by D. Melhoff
A sickening moan rose in the back of Brynn’s throat.
Bruce stepped into the shed’s doorway, his massive nostrils flaring open and shut.
He can smell us.
Stephanie, still facing the opposite direction, whispered, “Brynn? Brynn? Where are we go—”
Brynn put a trembling finger on her sister’s lips.
Shh, Stephy. Dear God, shh. Shh…
Bruce extended his hand and gripped the cord of the lightbulb. Click. The light vanished, and the man was gone, camouflaged in the darkness.
“Run.” Brynn quivered. “Through the field, Stephy. Run.”
She sprung forward, grabbing her sister under the armpits, and hoisted her on top of the pasture’s fence. As Stephy scrambled down the other side, Brynn scaled the boards in tandem. When she got to the top, she tried jumping over, but a rusty nail hooked her V-neck and pulled her against the posts, pinning her to the wood no matter how hard she tugged at the fabric.
Bruce bounded toward her at full tilt.
“N-No,” Brynn stuttered, yanking her shirt in hysterics.
A gloved hand came up behind her and seized her wrist. The scream in her throat welled to its boiling point, and her mouth swung open just as a loud riiiiiiiip tore through the tunic and launched her over the fence. She slipped through Bruce’s grasp, landing with a buckling thud, and then staggered to her feet and snatched her sister’s hand, racing into the pasture.
“Faster, Stephanie. Faster.”
Sweetgrass and wild crocuses caressed the girls’ legs. For a second, Brynn’s dread was allayed. It was a footrace now—a sprint through a fifty-yard field—and as long as they didn’t fall and injure themselves, their stalker had no hope of catching them. He can’t keep up. He’s too big and slow. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. We’re in the clear.
Then another sound chilled her blood, even worse than the click of the lightbulb cord.
The high whinny of a horse.
No.
But the clomping of hooves confirmed it: first distant, then nearer.
“Run, Stephy, hurry! Get over the fence again. He’s coming.”
They veered for the string of posts on the edge of the pasture, and Stephanie reached them first. The seven-year-old tried scaling the boards, but she faltered on the bottom plank and fell flat on her tiny ass. Brynn scooped her up by her waist and lifted her over like before, following suit. She cleared the posts without a problem this time and landed on a patch of roots, which sent crippling rods of pain shooting through her shins.
When she looked up, she didn’t recognize the wall of trees in front of her. Worse, she didn’t see Stephanie.
“Stephy?”
No response.
“Stephy—”
A deafening gallop drowned out her voice, and the black gelding skidded in like a demon from hell, stomping its hooves and letting out a vociferous neigh!
The horse jammed its snout between the boards and snorted a hot, rancid breath in Brynn’s face. She screamed, tucking and rolling just as Bruce’s 250-pound frame soared through the air and landed in the mud beside her. The head of the broadax grazed her left cheek, striking grass, and her scream tore through her vocal chords as she sprung from her stomach to all fours to a sprinter’s stance, bolting into Grimm Woods with no signs of the camp—or her sister—anywhere in the shadows.
____
Crash!
Scott, dripping with sweat, peered over the parapets at the pile of broken crates near the fort’s entrance. No one had heard a damn thing. Below, the campers were still flapping around like frightened bats after someone had come along and taken a broom to their nest.
“Scott?” Jake called from the stairwell. “Is anyone else…”
The rest of the boy’s question was lost on the wind.
Scott counted the remaining crates: one, two, three. They’re heavier than the others, he thought, and he lowered his torch to the slats to see what they contained. A logo flickered to life. “WOLVERINE // KAWKAWLIN, MI.” Below, in tinier letters, an itemized contents list read: “WCC-GG18481 Clr Comet Tail w/Clr Chry (Chrysanthemum); WCC-UP9018 Circle of Dreams 2/1 (Pattern); WCC-WWC5002 Coconut Rings 30 Shot (Palm).”
Scott’s eyes lit up. He didn’t recognize the list, but he’d have to be a moron not to know what the bursting arcs above the company’s logo represented. He dropped his torch and grabbed the closest crate, yanking on the lid. The tips of his fingernails cracked—“Ow.”—and he let go, shaking his hands in pain. Mmphff, heavier than dinosaur shit. He tried again, grabbing from the bottom this time, and hoisted the crate to his beltline before lobbing it to the center of the roof. The crate smashed against the floor, but it didn’t break. He ran over and hugged the sides again, trying once more.
Thud.
Rumble…
Silence.
A bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose. Fuck my sorry chain-smoking ass. If only I had more muscle…or leverage.
He looked around, desperate. The only resources on the roof were the crates themselves. Maybe I can use them for extra height? He dragged the first box back to the wall and climbed on top—a three-foot boost in total. Not bad. As he lifted another crate to his waist, his biceps bulged like overinflated balloons. Grunting, he flung the box in the air and watched it crash against the stone floor. The slats shuddered and cracked, but the nails held tight.
“Come on!”
He rubbed his forearms, unsure if he had enough stamina for another toss. Shit, don’t quit now, you son of a bitch. Mustering his remaining strength, he leapt down and hoisted the crate back on the three-foot platform, then climbed up beside it. Dizzy, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the top of the parapet was level with his hips.
Scott eyed the drop-off and hesitated.
You won’t be able to lift it again. Last chance—do it.
He raised a foot and eased onto the parapet behind him. Then his other foot came up, and before he knew it, he was standing on the narrow battlement with nothing but a few inches of crumbling concrete stopping him from plummeting off the fort. Vertigo warped his vision, but the crate kept his center of gravity in front of him, saving him from the fall.
He held his breath, and his expression curved into a weightlifter’s frown. His body shook as he brought the box to his knees…
Then to his chin…
Then past his forehead…
“Aahhhh!” The crate soared through the air and struck stone—crack!
Two of the sides snapped clean off, and colorful tubes spilled out like piñata bounty. Comet tails, coconut rings, circles of dreams. Scott slumped off the parapet and hacked up a gob of mucus between his feet. He wiped his mouth—Hurry, before it’s too late—and rushed to the pile of fireworks.
____
Brynn raced through the woods, terrified, as branches clawed at her face and leaves exploded under her feet like landmines.
Crisp-CRACK. Crisp-CRACK. Crisp-CRACK.
She rammed her back against a pine tree and stopped, listening.
The forest was silent.
A breeze blew past, and something crackled nearby. It could have been anything—a badger, a deer. A man.
Her heart punched her rib cage, and the crescent moon came out of hiding, its silver shafts streaming through the canopy as if signaled by a stage manager’s “Go” cue. He must have gone in another direction. She put her hands on the tree behind her, shimmying across the bark, and peeked around its trunk—
Bruce was right there, less than ten feet away.
Brynn sucked back an involuntary gasp and then prayed that he hadn’t heard her. His face was tilted to the sky, eyes closed. He appeared to be listening to the silence, waiting for a sound—any sound—that would betray his prey to him. The ax turned slowly in his hands as he managed a quiet breathing pattern: in through his nostrils, out through his crusty red lips…in through his nostrils, out through his vile lips…
Brynn bit her tongue and stopped a
scream from escaping.
Suddenly, there was a swish of leaves behind her.
Stephy. She pictured her sister toddling forward. No, get back!
Bruce’s eyes flickered open, staring directly at her. And then—with perfect dramaturgic timing—Mother Nature the stage manager cued the clouds, and the moonlight dimmed between the trees, elongating a nightmarish grin on Bruce’s face before casting the woods into total darkness.
Brynn wheeled around, crying out, “Run, Stephanie!”
She sped off—left then right then left again.
The sound of crunching leaves closed in behind her, and she winced and dove through a bush as Bruce’s hand brushed the small of her back. The touch was an injection of rocket fuel. She launched forward, sacrificing all sense of direction for another few seconds of life, and tore through a copse of pines. Just when she thought she had eluded him, a bush rustled in front of her.
He’s everywhere. A sob spluttered past her lips. I can’t get away. He’ll take me and beat me and hang me and…and…and…
Brynn clutched her sides—squeezing her eyes shut as tears trickled out—while the crackling drew closer.
Stephy. Holy God, he’s got Stephy, and he’ll burn us together. Holy Jesus, holy holy Jesus, help us. God save her, save Stephanie, please. Take me but save Stephanie.
BANG.
Brynn jerked at the sound of the gunshot, bracing herself for the pain—
But it didn’t come.
She opened her eyes and saw a flash of light erupting in the distance.
That’s not a gun, she thought as the second explosion erupted in the sky. It’s…fireworks?
Another flash went off, bursting like a green chrysanthemum in the troposphere. A red crossette bloomed behind it, then a violet peony. The flares were too distant to light up Brynn’s immediate area, but the embers twinkled through the trees like glittery breadcrumbs marking the path to safety. One second of hesitation could have cost her her life, but still she paused. Would Stephy head for the lights? Yes. Yes, she’s scared, but she’s smart. If he hasn’t gotten her yet, she’ll run for safety.
A shimmering palm tree burst to life. Boom-crack. Then two dahlias. Boom-crack, boom-crack.
That was enough deliberation. Brynn glanced behind her, muttering a final prayer to the woods, and then turned and ran for the crumbs in the sky.
____
The fireworks continued to mushroom above the fort—sporadic, one after the other—in disparate arcs that were closer to the flares of a sinking ship than the timed pyrotechnics of a Fourth of July display or Disney’s Fantasmic!
“C’mon, hustle,” Scott shouted at the kids pouring through the wicket door. “Let’s go, quick. Last chance before I lock you out.”
“Scott.”
He stuck his head outside and saw Charlotte dashing up the hill with a group of six- and seven-year-olds swirling around her. “Who are we missing?” she asked, panting as she arrived in front of him.
“I don’t know. Haven’t exactly had time for roll call.”
“You think we’re close?”
“Hard to say,” he said, then added, “Lance and Denisha showed up ten minutes ago with a dozen kids each. I told them to keep lighting fireworks while I hurried the rest inside.”
“Norma?”
Scott shook his head. “We’re missing counselors, too. Roddy, Nikki, Cynthia—”
“Go.” She patted the kids inside. “Bring everyone to the ballroom. I’ll be there as soon as I seal this door.”
“You don’t get it. He’s after counselors—”
“Go.”
Charlotte wiped her forehead as the children scurried off, some bawling, others white as ghosts. Scott didn’t follow them. His eyes locked on the field through the wicket doorway and hunted for traces of movement. Anything. Kids, counselors. Brynn.
Outside was quiet again. No children screaming for safety, no adults chasing them down. Only the periodic flashes of light across the main lawn, followed by the concomitant bang! of the colorful mortars.
“Did you see him?” Charlotte asked, softer than before.
“I don’t think so.” Green, bang. Red, bang. “But Lance says he might’ve heard strangers. What if the asshole isn’t alone?”
“God, don’t say that. Here. Let me lock up.”
Scott didn’t move. He kept watching the field and picturing Brynn emerging from the shadows in the nick of time. Charlotte began closing the door, and when nothing appeared in the next flash of light, he sidestepped out of the way.
“Wait.”
Charlotte didn’t stop—“What?”—but Scott wedged his foot in the doorframe.
“Someone’s coming.”
Sure enough, a figure could be seen through the crack. The next flash of red revealed Brynn’s slender shape hobbling up the hill. Her eyes caught the light first—two black marbles with crimson faults in the centers—and then vanished like a deer’s on the side of the highway.
“Hurry,” Charlotte called. “Get in.”
“S-Stephy,” Brynn wheezed, reaching the entrance. “Is Stephy here? Tell me she’s here.”
“We don’t know,” Scott said. He widened the crack, but she didn’t enter.
“Did you see her? Did you?” When neither Charlotte nor Scott replied, she said, “He still has her. He chased us out of the stables”—she gasped twice—“into the forest. Got separated. I—I can’t…can’t leave her…”
“Brynn,” Charlotte said. “Get inside. Now.”
“But she might be out there. You’re not locking this door until I’m sure she’s safe.”
“We won’t know until we do roll call, and we can’t do roll call until we close this door.” Charlotte’s face hardened. “What if the next person to come up that hill is him? He could gun down every one of us, for Christ’s sake.”
“He doesn’t have a gun. He has a…an ax.” Brynn’s eyes glistened. “Screw this. I’m going to find her.”
She stepped backward, but Scott thrust his arm through the doorway and seized her shoulder. “I don’t think she’s here.” His voice was grim and honest. “But being out there is a hundred times more dangerous for you than her. Counselors, remember. Not kids. Counselors.”
“He’s a psychopath, Scott. He’s gonna kill whoever looks at him the wrong way.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. He’s got every detail of his demented plan hashed out.”
“Then why doesn’t he let Stephy go?”
“Maybe he wants her as bait. For you.”
“I’m not letting my sister become this sicko’s bait! He’ll kill her.”
“No.” Scott gripped her shoulder tighter. “You don’t kill bait. You keep it alive.”
Brynn opened her mouth and then closed it, hot tears spilling over the rims of her eyelids.
“If she’s not here,” Scott continued, “we’ll make a plan to get her back. But we need leverage. He wants us most, and we can’t let him have us.”
At first, Brynn didn’t answer. She looked in the direction of the stables, then at the archery field, then at the square at the bottom of the hill. “If he only wants counselors,” she asked, gazing at the Three Pigs Mess Hall, “why is Ella dead?”
Scott pictured the carcass of the cook stuffed into the brick oven with steam bellowing out of her orifices. He didn’t know. But it didn’t seem like Brynn expected him to. She assessed the dark outline of Grimm Woods, brushing her cheeks, and then backed into the fort without another word. As the last chrysanthemum burst overhead, Scott watched the helplessness on her face fade with the dying sparks, dimmer and dimmer, until the door thudded shut and the fortress swallowed them whole.
18
“A distraction.”
The words hung in the air, unanswered, unchallenged, while time itself seemed to grind to a halt. On top of Charlotte’s desk, a sheet of paper showed two columns side by side. The first column contained a list of children’s names—check marks beside every
box except “Gately, Stephanie”—while the second column contained the names of the fourteen counselors. The latter list was sorely low on checks.
“Has to be.” Scott tapped the paper, emphasizing his point. “That’s the only way he could get so many of us. Create a distraction and start snatching people up while we ran around like chickens with our heads cut off.”
“Then why is Norma missing?” Lance asked.
“And Brynn’s sister?” Denisha said.
Scott frowned, looking around the office. Yesterday, the room had been packed with counselors, but now only four of them remained. His gaze settled on Brynn. She was slumped against the office’s window with her eyes glued to the view of the clearing. He didn’t want to bring up the bait theory again—at least not while she was around—so he ignored Denisha’s question and steered the conversation back to the absent counselors. “Nikki, Mai, Cynthia, and Roddy are the ones we should be worrying about. Nobody saw them after the mess hall?”
“No one saw anything,” Lance said. “One minute, we were fine, and the next minute, someone started screaming in the kitchen. I opened the door, and the kids took one look at Ella and ran.”
“You didn’t see them outside?”
“It was pitch-fucking-black. Of course not.”
Scott crossed his arms. He didn’t like arguing—least of all with meatheads like Lance Thompson—but he refused to back down. “What about the strangers you say you overheard? Is our friendly neighborhood psychopath alone, or does he have help?”
“I don’t know.” Lance shrugged. “I wasn’t close enough; it could’ve been anything.”
“He’s, like, two hundred and fifty pounds. The guy’s hard to miss.”
“Maybe it was him, maybe it wasn’t. Who gives a shit? We need a plan to catch this son of a bitch as soon as the sun’s up.”
“No,” Charlotte cut in. “No one’s leaving these walls anymore. We’re on a hundred percent lockdown. That’s four and a half days—”
“Like hell we’re letting him torture them.”
“Four and a half days until the bus arrives,” Charlotte said. “Now thank God those are thunderclouds rolling in, and with any luck, it’ll pour all night. We’ll put buckets on the roof and collect as much water as possible.”
