“Apologize to the lady,” Tyrone told him.
Tom wheezed out, “I’m sorry.”
“You ever gonna try that shit again?”
Tom shook his head, much as he could with his throat being squeezed.
“We’re all on the same side, fool. We gotta watch each other’s backs. And y’all are trippin’ on Clint Eastwood. Be cool.”
Tom nodded, and Tyrone got off him. Cindy still held Tyrone’s fist, which opened and then clasped her hand, and then he turned and looked at her, his face soft and his pupils wide. His free hand slid around her waist, pulling her a little closer, and Cindy felt her legs get weak again.
Tom had been wrong. She hadn’t ever done anything sexual for drugs. When she was so far gone she was willing to, the boys she hung out with her too far gone to want any. So her experience was limited to a few French kisses, and a freshman year groping session on a couch that felt more like wrestling than foreplay.
But looking up at Tyrone, she felt her knees start to shake for the second time in only a few minutes, and as his lips moved slightly closer she tilted her chin up and began to close her eyes.
“Jesus!”
Tom’s outburst was followed by him tearing ass into the woods, disappearing into the dark.
Both Cindy and Tyrone looked in the opposite direction, at what had made Tom run.
Three men stood along the tree line. They were each tall and thin, dressed in dirty, ripped clothes. Cindy knew Martin had made up that Civil War cannibal story, but that’s exactly what these men looked like. Like crazed cannibals out of an old horror movie.
“What do you want?” Tyrone barked at the men, moving Cindy behind him.
Astonishingly, the one in the middle stepped forward, and out of his pockets he pulled a rusty knife and fork.
Meadow had gone insane with pain, sometime shortly after his eyes boiled and burst. But now, even though a thin thread of consciousness remained, he was at peace. The agony was gone. He had no way of knowing it was because most of the nerves on the front side of his body had burned away, but had he known, he wouldn’t have cared. All that mattered was he didn’t hurt anymore. His throat was too swollen to scream anyway.
Then they flipped him over onto his uncooked side, and the screaming began again.
When Georgia felt Lester’s horrible teeth begin to pierce her tongue, she squeezed his testicles. Not hard enough to cause damage, but as a warning; if he didn’t let up, neither would she.
Lester’s jaw clenched, and Georgia realized she’d judged him wrong. He was going to bite off her tongue, and her lips, and her face, and that would just be the beginning. The first man she’d ever kissed was going to make headcheese out of her.
But then his mouth opened, his own tongue snaking out of her mouth and across her lips in a way that made her chest feel heavy and her breath quicken. He stuck the tip into her ear, sending sparks throughout her body. His tongue flicked across her chin, down her neck.
This was all happening fast. Too fast. She’d never done anything like this before, and she didn’t know this guy at all. Plus he was psychotic. Georgia knew she should be scared, and maybe she was. Her heart was beating so fast she couldn’t differentiate between fear and exhilaration.
Then he reached down, for the front of her jeans.
That was too fast for Georgia. As exciting and dangerous as this all was, she wasn’t going to let this psycho fuck her.
On the other hand, she didn’t want to be taken back to his playroom either.
So she compromised and jerked him off.
It wasn’t erotic, at least not for Georgia. In fact, she found the whole process strangely mechanical, and more than a little tiring. But she did feel a tremendous sense of control. The same kind of control she felt when cutting the feet off a gerbil. Lester was moaning and helpless in her hands, and even though it made her feel powerful Georgia wondered what the hell he was going to do to her when she was finished.
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 that 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 had 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 and Jack to the ground so they wouldn’t be seen. 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.