While the doctor rather enjoyed the isolation the island provided, he did wish he could confirm this meeting again by phone or email. So much was riding on this venture. If they were a no-show, it would take weeks to contact them again to find out why. By that time, he’d be broke, and perhaps forced to scrounge for food alongside the unfortunate cannibals he’d inadvertently created.
Doctor Plincer closed his eyes. There was still much to do before the meeting. He’d given that black girl to Subject 33 on the understanding that there would be other volunteers to use in his demonstration tomorrow. And while performing the procedure on that Georgia person was an unprecedented opportunity, the doctor wondered if he hadn’t been too eager, too hasty. But the prospect of another success was impossible to pass up.
Unfortunately, that currently left Plincer with a deficit of victims.
According to his intel, there were still five likely candidates on the island. Though the ferals had surprised the doctor by proving themselves able to work together, he doubted they would be able to grab all of the new arrivals. Some would survive.
Plincer glanced at the clock. He had less than eight hours to get his hands on them. It would make for a much more effective presentation if he were able to grab all five. But all he needed was a single volunteer.
It was time to send Lester back out to find one.
Martin stared below him, through the leaves of the bough he perched upon. His swollen hands had resisted his efforts to climb the tree, and his ruined cheek resting against the rough bark of the oak’s branch made his injury light up every time he swallowed. But he felt lucky to have gotten up in time.
A few moments earlier, in a semi-frantic search for Sara, he’d come upon a group of feral people. He fled before they saw him. Or so he thought. Within ten minutes, the ferals were on his trail, closing fast. Martin ran as hard as he could, not daring to use the flashlight, fearing he’d give his position away. Only moments into the chase, something surprising happened; he bumped into another group.
After his third right turn, Martin’s gut burned with realization. They had him trapped. These insane, witless cannibals had somehow managed to surround him.
With no choices left, he shifted Jack’s sling from his chest to his back, picked a large tree, and hoped for the best. The ferals closed the circle and converged, twelve of them total, right beneath his perch. More than expected, too many to be able to handle, less than ten feet beneath him.
The largest man in the group, the one with the ax, grunted orders at the others, pointing in various directions. Then he leaned up against the tree and reached into the sack he had hanging over his shoulder.
Martin couldn’t make out any details, but the axman pulled out a dark round object the size of a football. He brought it to his face and took a bite. The scent of cooked pork wafted up to Martin. But Martin knew whatever this guy was eating, it wasn’t pork.
The axman sat down. He began to really gnaw on the thing, shaking his hairy head from side to side like a dog worrying a bone. Martin’s leg began to fall asleep. The pins and needles sensation grew from a minor discomfort to a spreading numbness. He shifted slightly, anxious to stay quiet, twisting his pelvis so the blood flow could return.
Then Jack shifted on Martin’s back, throwing off his precarious balance. Martin’s adrenaline spiked, flushing his body with heat, causing every muscle to contract as Martin lost his grip and began to fall.
Cindy knew she was hurting Tyrone—clenching his left hand so tight—but she was too frightened to let go. They ran as fast as safety allowed, heads down to keep from getting lashed in the face by wayward twigs and branches, arms swinging like walking sticks for the blind, so no one head-butted a tree. Cindy had no clue how many pursuers there were, or how close they’d gotten, and she was ready to circle the island ten times before she slowed down to find out.
But her lungs and legs and stamina were casualties of meth, and though she’d been off the drug for a while her body still hadn’t fully recovered. After only a few minutes of running, Tyrone practically had to drag her, and Cindy’s panting was becoming increasingly labored and loud.
When Sara finally stopped, Cindy fell to her knees, pressing a hand hard against the stitch in her side and gasping for air.
Sara came over, and whispered, “Shh.”
Cindy’s face pinched as she tried to get her breathing under control. Sara crawled ahead, up to a bush, and stuck her head inside. It was still dark, but Cindy could see pretty well. She moved her head to the side, so Sara’s shadow didn’t block her vision.
Wait… shadow?
On all fours, Cindy crept closer to Sara. All at once she understood where the light was coming from, and the importance of being quiet.
Somehow, they’d gotten back to their campsite.
Their fire was smaller, the few logs left burning slow and steady. The last time Cindy was here there were two cannibals, eating their fallen friend. Only one remained. The one with the knife and fork and salt shaker. His head was resting on the chest of the dead one, using it like a gory pillow.
Cindy turned her head away before viewing any details.
“He asleep?” Tyrone whispered.
“Can’t tell.” Sara withdrew her head from the bush. “But he’s right next to the tent. That’s where the radio is.”
“I’ll go,” Tyrone said. “I’ll be real careful, won’t wake him up.”
Sara shook her head. “No. I’ll go. You both stay here.”
“You be better off watchin’ my back. If I’m in that tent, lookin’ for the radio, I won’t know if this crazy dude wakes up. But you know that judo shit, can stop him better than I can.”
Sara shook her head. “You stay here, guard Cindy.”
“How’m I supposed to guard Cindy when I can’t even make a fist?”
Cindy touched Tyrone’s shoulder. “The best way to do this is to crawl. You can’t crawl with your burns.” She looked deep inside herself, and was surprised by what she found there. “But I can.”
“Hells no.”
“No way, Cindy.”
Cindy’s mind was made up. She looked at Sara. “Tyrone is right. If that man gets up, you’re the only one who can stop him.”
Sara looked away. “I…I don’t think I could do that again.”
“Yes you can. You’re strong enough.”
And so am I.
Before she lost her nerve, Cindy scrambled through the bush and into the clearing. She rested her belly on the ground and craned her neck. The cannibal was to her right, five yards away, lying down in front of the tent. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically.
You can do this. You can prove you’re more than just some selfish meth addict.
Cindy crept forward, slow and easy and quiet as a mouse wearing slippers. That was what her father used to say when he took her hunting. The image would make her laugh, which of course wasn’t quiet at all.
God, she missed him. Missed him and Mom so bad. They hadn’t visited her at the Center, and she couldn’t blame them—Cindy had stolen everything of value in the house, pawning it to get more meth. But now more than ever she wanted to see them again, to tell them how sorry she was, to promise she’d pay back every cent. She would too, if she lived through this.
Cindy kept low, eyes darting back and forth between the tent entrance and the sleeping killer. She was so focused on her destination that she didn’t see whatever it was she rested her extended palm on.
But Cindy didn’t have to see it. She knew without looking. It was warm, and wet, and squishy, and she’d helped Mom prepare it enough times that the smell normally evoked pleasant, homey feelings.