by D. Melhoff
That’s when he heard it. The long, suspended chssssshhh.
Scott propped himself on his elbows, panting, and craned his neck over the opening of the crater.
Below, entwined around the shattered planks, were more than a dozen rattlesnakes. Their rattles buzzed as they tasted the air where his feet had dangled seconds ago. Chsssshhh, chssssshhhh.
Holy shit.
He scouted the contents of the pit—praying to God that he wouldn’t see the white glint of bones or the red strips of a counselor’s V-neck—and when he was sure there were no bodies, he got to his feet and jogged away as fast as his rubbery legs allowed.
The rattling stayed in his ears all the way to Storybook Square.
He wound through the cobblestone streets and caught sight of Brynn by the Seven Dwarfs fountain. She had the hefty book of fairy tales from the fort’s playroom clutched against her chest.
“Scott! Over here!”
“Brynn?” He veered toward her. “What’s wrong? Who is it?”
“Norma. She’s down in the food cellar. Bruce went to find something we can use as a stretcher.”
“She’s alive?”
“Barely. Dehydration. Severe dehydration. She’s been gnawing on raw potatoes for almost two days. Scott, I’m not sure we can help her…”
“We’ll do what we can. It’s going to be okay.” He pointed at the book in her arms. “Did that lead you here?”
“What, this?” she asked, tapping the anthology. “No. I wasn’t having any luck, so I went back and grabbed it. Bruce found her.”
“All right,” he said. A beat, then: “I, uh, I don’t suppose there’s a story about snakes in there?”
“Snakes?” Brynn recoiled. “Oh God, please don’t say you found—”
“What? Which story is it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just fucking hate snakes, all right? Where are they?”
“The fire pit. She dug a hole as wide as a trampoline and covered it with wood pallets. No one’s there, so it must’ve been for one of us.”
“Then it’s hard to say.” Brynn shivered and flipped to the tome’s appendices. A chart appeared: the Aarne-Thompson Tale Type Index. “Fairy tales are classified by themes and plot patterns, so you think it’d be easy to find what you’re looking for, but there are so many it’s impossible to memorize them. Plus the categories aren’t exactly specific…God I wish I had Google right now. Snakes could be under Wild Animals and Domestic Animals, pages 100-149, or perhaps Other Animals and Humans, 208-276. Hmm. No…” she muttered to herself. “…not Domestic Animals, but maybe Other Animals and Objects. Your guess is as good as mine.”
Scott slouched, sweaty from his jog there.
“A better approach,” Brynn said, closing the book but not the subject, “might be to come at it from another angle. We said it ourselves days ago: these murders were never random. We just didn’t have all the pieces to put it together.”
“And we do now?”
“Sort of.” Brynn removed a familiar folder from inside the storybook. “Everyone she hired has a small claims record. I wondered why so many counselors didn’t come back from last year, and it’s because she only reinvited those with a rap sheet. You got a flier in the mail, didn’t you? This place hasn’t advertised in thirty years. That wasn’t spam. She handpicked everyone.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah,” Brynn said, peeling open the file. “I was hoping we could figure out what vices she’s targeting by the charges. Look at this. ‘Roddy Simmons, larceny.’ So which stories have to do with theft? Goldilocks is the only one I can think of, but since no one’s impaled on a steeple, I skipped it. Mai’s pending a lawsuit from an employer who was fined because she got caught working on a student visa, but to be honest, I don’t know any bedtime stories about international immigration law either, so I skipped her too. Shit’s tough.”
“What’s Denisha’s say?”
“One count of emotional distress.”
“Distress?”
Brynn mumbled over the précis. “Holy shit. Her ex-boyfriend tried suing her because she had an abortion. Case dismissed.”
“Jesus,” Scott said. “Any fairy tales about abortion?”
“None that I know of. But I’m pretty sure if Charlotte had gotten her way, my fate wouldn’t have had anything to do with snakes.” Her trembling hands flipped from Denisha’s record to the next one, and Scott’s name appeared at the top of the page. “What about yours…?”
His hand lashed out and snatched the record.
“What are you doing?”
“Sorry. That’s personal.”
“No, it’s public.”
“All right,” Scott said, stuffing the paper in his pocket, “so get your own copy.”
Brynn shot him a glare. She bit her lip, pupils bouncing back and forth between his. “You never told me how you figured out it was her, by the way. What did you see in her office that clicked?”
Scott fell quiet. He didn’t like these questions anymore.
“Well, whatever it was, you saved us. All of us. Thank you.” She reached out and touched his arm. “Scott. Thank you.”
For a moment, he wondered if the gesture would turn into a hug. It didn’t. He looked in Brynn’s direction—not into her eyes, but just past her—and stared at the ominous shed in the distance. The rattling of the snakes had left his ears and been replaced with the disturbing silence again, more menacing than ever. He shuddered and crossed his arms. “We’re not safe until we’re home.”
27
Scott wiped his forehead and let his hand drop lethargically to his side, feeling the sweat dribble off his fingertips like rainwater.
He had no idea how hot it was, but the word hot didn’t do this temperature justice. He wished he had a thermometer. No—he wished he had ten thermometers. The liquid inside the tubes would have been skyrocketing fast enough for any half-decent capitalist to make money lining them up like jockeys and booking racetrack bets. And they’re off! Red Devil edges out Bloody Baron for an early start, but here comes Mercury Mercenary pressing for eighty-six degrees. Crimson Killer giving snot this afternoon, racing along the edge, and Bloody Baron is still ahead at eighty-nine. But what’s this, ladies and gentlemen? That’s Mercury Mercenary taking the lead at ninety-two! Ninety-three, ninety-four…it’s the final stretch, neck and neck. Who will cross the hundred line first? It’s…it’s…RED DEVIL WINS THE DAY! Unbelievable!
Maybe it wasn’t a hundred degrees yet, Scott considered, but it was well on its way. Ninety for sure, and it wasn’t even noon.
Until now, he and Brynn had been managing the heat as best they could by opening the fort’s windows and passing out face cloths soaked in water. They were worried that if they spent too much time outside, the kids might stray to the stables or the snake pit or God knew where else. By one o’clock, it didn’t matter. The atmosphere in the ballroom was tense enough that if they didn’t get out soon, the kids might revolt. Brynn fought to stay inside, but Bruce convinced her otherwise. If they didn’t cool off immediately, he said, they were putting themselves at risk of heatstroke. Scott agreed, yet he had no delusions regarding the main reason why everyone was so eager to leave.
It’s not the heat, he thought. It’s the smell.
The odor wafting out of the dungeon had become unbearable—the stench of rotting flesh, a miasma so potent it crept through the hallways and tested the limits of their gag reflexes. Brynn had informed the kids that some of their food had gone bad, but the older children must have known better. This wasn’t mushy cabbage and a few bad eggs. It was six decaying carcasses.
The rules were repeated five times before anyone stepped outside: always stay with a buddy, no leaving the main group, and no going anywhere near the archery range, the campfire ring, or the stables.
“Capisce?” Brynn confirmed.
A low moan escaped the kids gathered in the vestibule. The smell of corpses was strongest here.
�
��All right,” Scott said, ushering the campers through the wicket door. “After Brynn. Out, out, out.” A moment later, he and Bruce were the only ones left inside.
“Denisha’s not coming?” Bruce asked.
“She’s upstairs with Norma.”
“All right.” The groundskeeper made a rumbling sound deep in his throat. “I don’t know which of those two I should be more worried about.”
Scott shrugged as if to say he didn’t know either. Norma hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words since they had found her, and only recently had she managed enough strength to swallow a full sip of water. I’ll be damned if the old woman hasn’t gone further than knocking on Death’s door, he thought, picturing the nurse’s shriveled face. She’s practically milling about Death’s kitchen, pouring coffee and reminiscing with the Grim Reaper about the good times they had in ’Nam. But at least Norma was attempting to fight. Denisha had given up completely. She refused to speak or drink and, as a result, had already passed out twice in the last five hours.
Bruce dipped through the doorway and took off for a row of storage huts west of the fort. He was going to gas up the Kubota and cart a tank of water to the horses—unless, of course, Charlotte had sabotaged the motor or dumped the fuel cans at the start of the week, in which case he’d have to find a way to transfer the water manually. If he didn’t, the animals would be dead by nightfall.
Scott stepped out of the fort and looked at the stables. Crows circled.
“Fuck,” he muttered. He and Bruce had talked about what to do regarding Lance’s body (or whatever remained of it) but neither of them had been rife with suggestions. The decision had been to leave it.
Lance’s horrified face appeared again, screaming, biting the oil rag. Then the crack of his pelvis—
Scott turned from the stables. He continued down the front lawn, catching up with the campers, and found himself pushing the memory away with a frightening amount of ease. He was an expert at that by now.
____
According to the bell tower in Storybook Square—which wasn’t a bell tower so much as a large clock bolted beneath the skull and crossbones of a pirate-themed crafts hut—it was 2:00 p.m. Wednesday afternoon, exactly forty-eight hours before the bus was scheduled to arrive.
The ninety minutes since they had left the fort had passed at a sluggish pace. All hopes of cooling off were vanishing fast; not a single cloud graced the sky, and Scott swore that if you licked your finger and held it in the air, you had a better chance of feeling a butterfly fart than an actual breeze. In an attempt to give the kids a cool, albeit brief, rush of air, he had figured out the zip-line system and managed to operate it somewhat successfully for almost forty-five minutes. Unfortunately, by the time most of the campers had landed at the end of the ride, they were more depressed than ever. Tyrell had gone limp in the harness, his beet-red cheeks streaming with sweat, and proclaimed he was “Done,” refusing to unloop his safety belt or unbuckle the straps no matter how nicely the other kids asked. It took all of Scott’s strength—and the promise of Oreos—to get the eight-year-old out of the gear, and when he’d accomplished the feat, he wiped his forehead and swore that he was finished giving rides for the rest of his short-lived career as camp counselor.
But Tyrell never got his Oreos. After Scott pointed him in the direction of the pantry, the boy vanished for fifteen minutes, then twenty. Just when Scott thought about going to check on him, a scream pierced the air, and he whipped his head toward the food cellar.
He found them.
He bolted across the square, bursting through the door of the pantry, and rushed down the steps, expecting to find the bodies of the missing counselors skinned like cattle or dried out like jerky on the larder’s shelves.
Scott stepped into a dark room and saw a cluster of boys huddled around something in the corner.
“Loser!”
“What’dja do that for?”
“Yeah, oinker, learn to share.”
“Hey,” Scott hollered. “What the heck is going on down here?”
The crowd parted and revealed Tyrell clutching a fun-size box of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. His hands were covered in chocolate, and his cheeks were puffed to their limits, stuffed with the most recent treat that he’d pushed past his distended lips.
“This fatass ate all the chocolate,” Marshall said. “Wouldn’t even share.”
“Language,” Scott muttered, relieved, even though he had no idea how to mediate the situation from there. “Why, uh, why’d you do that, Tyrell?”
“Cause he weighs five hundred pounds,” Marshall said.
“I do not.” Chocolate spewed out of Tyrell’s mouth and dribbled down the front of his shirt.
“Eeeww.”
“Uuggh.”
“Gaaahh.”
“Get outta here.” Scott batted the kids away. “And you”—he pointed at Tyrell—“start sharing. Got it? Now—oh, ew, are you eating that again? No. C’mere, we’re leaving.”
Scott grabbed Tyrell’s sticky hand, grimacing, and pulled him out of the pantry. Too bad, he thought when they reemerged in the sweltering heat. I would’ve liked to stay down there longer. For a second, he considered starting a lineup and letting kids into the cellar a couple at a time, but then he remembered the zip-line experience and thought better of it. We need a way to cool everyone off at once, not in threes or fours.
He released Tyrell’s wrist and massaged the chocolate between his fingers, wondering where he could go to wash his hands.
The solution wound up and smacked him in the face.
“Water.”
“Huh?” Tyrell said.
“Lake Mer.” Scott pictured the lake from the night of the bonfire: cobalt-blue waters undulating in the moonlight like crystal, waves churning in a gentle breeze. What he would give to dip his feet in the surface right now…feel the cool water rise above his heels…his ankles…his calves…
At the same time, he knew the risks. They were familiar with the clearing and all of its “no-zones,” but the lake—and the woods—marked unknown territory.
Still, it’s worth asking.
He found Brynn in one of the crafts huts and tried pitching the idea. As soon as he said the word “lake”, however, her hand whipped up and planted a threatening finger against his lips. “Are you crazy?” she muttered, pulling him aside so no one else could hear. “There’s no way the two of us can herd fifty kids through the woods. We don’t know what’s out there. What about traps? Not to mention…”
Scott nodded along, agreeing with everything she said, yet something about those cobalt-blue waters wouldn’t unhand him. When Bruce returned two hours later, sweating like a wildebeest—and smelling worse—Scott suggested the idea again, and to his surprise, Bruce agreed.
“I hid in those woods for three days,” the groundskeeper said. “Ain’t nothing dangerous from here to the lake.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I know, it don’t mean much,” he told Brynn, “but it’s a fifteen-minute walk. We could go in groups, or I can stay and keep guard.”
“But—but the showers. We’ve got water right here.”
“Used to,” Bruce said. “The tanks are bone dry. She sabotaged the half-ton and emptied the reservoirs too. I’m startin’ to doubt they were even full to begin with. Anyway, we’ve still got two days left, and that’s a helluva long time to be swimmin’ in your own sweat.”
“No,” Brynn said outright. “It’s not long. Forty-eight hours. Get through that and then you can breaststroke and doggy-paddle all you want back home.”
That was it. End of discussion.
The rest of the day dragged on, reaching a peak of what had to be one hundred degrees, and nothing could relieve them of the heat. The only satisfaction Scott got from the scorching temperature came from looking at the concrete shed shimmering by the archery range. He knew Charlotte was locked inside, sweating like a witch in a brick oven. Then his eyes would drift to the path that l
ed out of the clearing, and he would think of Lake Mer. Let it go, dummy. Let the cobalt-blue waters go. Even after the sun went down and the temperature failed to fall below eighty, neither he nor Bruce brought up the proposal again. Brynn had made her position clear. There would be no swaying her, not even at one hundred degrees.
One hundred and four degrees, however, was a different story.
By twelve o’clock the next day, Thursday afternoon, the heat wave blasted to a new high. No one had slept more than a few hours the night before, and the kids were refusing to eat. Ten of them had already been sick to their stomachs.
“All right.”
Scott looked over, having just removed his tunic and tied it into a turban around his head. Brynn’s skin was brighter than a tomato’s. “Huh?”
“The lake. We’ll go for forty-five minutes, that’s it.”
“You’re sure? We’re so close. Twenty-four hours—”
“Yeah.” Brynn nodded. “So let’s make sure no one drops dead before then. Help me up.”
When they found Bruce near the fort and told him, he seemed thankful. “Good,” he said, leaning over a rain barrel and ladling out the dregs of water. “They need that. I’ll stay and keep watch.”
“You’re sure?” Brynn asked.
“Mhmm. Just about to take this”—he lifted a colorful mug—“to everybody’s favorite boss. Hurts to see such a limited supply go to waste, but hell if she’s not standing trial and answering for this.”
That was it, then. Decided. When Scott made the announcement by the bell tower, the kids were slow to catch on. Only after he repeated himself—“Line up, quick, we’re off to the lake!”—did an excited buzz start making its way through the crowd. For the first time since slipping into their heat comas, the kids weren’t just conscious again. They were awake. He could see it in their eyes: the gleaming browns, the glimmering hazels, and the bright cobalt blues.
____
They stood at the edge of the clearing, Scott in the front, followed by the line of kids—single file—and Brynn at the back.
