She stood next to him, her palm on the door. Plincer thanked her and quickly hustled out of there, the door closing and locking behind him.
Doctor Plincer again faced the staircase, but going down was always easier, and the cart was considerably lighter. Then it was back to the kitchen where he set a plate for himself.
Eating was an arduous process that took some time, but Plincer enjoyed it as best he could. Food, and thumbing his nose at the scientific community with his experiments, were the only pleasures he had in life.
He cut the toast into very tiny squares, but still needed to manipulate his jaw with the hand to get it chewed enough to swallow. As he ate, he reflected on his life. Doctor Plincer believed creating psychotics was an appropriate way of saying fuck you to the world that had abandoned him. Money, too, played a part. Pure research was the most rewarding part of science, and his enhancement procedures were going to keep him well-heeled for the rest of his life.
But Plincer was a man of science, and he couldn’t discount the possibility that vengeance, monetary concerns, and a thirst for knowledge were his only motivators. He knew, after his ordeal with Lester, that something had snapped inside of him.
At the end of the day, Plincer mused, it might just come down to the fact that I’m insane.
Not that it really mattered.
There were many pieces of French toast left, but no one on hand to eat them. He supposed he could toss them out a window, let the ferals find them. Or maybe give them to the children in the cells downstairs.
No. Bad idea. He didn’t want them throwing up in front of the company.
In Dr. Plincer’s experience, people in terrible pain sometimes threw up.
Since French toast didn’t reheat well, he went with the simplest solution and tossed the leftovers into the garbage.
Such a shame, such a waste.
When the last slice hit the can, he changed his mind and fished out all the food he’d thrown away. Piling it onto a paper plate, he went to the window and tossed it through the bars.
Throwing perfectly good food away was wrong, and Plincer didn’t want that on his conscience.
Captain Prendick opened his eyes. For a moment he thought he was asleep on his boat, but then the headache hit, followed swiftly by the memory of how he received it.
He’d just locked up the Randhurst woman and the two kids in Doc Plincer’s prison; something he would be getting a large bonus for. Martin had asked him to stay close and ready, just in case. Prendick understood why. He hated coming to the island. When he did his monthly supply drop-off, it was during the day. Being here at night really upped the danger quotient.
He hadn’t seen a single feral on his walk back to the beach. He’d heard things, but figured they feared him too much to try anything.
Then, when he was reaching into the bushes to drag out his dinghy, he got whacked from behind.
Now he was naked, lying on his back and locked in some kind of strange cage. It was in a clearing, and to his right was a bed of coals, glowing orange. Prendick had no illusions what those coals were for. He checked the other side, and could see his clothes in a pile just a few feet away on his left.
Was my gun in the pile as well?
He couldn’t tell, and couldn’t reach. The cage gave him no freedom to move, the bars crisscrossing his chest and back. It was sort of like being the meat in an iron sandwich.
Pendrick knew it was the ferals. It had to be. But he didn’t see any of them around so he was able to control his panic. This cage had to have some kind of locking mechanism, something that didn’t involve any kind of key, because those cannibals wouldn’t have keys. That meant a crossbar, or some sort of lever set-up. He began to explore the bars with his fingers, seeking out the hinges. They were covered with a thick layer of charred grease.
“Hello, Prendick.”
Someone was standing over him, but Prendick couldn’t crane his neck back far enough to see who it was.
“Who is it? Christ, you gotta help me. Those goddamn savages are going to roast me alive. See if there’s a latch on this cage.”
Movement, to his right. He looked, and saw the figure walk next to him and crouch down. His face was bathed in the soft, orange light from the coals, and Prendick sighed in relief when he recognized Martin.
“It’s not a cage. It’s a gridiron.”
“I don’t give a shit what it’s called, Martin. Get me out of this thing.”
Martin smiled. “Now that would be counter-productive. Who do you think put you in this thing in the first place?”
Prendick didn’t think that was funny at all. He knew Martin was a killer. What else could explain the many trips Martin took to the island with a companion, only to be alone when Prendick picked him up? But he also knew Martin needed him. There weren’t too many don’t ask/don’t tell captains on Lake Huron.
“Seriously, Martin. Let me out before those freaks come back.”
“Seriously, Captain Prendick. I’m the one who hit you on the head, carried you here, and put you in the gridiron. Both Doctor Plincer and I have grown tired of your escalating prices. So we decided that I would be the supplier from now on. I’ll need your boat, of course. I’m assuming it’s paid for, with all the money we’ve given you over the years. Where’s the title on that, by the way?”
Prendick read Martin’s face, looking for the joke, the lie. But the man looked serious.
“I haven’t bought the boat yet. Most of the money the doctor gives me goes to my mother. She has cancer, and I pay for the treatment. Seriously, you have to believe me.”
Martin stared at him. Prendick felt sweat break out over his entire body, despite the cool morning air.
“Martin, if you think the cost of my services is too high, I’m happy to renegotiate. Hell, I’ll even throw in some freebies. Sort of like frequent flyer miles. You’ve been a great customer, and I don’t want to lose you.”
Martin moved closer. Prendick saw a glint in his blue eyes.
“Where’s the title to the boat, Captain Prendick?”
“I haven’t paid it off yet. I swear.”
“I see. Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”
Martin reached down, grabbing the bottom bar of the cage. He kept his back straight and lifted with his legs, tilting the gridiron, and Prendick, onto the side. Prendick eyed the hot coals, just a simple push away.
“Martin! Wait! We can talk this out!”
“I built this gridiron myself. Always was curious to try one, after reading about them.
While it delivers some deliciously slow and agonizing deaths, it wasn’t hands-on enough for my taste. So I gave it to the ferals. They’ve discovered a benefit beyond its intended purpose. Cooking their food. I find the whole thing rather distasteful, really. But who am I to look down my nose at their cuisine? There isn’t much else to eat on this island.”
Prendick felt hysteria creeping up his spine. He fought to maintain control. “Martin, please, I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”
“Where’s that boat title, captain?”
“If I tell you, will you promise not to push me onto those coals?”
“Of course.”
“Do I have your word?”
“Cross my heart.”
Prendick could feel the heat rising from the coal bed. The thought of being pressed against them, unable to pull away, was the most terrifying prospect he’d ever considered.
“Behind Goldie’s tank, in the safe. The combination is my birthday, three, twenty-nine, seventy. I’ll even sign the title over to you.”
“How gracious of you. But that won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can adequately forge your signature.”