More than several. Five or six.
Kong wasn’t in the best shape, and wasn’t a fast runner, but terror was the ultimate motivator. He reached the helicopter before the savages, yanking on the door handle.
Locked.
The turbine engine whined to life, the rotors beginning to spin. That idiot Lau was staring over Kong’s shoulder at the oncoming horde, his eyes big as duck eggs.
Kong banged on the door. Once he got inside he was going to strangle that fool. Revise that; after he got inside and was taken to safety, he would strangle him. But first there were be an extended session with his bamboo rod. Lau would suffer before his death.
Then the unthinkable happened. Kong Zhi-ou, exalted director of the Jinzhong prison system, the man who was going to lead China to world supremacy, was dragged away from the helicopter in utter disbelief.
The suitcase was ripped from his hand, but these people had no interest in its contents. They seemed interested in him, wrestling him to the ground, pinning him down.
But why? What could these savages possibly want?
The first jolt of pain was in Kong’s leg. It was followed swiftly by an equal pain in his arm.
They’re biting me.
Kong screamed, and a savage stuck his ugly face in Kong’s, flecks of flesh and blood in his filthy beard, mouth open and drooling, his lips moving closer and closer.
Kong was more revolted by this man’s kiss than by those who were chewing on him.
But it turned out this man wanted to chew as well.
Kong was tangentially aware of a strong wind, the helicopter taking off, as more and more of his body was gripped in the mouths of these American savages. He began to choke, blood running down his windpipe from the bleeding hole where his nose used to be.
The helicopter’s speaker system crackled and came to life. The last human voice Kong ever heard was that idiot Lau’s. Even worse, he used English.
“Now it is you who has lost face, Mr. Kong.”
Kong exposed his neck, praying to be bitten there, praying for someone to pierce his jugular or carotid and end his suffering.
He had no takers. Apparently these American savages liked their meals alive and kicking.
This was unfortunate. Most unfortunate indeed. Dr. Plincer had been so close to sealing the deal. Who could have guessed the ferals would have showed up?
Well, actually, he should have guessed it. He was the one who made them that way in the first place.
But Plincer hadn’t known there were so many. He also hadn’t known they’d been able to organize their group, almost like some primitive tribe. It was fascinating, from a scientific standpoint, but a huge disaster from a financial one.
Hopefully, Mr. Kong would get away, and they’d be able to try again at a later date. If not, perhaps the Chinese would send another representative. The Russians were also a possibility. Plincer had even been contacted by a former member of the KGB. This situation was just a slight delay—a hiccup—in the overall game plan.
Plincer hurried through the big iron door into the prison, but before he got a chance to lock it someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arm up behind his back.
Hello, Subject 33.
“Well, you recovered quickly,” Plincer said. “It’s good to see you up and about.”
Subject 33 twisted upwards, popping Plincer’s shoulder out of its socket and taking the doctor’s breath away.
They didn’t run. They hid. Cindy couldn’t believe how wonderful it was to get this second chance. She promised herself she wouldn’t waste it.
Right after Sara freed her and fired a few times at the oncoming wild people, the three of them ducked into the trees and jumped into a shallow ditch.
Tyrone had his arm around her, and it felt better than the biggest hit of meth she’d ever taken. She helped him take the dog collar off, and then removed hers. After being unable to use her hands for so long, the freedom to move them again was wonderful, though the cuffs were still pinching her wrists—Sara had only shot the chain between them. Even the throb from the bite wound seemed to hurt less.
Now all they needed to do was keep away from the psychos, the cannibals, those strange Chinese guys, and the mad doctor. The strange Chinese guys seemed to have left, their helicopter flying off overhead.
“Help me!”
Cindy turned in the direction of the plea. It came from nearby. A woman.
Georgia.
Sara stood up. She looked strong and sure and every bit Cindy’s hero.
“You two stay here,” Sara said.
Cindy shook her head. “Don’t.”
“I have to help her.”
“She killed Tom.”
“Plincer did something to her brain. It’s not her fault. Maybe it can be fixed.”
Cindy reached out, grabbed Sara’s arm. “You didn’t see it, Sara. She’s a monster.”
Sara’s eyes got glassy. She placed her hand on Cindy’s. “I wouldn’t give up on you. Or Tyrone. I’ve…lost…I just…I can’t give up on Georgia either.”
Cindy understood. “We’re coming with you, then.”
Sara nodded.
“Please help!”
The three of them crept over the ditch, so close to each other they looked like a single six-legged creature. Georgia was lying on her back in the clearing, twenty yards away from the bone yard. Her face was a mask of bright red blood, but her chest was moving up and down. One of her hands was clenched in a fist. The other still held the cylindrical propane torch. Cindy could see the blue flame coming out of it, scorching the earth it touched black.
Cindy didn’t want to get any closer. Though Georgia looked seriously injured, she had a weapon in her hand. A terrible weapon, one she’d tried to use on her and Tyrone. If Cindy lived to a hundred and never saw another flame again, she’d be fine with that.
But they did get closer. So close that if Georgia so much as flinched Cindy would have wet her pants in fright.
“Sara!”
Tyrone pointed to the right. Cindy glanced in that direction, saw Sara turn and raise the gun and aim at two cannibals rushing at them, but then Cindy turned back to Georgia, not trusting the insane girl, feeling something wasn’t right.
There. On the ground. Small and white and plastic.
A ketchup wrapper.
Sara fired the gun, the shots so loud they made Cindy’s head ache.
Georgia sat up and her eyes popped open, boring into Cindy. She smiled, licked some ketchup off her upper lip—ketchup she’d shown Cindy last night, the stuff she was going to scare the boys with.
“Burn, bitch.”
Georgia’s lips formed the words, but Cindy’s ears were ringing so she couldn’t hear them, and then Georgia was raising her clenched fist—it was filled with that powder she had in the baggy—and Sara fired another shot, and Cindy decided she was not going to burn, not now and not ever, and she lashed out and slapped Georgia’s hand, the powder forming a cloud in the air.
Georgia’s face went from surprise to anger as the cloud settled around her. Then it went from anger to surprise as she turned her attention at the open flame she was holding.
There was a huge whump, and Cindy felt like she’d been hit with a thousand hairdryers as the cloud around Georgia exploded.
Cindy jumped backward, feeling her eyebrows singe, quickly patting out the tiny fire that had started on her shirt.
Georgia also tried to pat herself out, with less effective results. She was completely on fire. Her hair. Her clothes. Her shoes. Even her skin.