#YELLLLLLINGGGGGGG

[bradshawsweetheart]

Getting this notification literally made me squeal LMFAO omg

I’m about to give you my play by play rn

The arm that she grabbed, the one that she’s hooked hers into all summer long during games of Red Rover, came clean off his body. It made a sound--something akin to a pop and similar to a squelch--and then she was holding Bob’s arm and Bob’s body was not attached to it.

I audibly gasped and yelled ‘what the fuck’ at this btw

“You’re freaking my Jake out, too.” 

Giggled at this in the midst of the horror sorry

Fanboy finally comes closer and falls to his knees. He’s trembling when you roughly grab his wrists and force his hands over Bob’s wounds. It’s a feeling that Mickey immediately knows he will never forget: the hot, torn flesh of one of his best friends right there in the palms of his hands. 

Jesus H Christ, what a visual. God. Our poor daggers.

“What are we gonna do?” Jake whispers. … “Survive,” you tell him. 

It’s giving Joel Miller. I’m a huge fan of this line.

“Look, we all know how much you love Scooby Doo, but this isn’t Mystery Inc., alright? This is real fucking life and Bob is really fucking hurt and we’re fucking stuck here,” Bradley spits.

Baby pls be nice to Javy he didn’t do anything wrong😭

He didn’t hesitate at all. He held onto Bob’s arm, checked his pulse, didn’t gag. He handed you the right items when you called for them--gauze, tape, cotton, syringe, alcohol. After everything you did last night, the love that he shared with you and the body you shared with him, and this is where you are now. Those big, brown eyes pouring into yours, lips twisted in exhaustion, blood thick on his hands and arms. … Head-to-toe, you’re covered in blood. Bradley’s sure you probably have some in your teeth, too, after the night you’ve had. But here you are all the same, beautiful and looking at him gently.

The contrast between this and Jake having to turn his back to all that’s happening because of his thing with blood is very personal to me. It’s showing Gale who can actually hang, given all that she does, and how she wouldn’t have to keep a huge part of herself from Bradley compared to Jake, for his sake, and I love this so so much.

“He’ll be arlight,” Bradley whispers to you. “It’s Bob. Bob can’t die.” 

Millothy I am watching you.

“Listen, we aren’t gonna die,” Bradley says, sighing. “Two bad things happened, okay? And whoever or, like, whatever did ‘em couldn’t even finish the job. So, I’d say we’re gonna be fine.”

I know this isn’t the case but just imagining the reason no one’s been killed yet bc it’s that freak Mable bc she’s lost her marbles or something is hilarious (and by that I mean incredibly disturbing)

“When did we all become such pussies, huh?” He asks. He turns so his profile is visible. He makes a point of not looking into the room because of the blood, so he just stares atraight ahead at the doorframe.

Jake baby I love you but saying this when you can’t even face everyone is wild LOL

“I’m willing to bet there’s one fucking freak out there, alright? And one fucking freak isn’t gonna herd us into the fucking mess hall, are they?”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Payback says. “We’re fucked, man.” … “Stop saying we’re fucked,” Coyote says.

“What about Paul?” Bradley asks. 

That man is dead as hell, baby.

It bothers her because she knows it would bother him--being so entirely covered in grime. He’s the cleanest person she knows. 

Because he always smells like a freshly washed baby.

All the tired are slashed. Whoever is at Camp Arcadia was here, too. Maybe standing right where Bradley and Jake are now. 

Mable………….. I’m onto you.

“Grow the fuck up,” Bradley spits. 

I agree, baby. I agree.

And that’s when Bradley hears it--very faint, like it was supposed to be a secret. The clicking of the safety on the shotgun. 

GIRL WTF

“She really goes electric when you kiss her thighs,” Bradley says, the hint of a smirk tugging on his lips. “But you already knew that, right?” 

BRADLEY BRADSHAW

“Lay a hand on me again and you’re gonna live to regret it, you fucking pussy.” 

THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTINGGGGGGG

“Nothing to say, you fucking bitch?” Bradley whispers. “Still thinking about Gale riding my cock last night? I know I am.” 

THE GASP I JUST GUSPED BIIIIIIIIIITCH

“Fuck,” Jake whispers. “It’s a Swiss army knife.”

GIRL. IM SO FUCKING

♀ 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

♀ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐥𝐞) 𝐱 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 ♀ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: No one knows what to do. ♀ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.1k ♀ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. ♀ 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ♀ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 ♀ 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐚𝐤𝐬, 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐚 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟏𝐬𝐭, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

“What the fuck do you mean?” You spit. 

It isn’t even that you’re trying to be vicious, even when you’re spewing the words at Phoenix as you wrench her wet hands away from your cheeks. Your face is hot from her touch, from the blood rushing up, up, up your throat and into your cheeks. 

Phoenix blinks at you, the tips of her fingers numb and her eyes full of salt. She stutters, tries to speak, chokes on her spit, then falters--running her hands down her face as she whimpers softly. 

“What’s going on?” Bradley asks, flushed at the thought of Phoenix walking in on the two of you after doing something so intimate. Instinctively, he wraps an arm around you, eyes flickering to the blankets to make sure you’re covered decently enough. You’re rigid in his arms. “What’d you say, Nix? Birdie--what’d she say?” 

“She said she thinks Bob is dead,” you say, brows furrowed. 

There’s an edge to your tone--a hard, hard edge. And as you rip the blankets off, exposing your naked body to Phoenix and Bradley and the cool night air, you move with a distinct sense of purpose and poise. You fall into this rigidness easily at the scent or sight of blood, at the scent or sight of vomit, at the sound of crying or screaming. 

You’re foggy, but something is undeniably wrong. Phoenix doesn’t get shaken up, nor does she pull pranks the way Coyote and Hangman do. She’s covered in blood and it’s real blood that has left wide and wet handprints on your cheeks. 

Something’s very, very wrong at Camp Arcadia. 

Bradley starts to scramble, pulling the sheets around himself as he gets on his feet, his mouth ajar and his heart racing. 

Phoenix is just watching the two of you in a state of dysphoria. She hasn’t been able to feel any part of her body since she found Bob by the water. 

At first, when she realized that Bob had gone to the restroom over thirty minutes ago and not come back, she’d felt a prickle of panic at the base of her spine. But then when she found his crumpled form face down in the mud by the water, she was so chock-full of panic that it nearly burst out of her in one choking scream. But instead, she’d fallen to her knees in her pajamas, grabbing onto Bob’s arm to pull him up. 

And that’s when something peculiar happened. 

The arm that she grabbed, the one that she’s hooked hers into all summer long during games of Red Rover, came clean off his body. It made a sound--something akin to a pop and similar to a squelch--and then she was holding Bob’s arm and Bob’s body was not attached to it. 

There were a few moments where she scrambled in the dark, too scared to scream and too horrified to leave Bob there alone. He didn’t stir when she fell backwards against the mud and he didn’t stir when she looked in the lantern light with her eyes wide and crying and found that the mud was a puddle of his blood. 

Now she doesn’t know what to do except watch you. 

Bradley is just standing still beside the bed, still blinking himself awake in the dark as you and Phoenix look at each other. 

Part of him wants to hold his hands up, call a timeout, and ask what the fuck is going on. 

But the other part of him is watching how diligently, how resolutely you’re readying yourself to head outside. He can imagine you in the hospital when you’re like this: all furrowed brow and flat lips, edged tone. It’s a stark contrast from you only a little while ago: soft curves, breathy moans, whispered voice, open-mouth smiles.

“You need to show me where Bob is,” you tell her very seriously, slipping into a random white blouse and stepping into your dungarees. “Is it his blood?” 

“Yes,” Phoenix manages to utter. “It--I was pulling on his arm and then it-it…I couldn’t get it to…”

You pause, bent at the hips as you slip your socks on. You look her in the eyes, straining in the dark, and nod at her. 

“You’re alright,” you tell her. “Sit down.” 

And because she doesn’t know what else to do or how to tell you that she pulled an arm off her best friend, her Bob, she just sits right where she is. She has the obedience of a Golden Retriever right now--keen to just watch you, listen to you, obey you. 

“I’ll go check it out,” Bradley says softly, moving to grab his crumpled clothing. 

“No. I’m going,” you tell him, hooking your dungarees and stuffing your feet into your tennis shoes. “Go wake the others. Have Jake get the shotgun and stay with all the campers.” 

And just like that you’re leaning down and grabbing the emergency flashlight you keep beside the dinky dresser, then stepping out into the night. Phoenix and Rooster look at each other, dumbfounded. She’s sitting on the floor covered in Bob’s blood and he’s still naked except for a sheet. 

“What happened?” He asks cautiously. 

All the other nurses at the hospital like to tease that you wear horse-blinders in emergencies. You see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing when you’re working if it has zilch to do with your current task. You hear doctors ordering epi and heart monitors crooning, but you don’t hear the squeak of your tennis shoes on the tile or the music playing at the nurse’s station down the hall. 

Right now, you don’t hear the crickets and cicadas nor the owls or the wind through the oak trees that surround you. You don’t see the moonlight reflecting off the lake so perfectly that the water appears black and white--serene. You don’t hear gravel crunching under your soles and you don’t hear the buzzing of the flashlight. You don’t see the fireflies or the open door to the latrine. 

“Bob!” You yell--your voice echoes across the entirety of camp. It’s so loud, so booming, that across the lake a few bats fly out of the trees and haphazardly flap around. “Bob!”

There is no response. 

Jake wakes up to the sound of your voice--Bob! Bob! Bob! He sits up slowly in his cot, still dizzy from nearly fainting a few hours ago. It’s so dark in the cabin that he has to blink a few times to let his eyes adjust--and when they do adjust, he sees Coyote swinging his legs out the side of his cot and peering out the window. 

“That Gale?” Coyote asks, voice drenched in fatigue. “Christ, what could that girl be screaming about at four in the motherfucking morning?” 

“That’s a bad word,” Martha says, yawning and rubbing her eyes. “Who’s screaming? Is something the matter?” 

Jake sits up--a pit in his stomach. 

“Nah,” Coyote answers, standing up. “We’re all good, Martha. Go back to sleep, alright? We’ll check it out.” 

Coyote yawns again, glancing at Jake. 

A look of deep, deep concern is etched on Jake’s features. He doesn’t like the tone of your voice--the way it’s so loud and serious. It sears his eardrums. 

“The fuck happened to Bob?” Jake mutters to Coyote, standing also.

But before Coyote can answer, Rooster is pounding on their door. Not a regular, casual knock. Not even an asshole-ish get fucked knock. It’s panicked and severe. Coyote can’t get the door open fast enough. 

“Cheese and rice, man! Trying to wake all my campers?” Coyote asks, wrenching the door open. 

Rooster can hardly breathe from running so fast to your cabin. Phoenix’s story is still ringing in his ears, everything else in the world muted and dull. 

“Jake, get the gun,” Rooster says immediately, not even taking the time to step into the cabin. “Gather all the kids--all of them--and put them in the mess hall, alright? And don’t-don’t fucking leave ‘em, alright? Stay with ‘em. Coyote, Gale needs our help.” 

“What happened to Gale?” Jake asks, voice hard and brows furrowed. 

Rooster doesn’t answer--his mind is racing, spinning, crashing, burning. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Coyote says, holding his palms up, glancing over his shoulder at all his campers rustling themselves awake and sitting up with wide-eyes and wicked bed head. “The Hell’re you doing, man? You’re freakin’ the kids out.” 

Rooster swallows hard--is throat is warm and thick with bile that he keeps swallowing down.

“Bob’s in a bad way, man. And it wasn’t no accident either.”

“Hey. How do we know that, huh?” Coyote warns, shaking his head. He’s never been one to fall into his role in mass hysteria. His voice is even and deep even though his heart is starting to pound. He glances back at Jake--who is wide-eyed and staring at Rooster with his face entirely paled. “You’re freaking my Jake out, too.” 

Rooster swallows hard, ignores Coyote. 

He looks Jake in the eyes--really, truly looks him in the eyes. Man-to-man. Man-to-whatever-the fuck-Jake-thinks-Bradley-is.

“Get the gun.”

And with that, Rooster’s off. He’s racing towards his cabin with all the littles there--all the littles he left behind, all alone, totally defenseless. There’s a rock in his gut, one that is sinking further and further until he feels like he’s running with led shoes on. 

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for or what he’s about to run into when he opens the door to his cabin. He doesn't know what he’s going to do if he finds all his campers slashed--if they didn’t have him there to protect them from whatever, from whoever, hurt Bob.

“Hey!” Rooster screams as he opens the cabin door. 

There’s no thick scent of blood. There’s not a single camper with so much as a scratch. They’re all there, awake, huddled together like little chicks in the corner. 

“Is Mister Bob okay?” Susie asks softly. 

Bradley, standing opposite them with his chest heaving and his eyes wet, swallows hard. 

“We’ve gotta get outta here, chicks,” Rooster says. “Grab your blankies and line up pronto.”   

When the bright white beam of your flashlight slices through the night and lands on Bob, you break out in a sprint. His form is crumpled--he looks like a pile of stained laundry. You feel like your feet aren’t moving fast enough, like your flashlight isn’t bright enough. 

But almost instantaneously, you’re on your knees beside Bob in the bloodied mud, pressing two of your fingers to his throat. You have a hard time at it--all the hot blood making his smooth skin slippery. 

“Bob, it’s Nightingale,” you say calmly. “I’m just gonna feel for a pulse, alright, buddy? Just hold still.” 

He doesn’t so much as twitch. 

For the first time tonight, your heart sinks. A thought flashes across the forefront of your brain, caressing the backs of your aching eyeballs, settling somewhere between your brain and your skull: I didn’t have a nightmare and then someone died. No, not someone. Bob. Bob died.  

But then the thought is gone, dead, faded when you feel it against your two fingers: a pulse, right on his jugular where it should be. Not strong, but nothing he can’t come back from.

“Oh, good. Good job, Bob. Good, good,” you whisper softly to Bob. Your heart is swollen suddenly, which usually doesn’t happen to you during triage. But you’ve never worked on Bob before. You’ve never worked on anyone you love before. And there’s no doctor here to order you around, to tell you what to do next. Fuck. “Hey! I need help!”  

With the flashlight tucked between your knees, Bob’s form all shadows and blood and placid skin, you begin to inspect the bloodied stump where is arm once was. It’s a clean cut, one solid hack straight through the flesh and fat and veins and bone. Blood is pouring out of the wound and pooling around your bent legs. 

He’s so heaped up that you cannot see his face at all--just bits of pale skin here and there, scraps of his shirt and his broken glasses. So, you very carefully but firmly hold onto both his cheeks and turn his face towards you. He’s covered in mud, bits of blood. 

“I’m going to clear your airways,” you tell him. His eyelids twitch. You stick your fingers into his mouth, hook them, and scrape all the mud off his tongue. The breaths puffing from his nose are short and labored. “Good job. Good, good job.” 

You hear a noise--running on gravel--and don’t turn to see who it is. 

“Oh my fucking God!” Fanboy shrieks, stopping dead in his tracks. 

Paybacks stops, too, his mouth wide open and his eyes glassy. 

“Fuck,” Payback whispers, blinking rapidly as you press your bare hands to Bob’s wound and press down hard. He bends over, holding onto his knees, and reels as his head spins. “I’m gonna hurl.” 

Snapping to attention, you glance over at them. In the thin beam of their flashlight, you almost look monstrous. There’s blood all over you, two handprints on your cheeks like war paint, and your face is serious and hard. 

“I need a belt,” you tell them. Then you swallow hard, shaking your head. No one’s gonna have a belt. Everyone packs shorts and t-shirts. “I need--I need something, alright? I need one of you to go and look for something that we can tie around his arm.” 

Fanboy has gone pale. Payback’s eyes are shut tight. 

“His fucking arm’s gone,” Fanboy says softly, brown eyes wide. “His fucking--his fucking arm is gone, man!” 

Your heart is hammering in your chest as more blood pours down your arms. 

Scrambling for something, anything, you hold tight to Bob’s already-torn shirt and rip until a jagged shred comes off into your hands. 

“I need help,” you tell the two men still staring at you. Behind them, the camp is starting to come alive with alarm. Campers hurrying with their counselors into the mess hall, counselors running around doing headcounts and carrying lanterns and flashlights. “Like, now!” 

Fanboy finally comes closer and falls to his knees. He’s trembling when you roughly grab his wrists and force his hands over Bob’s wounds. It’s a feeling that Mickey immediately knows he will never forget: the hot, torn flesh of one of his best friends right there in the palms of his hands. 

You make very quick work of tying a tourniquet around Bob’s wound, just above the cut. You pull the t-shirt so tight that it begins to rip again. The blood is already slowing--thank fucking God. 

“What the fuck happened?” Fanboy mutters to you. 

“Someone cut his fucking arm off, man!” Payback calls out, spitting into the dirt when his mouth fills with water. “Oh--oh, God…do you think they’re coming back?” 

Fanboy’s heart is in his belly. He’s never heard Payback like this before: scared. Genuinely, actually, thoroughly scared. 

You interrupt the frenzy. 

“We need to get him to the mess hall,” you say decidedly. It’s closest to where you are now--no chance you’re gonna make it to the nurse’s cabin. “Now.”

“I’m freaking, Gale,” Payback tells you, choked with tears. “Oh my God…Bob…” 

Fanboy turns to you, eyes wide with panic. You’re staring back at him, eyes wide and serious. 

“We’re gonna lift him on three, okay? I’m gonna take his head so you don’t have to worry about his arm. I’ve got it.” 

Because of the way you’re speaking to him--calm, even, serious--and because of the expression on your face--placid, severe--Fanboy nods instantly. You’re a lighthouse right now, shining light on his face, pulling him in towards land during a storm. You’ve got this. He knows that you do. And all he can do right now is listen. 

Payback is beside himself, sobbing into his palms, frozen in his spot, on the verge of vomiting. Any other time, you would be there beside him, offering him ginger candy and a cold compress. But right now you have to worry about Bob. 

The mess hall is crowded with kids in their pajamas, clutching secret teddy bears and asking their counselor for the millionth time what’s going on.

Jake is standing by the door with the shotgun, making sure it’s loaded as he waits to hear from you. His fingers are trembling and every time he looks over at Phoenix, who’s sitting at one of the wooden tables, his head fills with cotton. 

She’s covered in blood--all down her arms, her hands, the front of her pajama shirt, her shorts, her legs. Phoenix is sitting silently, very still, where she is. She can’t stop thinking about the sound that Bob’s arm made when it came off his body. And, more than that, she keeps thinking that everyone here is going to die. It’s gnawing at her like a rat with an electrical cord--it’s bound to blow up, end in flames. 

Coyote is doing another headcount, his brows furrowed. All the kids keep fidgeting and it’s making it hard to keep count, but he’s somehow doing it. Everyone’s here. It’s okay. He stands before them with his hands on his hips, chewing his bottom lip. 

Bradley comes into the mess hall later than everyone else, haphazardly dressed and with a string of little chicks following him blindly, all trying to clutch his shirt at the same time. 

“Everyone got their headcount?” Coyote asks as Bradley settles his kids beside all the others. 

“Yeah,” Bradley answers. “We’re all here.” 

Jake is just about to say something, anything, whenever Payback comes into the mess hall. His hands are on his face and he’s bent at the hips as he dry-heaves. Everyone watches in utter silence, shocked, when he cuts across the wide-plank floors and to the kitchen. 

“The fuck is the matter with him?” Coyote mutters. 

But then they hear it--you. You’re carrying Bob’s upper body, straining with all your might, exhaling with a grunt as you and Fanboy get closer to the mess hall door. 

You’re close, you remind yourself. Almost there. Just a little more. 

“You okay?” Fanboy asks. He’s straining too. 

“Yeah,” you answer through grit teeth.

But your arms are shivering with defeat, your body vibrating with exhaustion. You feel like you aren’t going to make it the rest of the ten paces to the entrance of the mess hall. You feel like you’re losing already and you don’t know how to stop it. 

You aren’t strong enough to hold Bob. You’re going to drop him here on the gravel. All hope is draining from your body like blood--pooling around your knees. You won’t be able to save him.

Then, in the very dark night, someone calls your name. Not just one voice, but two--it’s Coyote and Bradley. They’re rushing towards you and Fanboy and Bob. 

“Help!” You call out desperately, tears suddenly pouring down your face. “Help us!”

“Fuck,” Coyote mutters when he sees Bob for the first time. And he suddenly understands what the fuck was from with Payback. His belly turns but he hooks his arms beneath Bob’s torso anyway and pulls him up. “I’ve got ‘im!”

 Bradley comes to take your spot, carefully but hastily hooking his arms around Bob the way you had been. When you let go and Bob doesn’t fall and they’re carrying him to the mess hall, you have to stand still for a moment to breathe. They’re a few paces ahead of you, ushering Bob inside. And then they will be waiting for you, looking at you for guidance. 

Panic is licking at your heels like a hungry dog. You kick it away, wipe your face of tears, and then turn towards the nurse’s cabin. 

“I--I have to go get supplies!” You call out. “I’ll be back in a jiff!” 

That’s when Jake suddenly comes out of the mess hall, very carefully maneuvering around Bob and everyone else. In his cropped baseball tee and his shorts, holding that shotgun with all the authority of an outlaw, he shakes his head at you. He would never let you go alone. 

“I’m coming with you,” he says, already making his way towards you. 

“I’m covered in blood,” you tell him, sniffling.

Fuck. You wipe your face again. No more crying.  

He chews his bottom lip. 

“It’s dark. I can’t see you,” he says. “Let’s giddy on up.”

He wishes, more than anything, that the world would stop for just a second. Just so he could look at you, just so he could help put your hair up, just so he could hold your cheeks and look for injury, just so he could look into your eyes and see their color and let all the feeling come back into his toes.

“We’ve gotta go quick,” you tell him. “That t-shirt tourniquet ain’t gonna last.” 

The two of you run to the nurse’s cabin together, your tears fading the closer you get to the door of the cabin. 

“The fuck is happening?” Jake says to you. “What happened to him?” 

You shake your head, panting, flicking the lightswitch on in the nurse’s cabin. Jake, who had been watching your shadowed form, has to look away from you. He stands in the doorway, his back facing you, and aims his gun at all the nothing out there before him. 

He listens to you--all those human sounds you’re making. You keep sniffling and wiping your face. He knows you’re crying, which to him seems to be a very natural response to what’s happening here right now, but he knows that it’s bothering you, too. Your footsteps are heavy and rushed as you grab gauze and medical tape and first aid. 

Jake just listens. 

He’s waiting, almost, for something to materialize in the dark and come rushing towards him. A man, a beast, a creature, a monster, a ghost. He isn’t sure what--he just feels like it’s coming. It is going to come. Quietly as he knows how, he flicks the safety off. Just in case. 

“Is he gonna die?” Jake asks. 

Swallowing hard, your arms full of antiseptic, you shake your head. 

“No. But we can’t stay here. We’ve gotta--we’ve gotta get the fuck outta here.” 

“But the tree,” Jake says. He can feel you nodding, even without looking at you. “And the phones are out.” 

“I know,” you tell him, shaking your head. Brain pulsing a mile a minute, you strain to remember if you need anything more than you have on the table. “I know.” 

“What are we gonna do?” Jake whispers. 

You swallow hard. 

“Survive,” you tell him. 

♀

It’s strange that the sun is shining. It’s strange that birds are calling and the lake is rippling. There’s not a cloud in the sky, just vast baby blue that stretches on forever and ever. And the air is suddenly perfumed with irises--which seemed to have literally bloomed overnight in spurts of violet and deep green. 

Really, it’s a beautiful day. 

But everyone is still huddled inside. The campers are itching to get outside, to return to some normalcy, but not one of them is brave enough to ask about it. Jake’s been sitting by the door all night with the shotgun, eyes narrowed and laser-focused. Phoenix, Fanboy, and Payback are all sitting at the picnic tables, saying nothing to each other, their eyes drooping and their chests aching. 

Bradley and Coyote are in the kitchen with you and Bob, each of you sitting around him. It was a long, long night. The worst night of your life, probably. There are no windows in the kitchen so you cannot smell the irises in here--all you can smell is burnt flesh from where you held a burning frying pan to Bob’s wound to cauterize it. 

“It’s almost ten,” Coyote sighs, running his hands down his face. His fingers are stained with blood. “What are we gonna do?” 

“Stick it out,” Bradley answers. His shoulder is just barely grazing yours and it’s keeping him going right now--those brief and accidental grazes. You two didn’t get to live long in the afterglow so this is as much as he gets now. “What else are we gonna do?” 

“Investigate,” Coyote answers. “Look around. See what we find.” 

“What would we find?” Bradley asks. 

It’s quiet for a moment. Coyote readjusts on the tiles and shrugs. 

“A weapon,” he asnwers. “The weapon. A fucking…I don’t know. A clue?”  

Bradley scoffs. 

“Look, we all know how much you love Scooby Doo, but this isn’t Mystery Inc., alright? This is real fucking life and Bob is really fucking hurt and we’re fucking stuck here,” Bradley spits. “Whatever the fuck is happening here is real and we’re living it and there’s not clues to find.” 

The tips of Coyote’s ears burn with rage. 

But then you clear your throat.

“Coyote’s right,” you say softly. “Maybe we should go in shifts. Let the kids stretch their legs. We’re gonna go crazy if we’re cooped up in here all day.” 

Rooster scoffs again, shaking his head. 

“What, the killer only comes at night?” 

“Appears that way,” you whisper back. 

You look at him--the one who’s been your right-hand man all night and into this beautiful morning. He didn’t hesitate at all. He held onto Bob’s arm, checked his pulse, didn’t gag. He handed you the right items when you called for them--gauze, tape, cotton, syringe, alcohol. After everything you did last night, the love that he shared with you and the body you shared with him, and this is where you are now. Those big, brown eyes pouring into yours, lips twisted in exhaustion, blood thick on his hands and arms. 

And he’s looking at you, too. He watched you work all night--really, really work--and not once did you stumble. You did some of the most ugly and life-saving things for Bob and you didn’t so much as flinch when you did it. Head-to-toe, you’re covered in blood. Bradley’s sure you probably have some in your teeth, too, after the night you’ve had. But here you are all the same, beautiful and looking at him gently.

“We need to make a plan,” Coyote says. 

You nod at once. Bradley nods, but doesn’t look away from you. 

Looking down at Bob, his flaxen face and his fluttering eyelids, you sigh. He’s alive. He’s alive and that’s all that matters right now and you’ve done all you can do and that’s that. Part of you wishes he would wake up and tell everyone what happened. The other part of you, the more sober and logical part of you, is glad he isn’t awake to feel the pain. 

“He’ll be arlight,” Bradley whispers to you. “It’s Bob. Bob can’t die.” 

You sniff again, shake your head. 

“Let’s get everyone in here, huh?” 

Everyone does squeeze into the kitchen--which is far too small. Jake stands at the door, his back turned to everyone, and keeps the shotgun aimed for the main entrance. 

“He’s…alive?” Fanboy asks from beside Payback, glancing down at Bob’s body splayed on the tiles. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “But he won’t be if we don’t figure out how to get out of here.” 

Phoenix sighs, sniffles, rubs the tears under her eyes. 

“What about the bus?” She asks. 

“It’s older than us,” Jake says, shaking his head soberly. “Besides, I’m sure the gas is bad.” 

Coyote nods. 

“He’s right. Ain’t no way that bus is getting us out of here.” 

“Well, even if it did work, we couldn’t get out of here,” Bradley says. 

“The tree,” you follow. 

A lull falls over the group. Everyone is picking their skin, blinking, rubbing the toes of their shoes against the tiles.  

“So, what are we gonna do?” Payback asks. “Do we just…wait until Mav and Pen come for the next supply run?” 

Coyote exhales long and hard through his nose. 

“That ain’t until the first week of August,” he says softly. “No way we’ll be alive by then.” 

Phoenix snaps up, staring hard at Coyote. 

“Is that some sort of joke?” She asks, brows furrowed. She wraps her arms around herself as her heart races. “‘Cause no one’s laughing.” 

Coyote blinks at her. 

“I wasn’t joking,” he says. 

Another lull falls over the group. 

“Listen, we aren’t gonna die,” Bradley says, sighing. “Two bad things happened, okay? And whoever or, like, whatever did ‘em couldn’t even finish the job. So, I’d say we’re gonna be fine.” 

Now Fanboy scoffs loudly--it echoes off the tiles. 

“Fine? You think we’re gonna be fine? Bob’s arm is fucking gone! Phoenix pulled it off!” Fanboy says, gesturing wildly. “We don’t have enough food to last us until August and we can’t go trotting on down the trail and cut the fucking tree down ‘cause someone’ll cut us down! We’re fucked, man. We’re totally fucked.” 

Jake shakes his head. And before anyone else can speak, Jake starts. 

“When did we all become such pussies, huh?” He asks. He turns so his profile is visible. He makes a point of not looking into the room because of the blood, so he just stares atraight ahead at the doorframe. “Why the fuck are we sitting around in here when we should be using the daylight to our advantage? Shit, how many of us are there? Seven?” 

“Six,” Phoenix answers, nodding to Bob. Her heart aches--genuienly aches--when Bob doesn’t turn to her and roll his eyes. “There’s six of us, really.” 

“Fine. There’s six of us. And whoever is out there--shit, there’s gotta only be one of them, right? ‘Cause they didn’t get the job done both times.” 

“But we don’t know that,” Fanboy says. “There could be a bunch.” 

“I’m willing to bet there’s one fucking freak out there, alright? And one fucking freak isn’t gonna herd us into the fucking mess hall, are they? We need to get out there. Figure this all out.” 

You’re shaking your head softly. 

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Payback says. “We’re fucked, man.” 

“Stop saying we’re fucked,” Coyote says. “We don’t even know what we are yet.” 

“Okay, fine. We’re not fucked yet. But Bob is,” Fanboy says, glancing down at Bob. “Shit, I bet these kids are fucked, too.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Phoenix hisses suddenly, turning towards Fanboy and shoving a finger in his face. “Don’t fucking talk about Bob like he isn’t here! He’s right here!”

“But is he?” Payback says. And he doesn’t say it to be a dick. He says it because he means it, really has to ask it. 

Phoenix sniffles, shaking her head. 

“Yes,” you answer for her, voice very quiet and calm. “Yes, he’s right here.” 

It’s quiet for a moment. The campers are starting to whine about being hungry. 

“What about Paul?” Bradley asks. 

Brows furrow. 

“What about him?” Coyote asks. “Like, you think he’s the killer?” 

Bradley shakes his head. 

“Nah, man. He’s too old. But he’s--he’s still out there. Maybe he has a truck or a radio or-or something we can use, right?” 

Everyone nods slowly. 

“But then who’s gonna go there?” Fanboy asks. 

“Yeah, that’s a trek through the woods,” Payback answers. “Count me the fuck out, man.”

“Don’t be such a pussy,” Jake spits. 

“Knock it off,” you whisper--it’s only just loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ve gotta be on the same page or we really aren’t going to make it, okay?” 

“I just…I don’t even know what we’re up against,” Phoenix whispers. “I’m so confused.”

You pat her knee softly. 

“I know,” you whisper. “None of us do.” 

“I know whatever we’re up against is too much of a scaredy cat to come out during the day,” Jake says. “Which is why we would be taking advantage of the sun.” 

“You don’t know that, though. You really don’t. You’re just guessing,” Bradley sighs. “We need to all agree on one plan.” 

You subtly let your fingers fall on Bob’s throat--the pulse is still there. No change. 

Phoenix carefully slips her hand into Bob’s--he’s still warm. She squeezes hard. 

“I don’t wanna leave Bob,” Phoenix whispers. She begins to weep all over again, face contorting in agony. “I really don’t wanna leave Bob.” 

“Okay. Phoenix and I stay with Bob,” you say, nodding. “We should get the axes and, like, any other weapons we can find. Lock the cabins up so no one can surprise us.” 

Everyone nods slowly. 

“Then what?” Fanboy asks. 

You sigh. Your legs are cramping from having them bent all night, but you don’t stretch out. 

“We’ll sleep in shifts. Armed escorts to the latrine. We’ll wait.”

“For what?” Jake asks quietly. “A miracle?” 

“Help,” you whisper. “We’ll wait for help.” 

Bradley nods rapidly, peeling his eyes away from your tired, bloodied face. 

“She’s right,” he says. “We should just wait for help.” 

Coyote sighs deeply, running his hands down his face for the millionth time today.

“I feel like we’re bait,” he says. “I don’t wanna be bait, man.” 

“We’re not bait,” you answer. “We’re not. We have the…the mean to protect ourselves. We’ve got the campers to think of, too, okay? So, we just need to keep our heads.” 

“Yeah, or they’ll be cut off…” Fanboy whispers. 

Coyote nudges him. 

“Enough with the doom and gloom, alright? She’s right. We’ve gotta keep our heads.” 

Everyone starts to move after that. 

You and Phoenix stay right there with Bob, your hand on her leg, her face buried in her own shoulder as she weeps. Coyote offers to clear our the rooms of necessary items and lock them all up. Payback and Fanboy start lining the kids up to go to the latrine and stretch their legs. Bradley and Jake start for the bus barn to look for a final time, just to confirm what they already know. 

Finally, it’s quiet in the mess hall. So quiet that you can hear the swallows chirping outside and the wind blowing through the trees. You can hear Bob breathing--very faint and very quiet. 

Phoenix turns her wet face towards Bob finally, her throat constricting. She smooths a hand through his hair, sniffling hard. 

“Does he…does he hurt?” 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “He’s in shock. And, besides, I gave him a morphine tablet.” 

Phoenix nods. It makes her chest feel less tight than it did before. 

“What could even cut through like that?” Phoenix whispers, shaking her head. “I mean, not a knife, right?” 

“Definitely not a seashell,” you whisper. 

A sad smile tugs at her lips. 

“An ax?” She whispers. You say nothing. She knows she’s right. “What’s happening, Gale?” 

Again, you sigh.

“I’m not sure,” you answer. “I just don’t know.” 

Phoenix stares down at Bob again. He almost doesn’t look like himself because of all the blood and mud. It bothers her because she knows it would bother him--being so entirely covered in grime. He’s the cleanest person she knows. 

“He’d hate being so dirty,” she whispers to you. She carefully strokes his cheek. “He showers twice a day.” 

And because you don’t know what else to do and because you’re choked up and because you’re so exhausted and because you’re so scared, you stand on wobbly legs. And then you move to the sink and turn the tap on and wait for it to warm. Your knees are trembling and your undereyes are pulsing, but you keep your fingers beneath the stream anyway. Then you wet a few rags, fill a small container, and slowly come back to Phoenix. 

Neither of you say anything, choked on the humanness of the situation, as you both begin to diligently wipe at the dirt and gore that covers Bob’s skin. It’s very quiet except for dripping water and occasional sniffles. 

If anyone else were to walk in this room right now, Bob’s body without an arm and cauterized with a frying pan and you and Phoenix drenched in his blood, they would think that you are preparing him for his funeral. They would think that in this time of crisis, when there is someone out there that wants to hurt everyone else and no one knows who they are or where or what or why or how, you and Phoenix are doing what you can. You’re being as human as human can be, washing the blood off Bob even though he isn’t awake to feel it or see it. 

You wring a rag in the bucket--it’s color is that of red clay. 

Across camp, Jake and Bradley are standing before the bus now. Their hands are on their hips and they’re squinting beneath the sun, chewing their bottom lips. 

“Fuck,” Bradley whispers. 

“I was gonna say that,” Jake whispers. 

All the tired are slashed. Whoever is at Camp Arcadia was here, too. Maybe standing right where Bradley and Jake are now. 

Jake sighs. 

“What now?” Bradley asks. 

“We listen to Gale,” Jake answers. 

Rooster nods, swallowing hard. 

“Alright,” he says. “Yeah.” 

Maybe it’s Jake’s fault for bringing you up right now. Maybe it’s Bradley’s fault for agreeing. But now both of them are sitting uncomfortably in the thick of their feelings for you, shifting their weights from one foot to another. 

And for whatever reason, Jake thinks about Bradley coming to his cabin early this morning. He thinks about the direction he came from--your cabin--and the direction he went--his cabin. 

“Hey, man,” Jake says, wandering forward to run a finger along the dusty bus. Rooster watches from the doorway, still taking it all in. “Why weren’t you in your cabin last night?” 

“Now isn’t the time, Seresin,” Rooster grumbles. “We need to go grab the axes. Let’s go.” 

Jake doesn’t move. 

“Where were you? Bathroom break?” 

Bradley stares at him. His jaw is squared. 

“You’re really doing this right now?” He asks, incredulous. 

Jake just nods. 

“You know where I was,” Bradley says softly. “Can we go now?” 

Jake swallows hard. He doesn’t know why he’s getting into this--he isn’t dumb, he knows right now isn’t the time. But he’s so exhausted and he hasn’t been able to look at you all day and all last night. He almost fainted because you had a fucking bloody nose. He doesn’t know what’s going on and he’s scared and worried and stressed, but instead of feeling all of that he’s decided to just feel angry. Angry at Bradley. 

“I wanna hear you say it.” 

Bradley turns his back, scoffing loudly. 

“Grow the fuck up,” Bradley spits. 

And that’s when Bradley hears it--very faint, like it was supposed to be a secret. The clicking of the safety on the shotgun. 

Rooster whirls around, eyes wide. Jake is staring at him, shotgun in his hands and aimed towards the ground. 

“Did you just turn the safety off?” Rooster asks. The tips of his ears are bright red. 

Jake’s face screws up as if he’s been insulted. 

“Are you fucking mental? Of course I didn’t,” Jake spits. “But I bet you made it with Nightingale last night, didn’t you?” 

Bradley takes a step forward, eyes narrowed. 

“Yeah. I did.” 

Jake’s jaw drops. 

“You’re lying,” he seethes. 

“She really goes electric when you kiss her thighs,” Bradley says, the hint of a smirk tugging on his lips. “But you already knew that, right?” 

“Yeah, I did,” Jake whispers. “I made her cum. Three times.” 

“And then never again,” Bradley says. “We’re together now.” 

“Bullshit you are!” Jake says. “Fuck you, man. You think you’re such a macho guy, huh? Making all the decisions for her!” 

Rooster barks out a laugh. 

“I think she made her choice last night,” he tells Jake. “So, while Coyote read you a bedtime story, Gale and I made it official.” 

“You don’t get to just date whatever you fuck,” Jake seethes. “Then every tubesock in the world would be lawfully yours.” 

“Fuck you,” Rooster spits. 

He shoves Jake’s shoulders. Jake stumbles only slightly, the gun tight in his grip. 

“Fuck you, man,” Jake returns, slamming the side of the shotgun into Bradley’s chest until he stumbles back, too. 

And because he’s so fucking pissed that he didn’t get to wake up basked in sunlight beside you, fresh and clean and without hurt and without incident, Bradley steps back to Jake until they’re nose-to-nose. 

“Lay a hand on me again and you’re gonna live to regret it, you fucking pussy.” 

It’s the nastiest thing Bradley’s ever said to Jake. 

And because Jake is so drunk on you and the thought of you and Bradley touching each other makes him feel like a suffocated bottlerocket, he scowls at Bradley. 

With all the commotion, Coyote wanders over to the bus barn. He doesn’t know who the fuck decided Bradley and Jake should be paired off together, but he’s cursing it now as he approaches and sees the two of them nose-to-nose. 

“Nothing to say, you fucking bitch?” Bradley whispers. “Still thinking about Gale riding my cock last night? I know I am.” 

Coyote steps into the barn. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Jake screams. 

He starts to wind up his arm, but then Coyote has his arms around him and he’s choving the gun away from Jake and pulling him back. 

“Knock it the fuck off!” Coyote demands, shoving Jake to the side. “You, too, Bradshaw! Keep your fucking heads. Now isn’t the time to play tug-of-war, alright. Don’t be fucking idiots.” 

Bradley and Jake are still staring at each other. Each of them are thinking about how good it would feel to let their fists come down on the other’s face over and over again and then leave them face down in the dirt. 

“He’s right,” Bradley says. “Someone probably should’ve stayed with the girls anyway. Just in case.” 

Jake spits--it lands right near Bradley’s shoes. 

“Stop,” Coyote demands. “Get outta here, Bradshaw.” 

And then Bradley is gone and Coyote is staring at Jake, disappointed but not surprised. It was bound to boil over eventually. Coyote knows how Jake feels about you. He knows how much it hurts--how much it’s going to hurt. 

“You alright?” Coyote asks. 

Jake is standing with his back on the bus, facing the ground, his eyes narrowed and his lips twisted. His fists are clenched and his cheeks are red. 

“Is anyone fine?” Jake asks, voice quiet and angry. 

“You know what I mean, man,” Coyote says. He sighs, runs his hand along his curls.

They don’t say anything for a long moment. 

They’re both just looking around, trying to think of anything to say other than they’re fucked and they’re pissed. Coyote’s searching the room, taking in all the dust and the dirt. He sees the slashed tires. But then something catches his eye--something bright red and small. It’s stuck in the tire, planted there like it belongs. 

“The fuck is that?” Coyote whispers. 

Jake glances up, follows Coyote’s gaze. 

Their mouths go dry identically when they realize what it is. 

“Fuck,” Jake whispers. “It’s a Swiss army knife.”

♀ 𝐚/𝐧: hi guys....

♀ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

♀ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬�� 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝

♀ 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐎𝟑

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