Then his head went lower, fingers fumbling for her jeans, and Georgia began to struggle in earnest, not wanting his face anywhere near that part of her, not wanting those teeth to so much as—
“Uhhnnn.”
Lester didn’t use his teeth. He used his tongue, and his fingers, and he was gentle and insistent and she wound her fists in his hair and pulled him closer and ground into him even though she was terrified, grunting deep within her chest.
And then his pointy teeth locked onto her and he bit down.
When Martin was a little boy, he wanted to be a doctor. He didn’t really have an interest in medicine, and got woozy at the sight of blood. But he had an inner drive to care for people who needed help.
At fifteen years old he and his older brother Joe went on a camping trip, a tradition that began when both boys were younger and would continue on into adulthood. This particular excursion was in Michigan’s upper peninsula. Three days in the woods, no adult supervision. Martin and Joe didn’t suffer from the sibling rivalry that plagued most brothers born a year apart, and they were the best of friends. Camping with Joe was Martin’s favorite time of the year.
The second day into their hike, Joe slipped and broke his leg—a nasty compound fracture that swelled up to the size of a melon. It was a decade before cell phones and GPS became commonplace, and a compass miscalculation put them two miles from the spot they told their parents they would be. Worst of all, it had happened in gray wolf territory. Joe was hurt so bad he couldn’t move, drifting in and out of consciousness. If Martin left him, chances were high the wolves would kill Joe before he could return with help.
So Martin stayed with his brother, gathering food and water, keeping the fire going. And most importantly, talking.
Martin hadn’t understood the true power of words before that fateful trip. How talking about the future, of dreams and hopes, of fears and failures, could sustain a person in an increasingly hopeless situation. Martin learned more about Joe than he ever could have imagined. He also learned about himself. As sure as man needed to eat, sleep, and breathe, he needed to communicate.
The boys were rescued after four days. In a way, Martin was almost sad to see it end. He had bonded with, and helped save, a human being, and that was rewarding on a level he’d never dreamed possible.
Ironic how, so many years later, Joe would wind up in even worse trouble.
As for Martin, this incident led him from an interest in medicine to an interest in social science and psychology. Human nature, and the way people interact, never ceased to fascinate Martin. He thought he was unique in this curiosity, until he met Sara.
Sara’s desire to help others was only matched by her desire to learn. Unlike Martin, who believed that certain psychological problems could inhibit socialization, Sara was convinced that actions, not thoughts, dictated a person’s social potential. They were a perfect match for getting wayward youth back on track, Martin working on healing their psyches, Sara teaching them how to integrate into society.
And now, with the funding for the Center being cut, Martin was cut off from Sara as well. He’d hoped, on Plincer’s Island, to bond with Sara in a way they’d never bonded before.
But being attacked and hunted like animals hadn’t been part of the plan.
Martin hurt. His swollen hands throbbed in time with his pulse, and his face felt like it been pulled off and sewn back on off-center. But these aches disappeared when he saw the tribe of crazies cross his path only a few dozen feet ahead.
Being caught by them once was enough for a lifetime, and the thought that they might get Sara or Laneesha was unacceptable. Because of this, his pain was surpassed by a surge of adrenalin that made him grab both women and drag them face-first to the ground. The trio collectively held their breath. Martin’s imagination boiled with images of horrific tortures and screaming victims, and he squeezed his eyes shut and decided, if need be, he’d fight to the death right here rather than let those bastards take him again.
The tribe moved closer, not bothering with stealth, marching single file and slapping wayward branches out of their way. Martin felt Laneesha squirm, and he kept hard pressure on her shoulder, preventing her from bolting and giving away their position.
Laneesha whimpered, a single sharp vowel, brief but unmistakably human. And loud enough to be heard by the hunters.
Martin watched as one of the feral people fell out of line, cocking a head in their direction. He took two steps toward them and stopped again, sniffing the air like a dog. This man was fatter than the others, his shoulders broad and powerful looking.
Again Laneesha squirmed, kicking some dead leaves, making a shuffling sound.
Dark as it was, Martin could see the hunter raise his arm. He was holding an ax.
Martin felt the tension in his legs, wondering how he could spring up from a prone position. He adjusted his toes, silently digging them into the ground for traction, forcing his crippled hands to grasp some loose dirt to throw in their attacker’s face.
Then there came a scream.
Not from Martin or the women, and not from any of the hunters. This came from deep in the forest, shrill and agonized, a sharp note that went on and on.
The axman turned toward the scream, then lumbered back into the woods.
Martin let out his breath. “Let’s wait a minute,” he whispered, his tongue and cheeks feeling like he’d just gargled acid, his jaw throbbing. “Make sure they’re gone.”
“Who’s screaming?” Laneesha said.
“I don’t know.”
“Martin.” He felt his wife’s hand grip his shoulder. “That’s one of our kids.”
Martin placed a thumb and forefinger on his eyes, rubbed them gently. “We don’t know that.”
The scream returned, a high-pitched chord that Martin could feel in his molars.
“That’s Meadow,” Laneesha said.
“We don’t know it’s Meadow, Laneesha.”
“Jesus, what are they doin’ to him?”
“Laneesha, you have to stay calm.”
“It’s Meadow. I know his voice. What could make him scream like that?”
Sara clutched Martin’s arm. “We have to help him, Martin.”
“Sara, I counted eight, eight, of those people. And even if it is Meadow, and it might not be, someone is making him scream like that. We have no idea how many of them there are on this island.”
Sara got up onto her knees. “We still have to try.”
Martin put his hand on the small of her back. “We will. I promise. But we need to get back to the campsite first.”
Another scream, weaker this time, ending in a horrible sob.
“We don’t have time,” Sara said, standing up.
Martin debated whether or not to tell her, and decided he had no choice. He painfully got to his feet and caught up with Sara, who was already heading toward the scream.
“Sara, I have something at the campsite we can use.” He paused. “A gun.”
Though he couldn’t see it, he could imagine the shocked look on his wife’s face.
“A gun, Martin? Why the hell do you have a gun?”
“I took it as a precaution. Camping can be dangerous.”
“Do you know how dangerous it is to bring one along, especially with our kids? What if one of them found it?”