TRAPPED
a novel of terror
by Jack Kilborn
Copyright © 2010 by Jack Kilborn
Afterword copyright © 2010 by Joe Konrath
Cover and art copyright © 2010 by Carl Graves
Excerpt from Desert Places copyright © 2010 by Blake Crouch
May 2010
From the author: This ebook is actually two ebooks. I wrote TRAPPED twice. The final version is the one I prefer, and it is presented first. But I’ve gotten a lot of email from fans who wanted to read the original, uncut first draft, so I’ve included it as an extra after the Afterword. The Afterword explains why there are two versions of this book in the first place…
Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.
— Mark Twain
It’s lonely here, there’s no one left to torture.
— Leonard Cohen
What’s he building in there?
— Tom Waits
PROLOGUE
He couldn’t move.
The table he lay on was cold against his naked back. There were no ropes binding his arms, no belts securing his legs. But he was immobile, paralyzed.
Yet he was still able to feel.
Panicked thoughts swirled through his brain. Where am I? Was I in an accident? I can’t open my eyes. Am I blind? Am I dead? I can still think, so I must be alive. But I can’t move. Can’t talk. What’s happening to me?
He concentrated, hard as he could, trying to move his hands and touch his face.
Nothing happened.
Noise, from the right. Footsteps. His body didn’t seem to work, but thankfully, his ears did.
Someone’s in the room.
He felt a hand touch his face, and then saw painful bright light.
A doctor in a green smock stared down at him.
He just pried my eyelids open.
“Good morning. You’re disoriented, I bet. Confused. Probably can’t even remember how you got here.” The doctor’s voice was scratchy, strained, as if he wasn’t accustomed to using it.
Please, tell me what’s going on…
“You can’t move because you’ve been given a paralytic.” He was an older man, bald, his scrubs stained. “Unfortunately, you have to remain conscious for this procedure to work.”
The doctor walked off, out of sight. The man’s eyes remained open, unblinking, gazing into the light overhead. Am I in an operating room? What procedure? Who was that doctor?
It was bright, but it didn’t seem bright enough to be a hospital. The light was yellowish, dingy, coming from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. And there was a smell. Not an antiseptic, care-facility smell. A smell of rot and decay.
“The drug immobilizes the skeletomuscular system.” The doctor was somewhere near his feet. The man couldn’t move his eyes to see him. “You’re completely helpless. One more dose and you’d stop breathing altogether.”
The doctor rested a hand on the man’s knee, gave it a pat.
“You’ve lost your reflexes, your ability to flinch. But other vital functions remain active.”
A sudden pressure, between his legs. The doctor was squeezing his testicles. The agony bloomed, white hot and inescapable. His vision went blurry. He tried to pull away, tried with all of his might, but he didn’t budge an inch.
“You can still feel pain, as I’m sure you notice. Lacrimation is normal, for now. Your pupils can dilate. And, of course, your pulse and heart rate just shot up considerably. The drug keeps you from moving so I can do the procedure, but it doesn’t shut you down completely.”
The man felt the tears flow down the sides of his head, the throb still lingering after the doctor released his grip.
This wasn’t a hospital. It couldn’t be. A doctor wouldn’t do that to me. What the hell was going on?
Then he heard the most agonizing scream of his life.
It didn’t come from the room, but from someplace else in the building. Nearby, maybe a room or two over. The scream was so shrill it didn’t sound human at first. Then it lost pitch and was replaced by shouting.
“NO! PLEASE NO! STOP IT! JESUS NOOOOOO!”
What are they doing to that poor guy?
And what are they going to do to me?
“That’s one of Lester’s guests,” the doctor said. “Lester has been with him for a few hours now. I’m surprised he still has a voice left. I shudder to think what’s being done to make him cry out like that. Do you recognize who it is?”
And then, all at once, the man knew who was screaming. He remembered how they got there. The strange noises. Being chased. Hunted. Running terrified. And then being caught. Caught by…
“No need to worry.” The doctor leaned over him, smiling. Crumbs wedged in the corners of his thin lips, on his chin, and a small streak of something brown—blood?—smeared across his age-spotted forehead. “You won’t end up like that. You’re being given a gift. An invaluable, extraordinary gift. The world is full of lambs. But very few get to be wolves. Lester’s playmate, sadly for him, is a lamb. But you, you, my lucky fellow—you’re about to become a wolf.”
The doctor raised a gigantic syringe.
“This is going to hurt. Quite a bit, in fact.”
The man couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, and he was forced to watch and feel as the needle descended and plunged into his unblinking eye.
PART 1
CAMPFIRE STORIES
Sara 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 non-stop since they left land—but she was a long way from feeling her best.
Strangely enough, Jack seemed to be enjoying it. The three-month-old baby in the sling around Sara’s chest had a grin on his face and was drooling happily. Sara pulled a tissue from the sling’s pocket and wiped off her son’s chin, wondering how anyone, especially someone so small and fragile, could actually like this awful motion. Even though she was feeling ill, she smiled at the sight of him. Just like she did every time.
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 picata 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 blonde hair looked perpetually greasy, and her eyes were sunken and her skin colorless; more a trait of her addiction to meth than the seasickness.