezed.
“I care,” he said.
But for some reason that made her cry even harder.
Sara opened her eyes. Her head was muddled, thoughts groggy, her brain floating in that state between sleep and awareness.
Then she remembered Martin stabbing her with that needle, and all at once she was on full alert, processing her situation. She was on her side, on an old cot that smelled like mold and dried sweat. Sara tried to sit up, but discovered she was hogtied; hands behind her back, the same rope snaking down her legs and securing her ankles.
Sara looked around. She was in a room, well lit and relatively warm, with a lingering scent of lemon air freshener masking something rank. The gray stone walls told her she was still in the prison, and the nearest wall had shackles hanging from it by a large metal bolt. The wall was covered with reddish-brown stains.
Near the far wall was a wooden dresser with eight drawers. Next to that was a table. Sara craned her neck to see what was on top, and saw a variety of power tools, including a portable drill with a large bit.
On the other side of the room, there was an old wooden chest, a wheelchair, and a pegboard, on which a wicked assortment of knives and saws hung.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
Martin walked into view. He looked happier than he had in a long time.
“Martin, what’s—”
His hand lashed out, hard and fast, slapping Sara on her right cheek and rocking her head back. Sara felt the blood rush to her face, then the inevitable sting.
“Don’t be stupid, Sara. You’ve figured it out by now.”
Sara took a moment, until she was sure she could speak without breaking down. This betrayal was so unexpected, so absolute, she felt she had to make sense of it.