John let out a breath, blowing dirt away from his mouth. His eyes darted around, frantic.
“Kill… me.”
Sara went to Cindy, peeled the sock back. The bite was ragged, ugly, but not very deep. She limped over to the tent and almost stepped on the first aid kit. She picked the box up and opened it. Inside were bandages, hydrogen peroxide, acetaminophen, and—thank God—a mini flashlight.
John began to wail. “They… will… eat… me! Kill… me!”
“Tyrone. Come here.”
After pouring peroxide on Cindy’s shoulder, Sara had Tyrone hold out his hands. She dumped half the bottle into his palms, the blisters foaming pink and gray from blood and dirt.
“KILLMEKILLMEKILLME!”
“There are bottles of water inthe tent. Get a few, and each of you take some painkillers.” She handed him the acetaminophen, which he gingerly took using two fingers. “Don’t come out until I say so.”
Sara and Tyrone exchanged a knowing look, and he nodded, putting his arm around Cindy and leading her away. Sara moved over to John. He looked pathetic, sad, terrified. Human.
“Please! They… will… cook… me… alive.”
Sara chewed on her lower lip. She knew what the right thing to do was, and it made her stomach churn. With effort, she sat down next to him.
“Chi… children…”
“Are you a father, John?”
He blinked. “Yes…”
She didn’t want to do this. She really didn’t want to do this.
“Do you remember their names, John?”
“Greg… Jen…”
“Do you want me to,” Sara swallowed the lump in her throat, “give a message to your children?”
“You… can’t…”
Sara closed her eyes, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Yes I can, John. When I get off the island, I’ll make sure I find out who you are. I promise I will, John.”
She looked at him, and he was smiling again. Sara placed her other hand under John’s chin, winding her fingers in his hair.
“Tell me, John. What should I say to your kids?”
His eyes opened really wide. “I… ATE… THEM!”
Human beings always had a choice. If you knew the difference between good and evil, you could choose good. If you knew the difference between mercy and vengeance, you could choose mercy.
Sare looked deep inside herself, and found mercy.
The crack when John’s neck hyper-extended wasn’t as loud this time. It was more like a pop.
Lester peered at the vomiting boy through the viewfinder, then pressed the button again. The flash went off, and he looked at the screen on his digital camera to see how the picture came out.
Very nice. He glanced up at the boy, who was looking around, wondering what was happening.
Time for Lester to show him.
Lester tucked the camera into the bib pocket of his overalls and walked out of the scrub brush. He smiled at the boy’s reaction, a mixture of fear and awe.
“The boy shouldn’t try to run. It will just make Lester mad.”
Lester strolled over, appearing casual but ready to bolt if the boy took off. But the boy stayed on his knees, mouth hanging open, some barf on his chin.
Lester stood next to the boy and peered down at him. He reached down, and with his index finger, caressed the lad’s cheek.
“What is the boy’s name?”
“T…Tom.”
“Lester.”
Lester glanced down at the mess Tom made, locking his eyes onto one of the bigger chunks. He tried to remember all the things he’d ever put in his mouth, but knew he’d never be able to remember them all. If Lester could bite it, he had. But he didn’t think he’d ever eaten something that had already been eaten by someone else.
Unable to control the impulse, Lester snagged the piece of meat from the puddle of stomach acid. He opened his jaws and tossed it in like popcorn.
Tangy.
“Lester has a girlfriend,” Lester said, chewing.
“That’s…uh…cool.”
Lester nodded. “Does Tom have a girlfriend?”
Tom’s eyes were very wide. He shook his head. “No.”
“That’s sad. Does Tom have a boyfriend?” Lester asked.
The boy shook his head again.
“That’s good.” Lester got on his knees. He still towered over the boy, and had to lean down.
“Lester doesn’t have a boyfriend either. What a lucky day for Tom and Lester.”
Lester felt Tom scream in his mouth as he kissed the boy’s deliciously tangy lips.
Doctor Plincer got under the bed covers, then reached onto the nightstand for his earplugs. Subject 33 was really coaxing some screams out of his new playmate, and Plincer needed to get some sleep before the meeting tomorrow.
He found the two foam plugs by the base of the lamp, and spent a minute taking off his prosthetic ears and shoving the plugs into the holes. When the cries were dulled to a whisper, Plincer placed his glasses where the earplugs had been, switched off the light, and rested his head back on the pillow.
Oops. Almost forgot.
Plincer flicked the lamp back on, sat up, and spent a minute picking the facial putty out of the divots in his nose, chin and cheeks. Specifically made for burn victims, this make-up was used to smooth out scar tissue. It didn’t hold up to close scrutiny, giving his complexion an artificial dullness, and when it dried it would flake off, making him look like he had crumbs on his face. Still, it was preferable to looking like a loaf of headcheese.
When he had a decent sized ball of it, he set that next to his glasses and again killed the light.
The doctor actually did sympathize with the poor suffering girl. Sympathize, and empathize.
Plincer rested his hands on his bare chest and ran his fingers over the rubbery scars. There were several dozen gnarled, shiny bumps, in precise, even rows. It felt like touching a truck tire.
The plastic surgeons weren’t able to do skin grafts, because there was no place on the doctor’s body where skin could be harvested. His arms, legs, back, and even buttocks had the same scars.
Scars from Lester.
Doctor Plincer knew, firsthand, what it was like to be completely at the mercy of a psychopath. After the court ordered Lester into Plincer’s care, the doctor had been so intent on curing the teenager he hadn’t given enough thought to precautions. Lester was smart, and managed to escape his room one night and sneak into the doctor’s.
For two days, Doctor Plincer had been victimized by the boy. Lester stripped him naked, tied him up, and began the methodical process of biting him over his entire body.
Human beings can clench their teeth with a hundred and fifty pounds of force. It hurt worse than being pinched with pliers. Not to mention the obscene intimacy of it. Plincer often imagined he could still feel Lester’s lips, his warm breath, his slick tongue, on his skin. Followed by the piercing, tearing pain.
Plincer had screamed during the ordeal. Screamed until his throat went numb. And when Lester finished, when he’d covered almost every bitable square inch on the Doctor’s body, he started over. Nibbling off the scabs. Reopening the wounds. Ramping the agony up to surreal levels.
The maid saved Plincer’s life. Coming in for the weekly cleaning, she heard the doctor’s whimpering and called the police.
Doctor Plincer needed over two hundred stitches and staples, and three pints of blood. The most extensive reconstruction work was done on his face and genitals, to little effect. It took him weeks to recover, and Plincer knew that perhaps he never truly did get over the psychological aspects of the attack.
But he didn’t blame Lester, any more than he could blame a shark for following its nature. When Plincer healed, he resumed his experiments with Lester. But instead of curing him, he enhanced him, making the boy even more evil.