The Camp (Part 1)

PART 1

Jake opens his eyes. The light is blinding, forcing him to blink, rapidly several times until the shock subsides, and he focuses on the faces.

He's unsure how many, but he sees two to begin with. The others, more distant, are blurred, ghosts caught in the windscreen of a speeding car, obscured by midnight rain. None were familiar, yet their familiarity gave him comfort; skin tones, their roundness, two ears and eyes, a single mouth and nose - human features that told him he was safe. At last.

Am I?

Who am I?

Where am I?

He counts five faces.

The male face, closest, sounds assertive as it speaks: “Jake. Jake. Wake up.”

So my name is Jake.

The face that speaks is creased with hard lines and sees through mean, tired eyes. He smells unclean and older than he looks. His breath reeks; cigarettes, coffee - the type served in styrofoam cups, poor brushing technique. Jake should be repulsed. He isn't. Lately, he has smelt and seen worse. Not that he remembers. He wants to turn his head, escape the stench, but he can't. His body is like stone and cold dead. Is he paralysed? Have I been in an accident?

“We’re going to start reading to you kiddo. See if this jogs your memory, okay?”

Jake smells disinfectant and bleach. He feels nauseous, but it soon passes. His left-hand throbs faintly, like an echo. Pain, but at least he starts to feel. 

“Detective, I don’t think he’s ready, he’s been heavily sedated, for two weeks now. It is going to take him a long time to wake up.”

A detective? Am I in trouble?

“Doctor, we don’t have time.”

A doctor? Am I in trouble and paralysed?

The detective leans in close. Jake feels the hot stinking breath against his cheeks. Perhaps Jake's eyes give more than he knows - the detective sees something and draws back with a grim, bewildered smile; “Kiddo, we are running out of time. Please focus on what Tracey here will read to you okay Jake?”

A woman closes in on him. Younger than the man, plain, no make up, cheery enough, auburn hair pulled back in a bun. Jake senses she is a detective too; she comfortably fills a grey pantsuit under which a white blouse shows off her breasts, not that Jake cares. He smells a sweetness to her scent. She bathed.

Something irritates Jake’s nose, but he does not know what? He's torn, his nose is itchy, which is a good thing, and annoyed, he can't move his arms though he feels the blood tingling through his veins, his skin warming, the hairs on his forearm standing to attention.

"You ready, Jake?" The woman's voice is calming, soft, not as urgent as the male's. She holds up a foolscap size notebook. Red with a well-worn hardcover. It's familiar to Jake. He can make out the writing on the front "MAGPIE PATROL LOGBOOK 1971 -? The fog that swirls through his mind parts in places, enough for him to glimpse some memories.

He is a boy scout.

“This is your patrol’s log book,” the woman explains.

“Remember Billy? Jake.” The detective again. His voice shrill enough to splinter the stillness in the room like a gunshot.

A different woman; “Are they harassing my son? Can’t you stop them?”

Son? Is that my mother?

“Detective.” The fifth voice? Jake is losing track.

The lady with the book clears her throat with a short, sharp cough, reaches for a glass of water from Jake's side table, and sips. She opens the ledger at the marked page and reads:

“Patrol Log: Camp Cedar. Day 1 12.20pm September 20, 20-

Jake, our patrol leader, wants me to keep the logbook for the camp. He says I have the best handwriting, but I think because I wear glasses he thinks I'm smarter than the other kids. My name is Billy Jackson, and I am 11. This is my first scout camp with no adults. I was a cub scout until six months ago when I moved up. There are eight boys. Jake is our Patrol Leader, and all the moms and dads love Jake. He's 15 and nearly a Queen Scout, which is really hard to do. He knows how to build flying foxes and make a fire by rubbing two sticks together and how to set a snare for rabbits. He knows all about birds and snakes and which berries you can and can't eat. He plays the guitar too. When Lucas and two other boys tried to rub toothpaste onto my balls, Jake stopped them. He is the nicest teenager I know."

Jake tries to picture himself when the detective interrupts, "That's you, kiddo, Mr Nice Guy. What's with the fucking toothpaste?"

“Patrol Log Day 1 Camp Cedar. Around 1pm September 20, 20-

I had to go and help dig a latrine. I think us new kids get all the fun jobs. Haha. Everyone is a bit worried because no one's phone works. Jake says it must be the network but all of us? Mom got me a phone just for the camp, not that she could afford to. She wanted me to text her each day and take photos. The camera works, so I've been taking lots of photos."

The detective speaks again. Jake wishes someone would get him mouthwash or at least gum. Is he the only one who notices? “It would sure be nice to get a hold of that phone Jake. Don’t suppose you know where it is do you? Be nice to have a look at your phone too kiddo, see what you kids got up to at Camp Cedar.”

 The older woman moves forward. Her face is familiar; Jake thinks it must be his mom, she seems concerned enough, and he recognises her smell.

"Stop insinuating detective that my son has done something wrong." She moves towards Jake. It is his mom, but she looks so different somehow. The detective intercepts her getting too close to Jake’s bed; “Hear you’ve been talking to a fancy celebrity agent type, Mrs Andrews,” he says.

“It’s Ms Andrews, I’m a widower, and so what? Means nothing to you. You’ll probably be able to write your own book, when this is all done with." Then she winks. "Imagine if we hooked up detective. The tabloids would love us."

“A bit premature don’t you think? Selling your kid’s story. Your son here is in deep shit. So deep your dip shit lawyer over there is going to need more than a Tonka truck to dig him out. Got that Ms Andrews?”

“Say what you like, detective. My son is innocent, and when he is exonerated, his story will be worth millions. I have to protect him. It's my job; I'm his mother."

Jake hears and understands everything. She is drunk again; that's the familiar odour he smells, cheap vodka and menthol cigarettes. He wants the other police officer to keep reading.

“Patrol Log Day 1 Camp Cedar. 2.15pm September 20, 20-

We’ve had lunch. Just cheese sandwiches. The plan now is to collect lots of firewood because it is going to rain. Jake told us the rules. Number one is NOT going anywhere near the old Bennett farmhouse up on the hill behind our camp. It's so creepy no one would anyway. They say a monster lives there and feeds off children. I think this is the story the scoutmasters tell to keep us away. Jake says not to pee in the creek and not to go off alone, stay in pairs. Mike, my neighbour from the caravan park where we live says he'll be my pair. The other scouts here are Joe, Brad, Kurt and Rob. Kurt and Rob are Lucas’s friends. They’re like Flotsom and Jetsom in the Little Mermaid, which my little sister makes me watch. I worry if they go swimming in the creek, they might actually turn into eels. If they knew I was writing this, they would probably rub my balls with toothpaste!.

The woman stops reading, "Is Jake even conscious? I feel like I'm wasting my time."

The doctor nods. “He’s awake. There is no reason why he can’t hear us.”

What do they want me to remember? The phones? The body. Why do I keep thinking about a dead body?

“Patrol Log Day 1 Camp Cedar. 3pm September 20, 20-

The phones still don't work, but Jake is more worried about keeping the fire going because it has started to rain. I sit in the tent with Mike, who is reading an X Men comic.

“Come on kiddo, nothing?”

This is what Jake recalls. He’s 15 and attends Pine River High School. And that’s his mom leaning against the wall across the room. Her name is Carole. His dad is dead. Two years ago. Memories flash, fragments, like reels on Instagram, short-lived and meaningless. Still, he is grateful they return. So too does the feeling in his legs and arms, though he can't move either. The detective shakes his head with disappointment or anger. Perhaps both. "Alright then. Now the journal gets interesting."

“Patrol Log Day 2 Camp Cedar. 6.20am September 21, 20-

It’s horrible. Jake is missing. Lucas thinks he is playing a trick. Joe thinks he fell into the creek and drowned, and Kurt says a Yeti may have eaten him alive. I don't know what to believe. I am scared. It is raining really hard, and the phones still don't work. If the river gets any higher, we will be cut off from the road that takes us back to the main road where we came. 

I went missing? Jake sees a fire, smells smoke, hears the crackle of wood exploding with heat. He looks into the white-hot embers and sees faces scream at him. He forces his mind to stop, but it’s like he is on the top rung of a rollercoaster, and he can scream and shout, but no one will let him off.

“You keeping up kiddo? I hope so, you’re about to hear all about your little disappearing trick.”

“Patrol Log Day 2 Camp Cedar. Later…

Lucas and some older boys stand in the rain, discussing what to do. I think we should cross the river and run for help, but Lucas says it is too dangerous that one of us might drown. I should record what happened last night, in case. 

Last night -

“It stopped raining. We sat around the campfire, keeping warm, toasting marshmallows, playing with sticks in the coals. It was so dark; I couldn’t see the tents. The moon and stars were hidden behind the clouds. There was lightning and the odd clap of thunder that shook the ground. The wind rustled the leaves in the trees. Otherwise, it was silent. Jake said he had a ghost story to tell, and we should move in closer to listen. He starts;

Do you remember the Friday night of the storm? The wind howled like wild dogs, rain lashed at our trailer like the claws of a beast, and the sky filled with fire and brimstone. Then the storm suddenly stopped, and through the window, I saw the moon, enormous, swollen, and full. I fell asleep, but my rest was fitful and I fell in and out of nightmares where I was being chased by giant, bloodthirsty wolves. I screamed. I was by the river, near school, where the track is swallowed by the mangrove swamp. I slipped and fell into the stinking mud. I smelt rotten eggs. The wolves, there were three, pounced. I smelt the stench of death and saw their sharp, white teeth, fangs that prepared to devour me. I struggled, I wanted to flee but the beasts had me pinned and there was an agonising terror as they tore and ripped at my throat as they howled at the moon, their jowls drenched and dripping with my blood. I go to scream but they have eaten my tongue and then… I awake. Suddenly. I was sweating but my skin was cold and clammy. I didn’t feel myself, lightheaded, and I kept touching my throat, to make sure it was still there. It hurt but there was nothing.  By dawn, having no sleep, I was hungry. I go to the kitchen for some cereal, but the box is empty. My mother hadn’t done the shopping, again - for food anyway. Looking around she’d had time to hit the bottle shop. The swear jar we keep was empty, last night it was full. I guess I know where that ended up.”

“Regular mother of the year, aren’t you Ms Andrews?”

“Detective!” The lawyer cried.

“Fuck you.” Jake’s mother spits with an unrestrained bitterness at the detective. Tracey reads on;

“I had some money from my paper-round so I walk to the shops, taking the shortcut through the bush behind school. It was where I fled in my dream. I followed the river, along the narrow track. The morning was warm and muggy. Boats were washed up on the bank, unleashed from their moorings by the night's storm. The track, as you know, takes me through the mangrove swamp. The tide was low and Fiddler crabs skittle across the mudflats. Ahead something blocked the path. I assumed a tree had fallen in the storm but as I got closer, I saw a mangled dead body. I gasped in horror. The body was dressed in my favourite jacket, the bargain I got from the op-shop last year. Had I lost it? I thought I hung in the wardrobe. Flies buzzed around the corpses’ head, and I could see the torn flesh of where his neck once was. He was male, hair as curly as mine and as I neared him, I keeled over in agony and terror, my body shuddering in misery as I see the horror that is before me - the body is me. I am dead, mutilated by werewolves.”

Jake held the torch up to his face, real close, and screamed with a roar, "I am dead! I am a ghost!” Everyone screamed as Jake leapt over the fire, kicking a log, sending a shower of embers into the sky and ran off, devoured by darkness. We wait a moment, start to laugh, and Lucas calls out for Jake to stop kidding around. But he never came back. We look around and Mike found Jake’s flashlight a few yards from the campfire, sticky with blood. Lucas looks and then tells us to get into our tents.

"Shouldn't we keep looking," Mike asks?

“He’s playing a trick. That’s fake blood. Let us all go to bed, everyone. He'll get sick of the rain soon enough.”

“Patrol Log Day 2 Camp Cedar. Morning still

I am terrified. There was a vote. Everyone chose me to hike to the old Bennett house and ask if Jake was there. If he isn't, I'm to ask if I can use the phone and call for help. I wear my yellow raincoat and take my scout staff with me. I tell Lucas that Jake said we shouldn't go alone, and Lucas turns and asks if anyone wants to join me. There are no volunteers, not even Mike. I am to go alone."

“Kiddo. No one has heard or seen Billy since. Do you know what happened to him Jake, because there sure are a lot of people waiting to find out just what you know?”

“Detective I must,” says the doctor.

"Shut up, doc. This is between the kid and me. Kiddo, talk to me."

Not yet. Jake remains still, awake, and slowly, he brings the room together at his pace. He is in a hospital bed. A tube goes up through his nose that is attached to a deflated bag that hangs from a stand by the bed. Another bag filled with clear liquid is attached to a tube that runs to his arm like a vein; he sees the hand attached to his arm is missing a thumb and forefinger. The dressing is removed, the skin around his missing digits purple and bruised. He is aware, too, of the thick leather straps that restrain both his arms. The room is bright. There's a window with bars. Outside is a leafless tree whose spindly branches tap impatiently against the glass.

"Jake honey, it’s mom, it’s me?" He smiles. His mouth moved. He notices his mother's hair, longer than when he left for camp. And grey. Normally she bleached it herself, filling the trailer with the overwhelming stench of ammonia, as she had done the day before he left for camp. Jake is confused. "Mom what happened to your hair?"

Carole fell to her knees in relief on hearing him speak, sobbing joyful tears. Jake fought against the straps, desperate to hug his mom. "Oh Jake, your coming back," she cries as the doctor hurries toward him. "He's okay doc!" The detective jostles forward, physically sidelining the doctor and grips Jake’s shoulders with the force of a desperate, nearly broken man; “Jake, kiddo. Time is running out. You need to tell me, is anyone else alive?”

"I don't understand, why are you all so…."

His mother shrieks.

The doctor fills a syringe,

Only the detective remains present: “Jake, the camp was nine months ago.”

“What?”

“We have recovered two gruesomely mutulated bodies. Jake we found you two weeks ago, lost in the bush, near where you disappeared. Jake were you with the five missing boys. Are they still alive? Do you know where they are?”

Jake understood why the faces reassured him.

They weren’t the monsters.

Jake screams.

It is a howl that belongs in an insane asylum which is where Jake Andrews lies, strapped to a bed, consumed by an unimaginable horror.

To Be Continued