JACK KILBORN ~ AFRAID (37 page)

“Your new home is in Hawaii. You’ll be taken by helicopter to Dane County Regional Airport, where you’re booked on flight 2343 to Honolulu. You’ll be met at the airport by a man who will take you to your new house, and he’ll give you information to access your new bank account, which contains ten million dollars. You’ll quietly live out the rest of your lives there. You also have to cut all ties with friends and relatives and never try to contact them.”

“Too late,” Fran said. “They’re all dead.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem, then. Are you willing to accept this offer?”

He drilled his eyes into them, hoping they’d refuse.

“Yes,” Josh said.

Tope nodded. He knew the president was wrong. These people would talk and cause all sorts of problems. The smart thing to do was take them out back and shoot them.

“Where’s Mathison and Woof?” Duncan asked.

Tope squinted at the boy. “Who?”

“The monkey and the dog,” Fran said. “We want them.”

“The dog goes with you. The monkey is government property.”

“We want the monkey, too,” Fran said.

Tope blinked, not believing what he was hearing. They were in no position to bargain.

“Give us Mathison,” Josh said, “And you’ll never have to worry about us blabbing.”

The general recalled the president’s words.
Give them what they want.
The man was soft, too soft to run the country the way it needed to be run. But Tope was a soldier, and soldiers followed orders. That was the way things worked. That was the way they would always work.

“Fine,” he said. “Don’t ever try to come back to the upper forty-eight.”

Then he turned on his heels and walked out the door.

N
o one spoke during the car ride to the airport. They were escorted through security, walked to the plane, and seated in the back, Fran between Josh and a very drowsy Duncan.

“What about the animals?” Fran asked their handlers, two soldiers in full dress uniform.

“You can pick them up at baggage claim,” she was told.

They were watched until everyone else had boarded, and then the soldiers left. The plane taxied to the runway, then took off. Fran kissed her sleeping son on the head. Then she looked at Josh.

“We did it,” she said.

“I was worried Duncan would say something. He’s a great kid.”

“When you told him we’d all die unless we lied, he took it to heart.”

“It was the truth. They would have killed us.”

“I know. That man, the one who knew we were lying. He was the one on the film. He was the major who started the Red-ops program.”

“Good,” Josh said. “Then we’ll bring him down, too.”

The captain came over the sound system, informing the passengers that the flight would take a little over thirteen hours. Fran reached up behind her, checked the scrunchie in her hair. The tiny micro SD card was still there, tucked between the fabric and elastic.

“We could do what they said,” she said. “Stay quiet. Spend the rest of our lives in Hawaii on their hush money.”

“Someone has to be accountable, Fran. Don’t you think?”

Fran nodded. That’s what she’d hoped Josh would say.

“And what if they come after us?” she asked.

Josh reached over, took her hand with his good one.

“If we survived this night, we can survive anything.”

She looked at him. “Together?”

“Together.”

Fran closed her eyes, rested her head against Josh’s shoulder, and, for the first time since her husband died, allowed herself to hope.

T
aylor opened his eyes. He was still in the tube, and his head was killing him. The last thing he remembered was that bitch, Fran, dropping a rock on his face. Taylor reached up to feel the damage.

Except his arm didn’t work.

He tried his other arm and had identical results. He tried to turn around, but his legs, his toes, his ass: everything below his neck refused to move.

She’d paralyzed him. The bitch had paralyzed him.

Rage came first. Then panic. Then rage again. Then depression.

Minutes passed. Hours. The sun came up.

Taylor stared up at the sky, tears streaking down his face, and waited for those military assholes to find him. They’d help. After all, they were all on the same side. Maybe this wasn’t a permanent injury. Maybe something was just out of place. They could fix him. They could fix him and he’d track down that bitch and—

The coyote stopped a few yards away. Lean and gray, eyes intent. It stared at Taylor and sniffed the air.

“Get the fuck away from me!” he yelled.

The animal stayed where it was. Watching. Waiting.

A moment later, another one joined it.

Taylor shook his head and snarled. He shouted. He swore.

The two became three. Then four. The one who arrived first, the original one, came closer. So close that Taylor could smell his musky fur, his meaty breath. The coyote paused, then licked Taylor’s bloody cheek.

“Get away!”

It bit his shirt and began to pull. Two others joined in, jerking and tugging him out of the tube, dragging him to the dry creek bed.

They started on his fingers.

Taylor screamed and screamed and screamed for help. He screamed until his throat bled.

No help came.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jack Kilborn prefers not to share personal details about his life. He could be living anywhere. Possibly near you. Visit him at www.JackKilborn.com [http://www.JackKilborn.com].

More chilling horror from

JACK KILBORN

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TRAPPED

Available Winter 2010

S
ara Randhurst felt her stomach roll starboard as the boat yawed port, and she put both hands on the railing and took a big gulp of fresh, lake air. She wasn’t anywhere near Cindy’s level of discomfort—that poor girl had been heaving nonstop since they left land—but she was a long way from feeling her best.

Sara closed her eyes, bending her knees slightly to absorb some of the pitch and roll. The nausea reminded Sara of her honeymoon. She and Martin had booked a Caribbean cruise, and their first full day as a married couple found both of them vomiting veal piccata and wedding cake into the Pacific. Lake Huron was smaller than the ocean, the wave crests not as high and troughs not as low. But they came faster and choppier, which made it almost as bad.

Sara opened her eyes, searching for Martin. The only one on deck was Cindy Welp, still perched over the railing. Sara approached the teen on wobbly footing, then rubbed her back. Cindy’s blond hair looked perpetually greasy, and her eyes were sunken and her skin colorless; more a trait of her addiction to meth than the seasickness.

“How are you doing?” Sara asked.

Cindy wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Better. I don’t think there’s anything left in me.”

Cindy proved herself a liar a moment later, pulling away and retching once again. Sara gave her one last reassuring pat, then padded her way carefully up to the bow. The charter boat looked deceptively smaller before they’d gotten on. But there was a lot of space onboard; both a foredeck and an aft deck, a raised bow, plus two levels below boasting six rooms. Though they’d been sailing for more than two hours, Sara had only run into four of their eight-person party. Martin wasn’t one of them. It was almost like he was hiding.

Which, she supposed, he had reason to do.

A swell slapped the boat sideways, spritzing Sara with water. It tasted clean, just like the air. A gull cried out overhead, a wide white M against the shocking blue of sky. Sara squinted west, toward the sun. It was getting low over the lake, turning the clouds pink and orange, hinting at a spectacular sunset to come. A month ago, when she and Martin had planned this trip, staring at such a sun would have made her feel alive and loved. Watching it now made Sara sad. A final bow before the curtain closes for good.

Sara continued to move forward, her gym shoes slippery, and the warm summer breeze already drying the spray on her face. At the prow, Sara saw Tom Gransee, bending down like he was trying to touch the water rushing beneath them.

“Tom! Back in the boat, please.”

Tom spun around, saw Sara, and grinned. Then he took three quick steps and skidded across the wet deck like a skateboarder. Tom’s medication didn’t quite control his ADHD, and the teenager was constantly in motion. He even twitched when he slept.

“No running!” Sara called after him, but he was already on the other side of the cabin, heading below.

Sara peeked at the sun once more, retied the flapping floral print shirttails across her flat belly, and headed after Tom.

As she descended the tight staircase, the mechanical roar of the engine overtook the calm sound of the waves. The captain was the ninth person on the boat, and Sara hadn’t seen him lately either. Her only meeting with him was during their brief but intense negotiation when they arrived at the dock. He was a short, grizzled old man, tanned and wrinkled, and he fought with Martin about their destination, insisting on taking them someplace closer than Rock Island. He only relented after they agreed to bring a radio along, in case of emergencies.

Sara wondered where the captain was now. She assumed he was on the bridge, but didn’t know where to find it. Maybe Martin was with him. Sara wasn’t sure if her desire to speak with Martin was to console him or persuade him. Perhaps both. Or maybe they could simply spend a few moments together without talking. Sara could remember when silence between them was a healthy thing.

A skinny door flew open, and Meadowlark Purcell burst out. Meadow had a pink scar across the bridge of his flattened nose, a disfigurement from when he was
blooded in
to a Detroit street gang. The boy narrowed his dark brown eyes at Sara, then smiled in recognition.

“Hey, Sara. I be you, I wouldn’t go in there for a while.” He fanned his palm in front of his nose.

“I’m looking for Martin. Seen him?”

Meadow shook his head. “I be hangin’ with Laneesha and Tyrone, playin’ cards. We gonna be there soon?”

“Captain said two and a half hours, and we’re getting near that point.”

“True dat?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

Meadow wandered off. Sara closed the bathroom door and tried the one next to it. In the darkness she made out the shape of a chubby girl asleep on a skinny bed. Georgia. Sara tried the next door. Another cabin, this one empty. After a brief hesitation, Sara went into the room, pulled the folding bed away from the wall, and laid down.

The waves weren’t as pronounced down here, and the rocking motion was gentler. Sara again thought of her honeymoon with Martin. How, once they got their sea legs, they spent all of their time on the ship, in their tiny little cabin, skipping exotic ports to instead order room service and make love. After a rough beginning, it turned out to be a perfect trip.

Sara closed her eyes, and wished it could be like that again.

I
t was a night exactly like tonight, ten years ago,” Martin said. “Late summer. Full moon. Just before midnight. The woods were quiet. Quiet, but not completely silent. It’s never completely silent in the woods. It seems like it is, because we’re all used to the city. But there are always night sounds. Sounds that only exist when the sun goes down and the dark takes over. Everyone shut your eyes and listen for a moment.”

Sara indulged her husband, letting her eyelids close. Gone were the noises so common in Detroit; cars honking, police sirens, arguing drunks and cheering Tigers fans and bursts of live music when bar doors swung open. Instead, here on the island, there were crickets. A breeze whistling through the pines. An owl. The gentle snaps and crackles of the campfire they sat around.

After a few seconds someone belched.

“My bad,” Tyrone said, raising his hand.

This prompted laughter from almost everyone, Sara included. Martin kept his expression solemn, not breaking character. Seeing Martin like that made Sara remember why she fell in love with him. Her husband had always been passionate about life, and gave everything his all, whether it was painting the garage, starting a business, or telling silly campfire stories to scare their kids.

Her smile faded. They won’t be
their kids
for very much longer.

“It happened on an island,” Martin continued. “Just like this one. In fact, now that I think about it, this might actually
be
the island where it all happened.”

Tyrone snorted. “This better not be the same island, dog, or my black ass is jumping in that mofo lake ’n’ swimming back to civilization.”

More laughter, but this time it was clipped. Uneasy. These teenagers had never been this far from an urban environment, and weren’t sure how to act.

Sara shivered, zipping her sweatshirt up in front. All the things she wanted to say to Martin earlier were still bottled up inside because she didn’t have the chance. Since the boat dropped them off, it had been all about hiking and setting up camp and eating dinner. Sara hadn’t been alone with him once. He’d been intentionally avoiding her. But she hadn’t really tried that hard to corner him, either. Sara didn’t want to have
the talk
any more than he did.

“Was it really this island?” Laneesha asked. Her voice was condescending, almost defiant. But there was a bit of edge to it, a tiny hint of fear.

“No, it wasn’t,” Sara said. “Martin, tell her it wasn’t.”

Martin didn’t say anything, but he did give Laneesha a sly wink.

“So where was it?” Georgia asked.

“It wasn’t anywhere, Georgia.” Sara slapped at a mosquito that had been biting her neck, then wiped the tiny splot of blood onto her jeans. “This is a campfire story. It’s made up, to try to scare you.”