Read Online The Terminals by Michael F. Stewart - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael F. Stewart
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approached.
The psycho with the jagged sideburns and pale, drained eyes had already been gone for hours and hours when the woman started chattering to herself, debating the start of her little sewing project. She had climbed the ladder, and when she had reached the top, Ming had caught the faintest whiff of fresh air. After a minute, the woman had descended, and the debate over the sewing project had ended and a new one begun: who to start with and which eye.
Nate moaned and the woman passed the rag over his mouth. The pungent scent of chloroform filled the chamber. The first time theyâd used the drug on them, it had left everyone vomiting when they woke tied to the ladder.
A lantern flickered beside the woman, illuminating Nateâs face and the stitches. His eyelid pulled back as her hand lifted and then stretched out as it dipped. Try as Ming might, she couldnât process the horror before her. All she could think about was who might be next.
Ming surveyed her friends: Luke to her left, Cordell on her right, all part of their church fieldtrip to President Hooverâs birthplace.
Someone whined in the dark, and Ming strained to see Alistair. He was so thin; this was his first year in the church, smart as a whip, but totally ignorant of some things. His mother had homeschooled him and passed along her strengths and weaknesses. Hoover? heâd said, when the deacon told them about the field trip. Isnât that a vacuum cleaner? The memory died, replaced by an image of him, pale and thin, wearing scuffed penny-loafers, replete with shiny penny.
Alistair had held Mingâs hand on the bus. When the woman had pulled a knife to encourage their cooperation, Ming had told Alistair sheâd protect him. Heâd squeezed her fingers in response. Theyâd clutched one another, all the way, until the killer had stopped the bus, then blindfolded, drugged and bound them. But Ming had lied to Alistair. She couldnât protect him. Hanging from the bar, fear bloomed in her belly and climbed into her throat. And she couldnât protect herself.
The woman clucked her tongue as she inspected her needlework and nodded. She dragged Nate by the handcuffs to where he had hung on the ladder beside Alistair. As Nate passed, Ming got a good look at her friend. If not for the sutures and the blood that coagulated thick and black in his eyelashes, the constant look of surprise might have been comical. Lukeâs moaning was muffled by his gag. The sound of the cuffs snapped tight, and Nate vomited, choked and vomited. At his gurgling, the woman removed the gag until he recovered and moaned. Then she stuffed the rag back into his mouth.
Ming clenched shut her eyes as if she could save them. A rising whine filled her ears, followed by a great slap and a whimper. The whine began again and the woman stomped back over to slop more chemical over a rag. She wore jean shorts and a tank top clingy with the sweat and humidity of their prison. Ming drew a deep breath as the woman passed, wishing to be drugged so that she wouldnât see what happened next. She only caught the thin line of the womanâs mouth and the concentration of an artist in the midst of her work.
The woman hauled Alistair by the arm until his head lay within the circle of lantern light. Alistairâs jaw was slack and his eyes closed, for now.
âOld Mother Twitchett had but one eye.â The rhyme began again, and again the needle dipped.
In the mind-numbing horror, it was difficult for Ming to do what she knew she must. The side-burn psycho would either return and kill them all, or this witch would sew them into some freakish doll collection. Ming had to come up with a plan; after all, she was the governorâs daughter.
Chapter 8
I strode back around the cloister to confront Charlie Harkman and startled a nun coming through Charlieâs door. I reached for the phone and brought it around like it was my Beretta.
âExcuse
The psycho with the jagged sideburns and pale, drained eyes had already been gone for hours and hours when the woman started chattering to herself, debating the start of her little sewing project. She had climbed the ladder, and when she had reached the top, Ming had caught the faintest whiff of fresh air. After a minute, the woman had descended, and the debate over the sewing project had ended and a new one begun: who to start with and which eye.
Nate moaned and the woman passed the rag over his mouth. The pungent scent of chloroform filled the chamber. The first time theyâd used the drug on them, it had left everyone vomiting when they woke tied to the ladder.
A lantern flickered beside the woman, illuminating Nateâs face and the stitches. His eyelid pulled back as her hand lifted and then stretched out as it dipped. Try as Ming might, she couldnât process the horror before her. All she could think about was who might be next.
Ming surveyed her friends: Luke to her left, Cordell on her right, all part of their church fieldtrip to President Hooverâs birthplace.
Someone whined in the dark, and Ming strained to see Alistair. He was so thin; this was his first year in the church, smart as a whip, but totally ignorant of some things. His mother had homeschooled him and passed along her strengths and weaknesses. Hoover? heâd said, when the deacon told them about the field trip. Isnât that a vacuum cleaner? The memory died, replaced by an image of him, pale and thin, wearing scuffed penny-loafers, replete with shiny penny.
Alistair had held Mingâs hand on the bus. When the woman had pulled a knife to encourage their cooperation, Ming had told Alistair sheâd protect him. Heâd squeezed her fingers in response. Theyâd clutched one another, all the way, until the killer had stopped the bus, then blindfolded, drugged and bound them. But Ming had lied to Alistair. She couldnât protect him. Hanging from the bar, fear bloomed in her belly and climbed into her throat. And she couldnât protect herself.
The woman clucked her tongue as she inspected her needlework and nodded. She dragged Nate by the handcuffs to where he had hung on the ladder beside Alistair. As Nate passed, Ming got a good look at her friend. If not for the sutures and the blood that coagulated thick and black in his eyelashes, the constant look of surprise might have been comical. Lukeâs moaning was muffled by his gag. The sound of the cuffs snapped tight, and Nate vomited, choked and vomited. At his gurgling, the woman removed the gag until he recovered and moaned. Then she stuffed the rag back into his mouth.
Ming clenched shut her eyes as if she could save them. A rising whine filled her ears, followed by a great slap and a whimper. The whine began again and the woman stomped back over to slop more chemical over a rag. She wore jean shorts and a tank top clingy with the sweat and humidity of their prison. Ming drew a deep breath as the woman passed, wishing to be drugged so that she wouldnât see what happened next. She only caught the thin line of the womanâs mouth and the concentration of an artist in the midst of her work.
The woman hauled Alistair by the arm until his head lay within the circle of lantern light. Alistairâs jaw was slack and his eyes closed, for now.
âOld Mother Twitchett had but one eye.â The rhyme began again, and again the needle dipped.
In the mind-numbing horror, it was difficult for Ming to do what she knew she must. The side-burn psycho would either return and kill them all, or this witch would sew them into some freakish doll collection. Ming had to come up with a plan; after all, she was the governorâs daughter.
Chapter 8
I strode back around the cloister to confront Charlie Harkman and startled a nun coming through Charlieâs door. I reached for the phone and brought it around like it was my Beretta.
âExcuse
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