“I’m sure.”
“Double-check. And as for you, old friend.” Plincer patted Subject 33’s head. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to properly sedate you. You’re going to feel this, but that’s what you get for messing around with another man’s property.”
Lester smiled. Martin sighed, heading back to his room. He was annoyed, and tense.
But he had complete faith that a few minutes with Sara would help relax him.
Sara listened, as hard as she could, but Jack’s crying flooded her ears. Had Martin left? Or was he still there, silently waiting, ready to grab her when she opened the trunk?
She tried rubbing Jack’s gums again, but the noise of his father banging on the trunk had scared him too much. His wailing increased in volume. Even more than the suffocating darkness, Sara feared Martin would hear him, figure out what was going on.
Adjusting her body, she stuck Jack up under her shirt, pulling down her bra.
He latched onto her breast and began to nurse.
Sara sighed, stroking his scalp. For a precious minute, she and Jack were the only two people in the universe. He suckled lazily, and then she felt him release her, his body relaxing in sleep.
The smothering dark returned.
I’ll count to a fifty. Then I’ll come out.
Sara made it to seventeen, then popped out and gasped for air like she’d been underwater, swinging the knife around in case Martin was close.
He wasn’t. The room was empty. But the sudden movement woke up Jack, and he began to cry again.
Sara climbed out of the trunk on shaky legs. She closed the lid, standing still for a few seconds, trying to get her hyperventilating under control. Now wasn’t a good time to pass out.
Jack’s volume increased. She tried her breast again, but he turned away from it.
Overtired? Bored? Wet?
She stuck a finger in his diaper. Dry.
“Shush,” she told him.
He didn’t shush.
Sara had to get out of there, fast. But first, she needed tools. Sara made her way to the work table and picked up the cordless drill. The bit was thick, four inches long. She squeezed the trigger and it whirred to life.
Jack stopped crying, reaching a tiny hand out to touch the drill.
“Do you like the drill? Yes you do like the drill.”
She kept up the baby-talk patter and let it whir for another few seconds. Then she noticed something potentially more important.
On the table, in an ashtray, was a key.
It didn’t look like it would open the cells. This was a new key, and those were over a hundred years old, with locks to match. But it couldn’t hurt to hold on to.
Sara took it, and closed the utility knife, sticking both into her pocket. She also took from the bench an ice pick, a hammer, and a hacksaw. She then put down the saw, unable to carry everything at once, and rushed into the hallway, heading for the stairs.
When she was almost there she put on the brakes, noticing another door.
It looked out of place in the castle-type environment, made of silver metal with a bright new doorknob.
Keep going. Save the kids.
But what if there’s some other poor victim in there? What if it’s Georgia?
Sara reached for the doorknob hesitantly, as if she were about to touch a hot stove. She paused.
Yes or no?
Sara palmed the knob and gave it a deft turn.
Locked.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
That was Georgia’s voice.
Sara moved her mouth closer to the door. “Georgia? Are you in there?”
“Sara? Is that you?”
Sara put her hand on the door, leaning against it. “It’s me. Are you okay?”
“I’m scared, Sara.” Georgia’s voice got louder. “Please get me out of here.”
“I’m going to try. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you.”
It was a no-brainer what to try first. The key. She set down the drill and the hammer and fished out the key, fitting it into the lock easily. Sara tried to twist.
No good. The key wouldn’t turn.
Sara gave it the standard key-jiggle, bumped the door with her shoulder to loosen up the bolt, and tried again.
It worked. Sara pocketed the key and pushed the door open, keeping a protective hand on Jack as she looked around. The room was well-lit, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Sara saw a bed, a dresser, but no Georgia.
Sara studied the door, and noticed the pneumatic arm at the top. She bent down and jammed the ice pick under the rail so it wouldn’t close automatically, and then stepped inside.
“Georgia?”
Sara glanced behind the door and was met with the shocking image of a Georgia standing there, nude and covered in blood.
“Georgia! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, now that you’re here.”
Georgia smiled, oddly incongruous with her appearance. Then Sara noticed the bloody scissors in Georgia’s hand.
“Georgia?”
The pudgy girl launched herself at Sara, stabbing downward with the scissors.
Instinct took over, Sara sidestepped to the right, ducking under the arc of Georgia’s swing and driving an elbow into the teen’s back.
Georgia smacked into the dresser and Sara turned to face her, planting her feet apart and stepping on something squishy. She took a quick look at the floor.
It was covered with blood. Blood and animal parts.
Georgia spun, raising the scissors again. Her expression was gleefully manic.
“It’s me, Georgia,” Sara pleaded, cradling Jack against her chest. “It’s Sara.”
“I know who you are, bitch.”
The girl lunged again, but this time she feinted before the swing, throwing Sara off balance. Sara back-pedaled, the scissors passing inches in front of Jack’s head. Her ass hit a desk, and Georgia slid and fell onto one knee.
Sara looked to her right. The bed was in the corner of the room, at least ten feet away. Then looked down at her son, and at the crazed face of Georgia.
Without second-guessing herself, Sara yanked Jack from his sling and tossed him through the air, at the center of the bed, aiming so he hit back-first. Before she could tell if she hit her target, Georgia had recovered and plowed into her, doubling Sara over and knocking her onto her back.
Jack didn’t make a sound, and Sara couldn’t see him.
Georgia fought like a rabid dog. Sara fought to push the girl off, but Georgia had straddled her, making the older woman cry out when she ground her knee into Sara’s leg wound. Sara strained against her, but Georgia was strong and fierce and weighed more.
Georgia used that weight, leaning onto the scissors, bringing the blades closer and closer to Sara’s throat until they poked into her chin.
Georgia was more than just excited. She was aroused. The scissors pricked at Sara’s face, making little blood freckles, and Georgia was loving it.
The rat had been fun, but this was a hundred times better. Georgia had never tried any drugs, never had friends who attempted to share any with her. But she imagined this is what they must feel like. Each drop of blood that bloomed on Sara’s face was like another spike of ecstasy. Heroin and sex and cocaine and sky-diving all mixed up in one gigantic, pleasurable rush.
Then Georgia’s fingers were being bent back, and she had to turn her body with the rotation so they didn’t break.
She rolled off of Sara, no longer holding the scissors. The intense pleasure was gone, like a faucet that had been shut off. Not even an afterglow.
Georgia looked up at Sara and snarled.
“We can get you help,” Sara said, wiping red off her chin. “You have to trust me.”
“I don’t want help.”
Georgia scrambled onto all fours and then tackled Sara, wanting, needing, to bite the bitch’s face off.