That’s when he saw the Sara woman, already running at him, leaping in a flying kick.
She connected with Lester’s chest. He’d been bracing himself, but it still made him stagger backward two steps.
Unfortunately, the second step was a long one.
One moment Lester was on land. The next moment he wasn’t.
He managed to twist around as he fell, so he could see the rocks coming up at him at a blinding speed.
Maybe I will see Georgia girl in hel—
The thought ended with an abrupt crunch.
Dr. Plincer had to give Subject 33 credit. The man could inflict pain like a maestro conducted an orchestra. He’d even managed to top Plincer’s time with Lester so long ago.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in Subject 33’s box, but it seemed like hours. Plincer could understand why so many people screamed for so long. He would have as well, if it hadn’t been for the skewers in his tongue.
At least Plincer’s curiosity had been satisfied. He’d always wondered about the machine Subject 33 had built. Really an ingenious device. Plincer just wished he wasn’t forced to have firsthand knowledge.
A tiny, still coherent part of him wondered why he hadn’t passed out yet. After all, it couldn’t possibly get worse.
Then Subject 33 hooked up the car battery, and it got worse.
But unconsciousness still didn’t come.
Their bellies were full, but their appetite for drawing blood had only been whetted. The few that were still alive grouped together, forming a hunting party. They went in search of more people to kill. The woman and the children had gotten away. But the island was small. They would find them.
They ran alongside the prison, looking for the woman, and one of them stopped.
The others looked.
The prison door. It was open.
They snarled and hooted and ran inside.
Sara looked over the edge. Lester was gone, though she could make out the blood stain where he’d hit the rock.
“I thought the plan was to lead him north to the ledge and then shoot his ass, not go all Jackie Chan,” Tyrone said.
Sara shrugged. “No bullets left.”
Cindy walked over with Jack, holding Sara’s wrist as she peeked downward. “Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“You sure he’s not going to come back, try to kill us again?”
Sara pointed at the body floating out into the big water. “I’m sure.”
They watched him for a while, bobbing in the waves. Sara tried to figure out how many men she’d killed this camping trip, and realized she’d lost count.
There’ll be time for therapy later. Now we need to find Captain Prendick’s boat.
She checked the compass, located east.
“Come on, guys. Let’s go.”
“Hold on a sec. Let’s see what’s in this briefcase, first. Gotta be somethin’ valuable.”
Tyrone set it on the ground, and they all gathered to look when he opened the lid.
“Great,” he said. “Some ugly ho.”
Actually, it was a painting of an ugly ho. In three-quarter profile, sandwiched between two thick pieces of Plexiglas. She had bulgy eyes and a gold cross around her neck and a blue dress, and the style was oddly familiar.
“Think it’s worth somethin’?” Tyrone asked.
Sara lifted the painting. Under it was a bill of sale, from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, for just under 20 million Euro. Sara shook her head, amazed.
“It’s Vincent Van Gogh’s Portrait of Woman in Blue, and the bill of sale looks real.”
“Twenty million Euro?” Cindy said. “Is that like pesos, meaning it’s only worth a few hundred bucks?”
“The Euro is stronger than the dollar, Cindy.” Sara said, suddenly nervous to be holding it. “This painting is worth about twenty-five million dollars.”
“That’s one pricey ho.” Tyrone whistled. “Guess when I go to college I ain’ gotta worry about no student loans.”
“Tyrone, you couldn’t get into college, even if you lived long enough to try.”
Sara jerked in the direction of the voice.
Martin.
Taylor tried to stay calm. He hurt all over, and he wanted to make the doctor pay. But he didn’t want the doctor to die. Not for a long time. So he had to show restraint.
Taylor knew there were painkillers in the lab, but he didn’t know which drugs he should take. If he was able to talk, he would have asked the doctor. But he couldn’t talk, and when he tried to write what he wanted on paper, the doctor just screamed and babbled incoherently. So Taylor was forced to suffer.
The doctor would suffer with him.
Taylor was deciding where to stick the fiftieth skewer when he heard a noise behind him. He jumped away, fearing it to be Lester.
But it wasn’t Lester. It was a dirty, bearded man with ripped clothes.
Taylor walked toward him. Though he was injured, it would still be easy to subdue this skinny little man. Taylor could take his wrath out on him, keeping the doctor alive to enjoy later.
He stopped in mid-step when another dirty man came in. Then another followed. And another. And another.
They had weapons. Rusty knives. Tree branches. One had a fork.
Taylor backed away, his lips flapping, his hands raised in supplication.
The dirty people attacked. Taylor felt like he was in a barbed wire tornado, being ripped apart on all sides. Poking, stabbing, hitting, biting, gouging, bit by agonizing bit.
Stop! I don’t handle pain well!
Taylor fell to his knees, covering his face, screaming soundlessly and enduring quite a lot of pain for quite a long time as they tore him to pieces.
Martin was through fooling around. When the ferals attacked and the craziness started, he went straight for Tope’s bodyguard. A quick poke in the stomach with a hunting knife, and the man graciously gave up his gun. Martin then waited in the woods for things to settle down and Sara to appear.
She did, dragging Jack and her precious kids with her. Pathetic, really. The dumb bitch even tried to save Georgia. Probably hoping to help her.
She would have had better luck teaching an alligator to fetch.
When Lester joined the fun, Martin tagged along.
There was a bad moment, after Martin followed them into the woods, when he worried Lester would kill his wife before he got there. But, incredibly, they’d managed to take out the big guy.
Which was fine. Martin didn’t like to share anyway.
“This is how it’s going to work, Sara,” he said, basking in the fear he knew his words caused her. “We’re all going to march back to the prison like a big happy family. Then you’re going back into the trunk, and you’ll get to listen while I have some playtime with the meth whore. Tyrone, buddy, you’re allowed to watch. To make it more fun, every time Cindy screams, I’ll cut off one of your fingers.”
“No,” Sara said.
Martin’s grin slipped a notch. “Excuse me? You see I’m holding a gun, right?”
“Cindy, Tyrone, get behind me. When I say so, take Jack and run into the woods.
The children listened to their surrogate mother, who then held the painting at waist-level.
Martin sneered. “What, I’m not going to shoot you because you’ve got some ugly chick?”
“It’s a Van Gogh, Martin. Worth twenty five million dollars. You’re an art lover. You wouldn’t do anything to ruin it. And you won’t shoot me in the chest or head, because you don’t want me to die that easily.”
Martin laughed, full and genuine. “You’re kidding me, right?”
He aimed right at the ugly chick’s head. When the bullet passed through the painting, it would shatter Sara’s hip.