by D. Melhoff
This can’t be real. This isn’t happening—it can’t happen.
Scott’s mind reeled with images: lawyers riffling through criminal record checks, faceless jury members, a ballroom—no, a courtroom—full of the camp’s children perched on the edge of their seats, waiting for the judge to utter his promulgation. “It is this court’s decision that the perpetrator solely responsible for the tragedy at Camp Crownheart was Scott Alexander Mamer, who, beyond reasonable doubt, suffered severe psychosis and committed suicide shortly after burning his last victim, Brynn Gately, alive at the stake.”
“And do you know what’s even better?” Charlotte asked, maneuvering around the well.
Scott forced himself to blink his hallucination away. The scarificator…he thought distantly. He saw it lying in the grass, but when he reached for it, Charlotte kicked the antique twenty feet away.
“Ah ah ah, no funny ideas. Now I asked you a question. Do you know what’s better than framing you?”
Scott didn’t reply. He skirted the base of the well as far as the handcuffs allowed—
And bumped something behind his back. Something smooth and hard.
A Mason jar. The one she dropped before shooting the arrow.
In the background, the fire raged higher in the wind, swirling around Brynn’s unconscious body, licking her feet.
“Let her go,” Scott whispered, hushed, trying to draw Charlotte closer. “Hurry…please…”
“Let her go? Let her go? Did you let my daughter go? Or did you watch from an abandoned train station as she was pushed onto the tracks and murdered?”
Charlotte took another step closer—now within arm’s reach—and leaned over Scott. Do it! His arm shot back, and there was a loud crack as he smashed the Mason jar on the well and whipped it forward, bringing the jagged glass sailing straight for the woman’s face.
But Charlotte was faster. She dodged the glass and lashed out with the back of her hand, catching Scott’s wrist and sending the broken jar flying farther than the scarificator.
Charlotte gripped the front of Scott’s shirt, ramming him against the post. “What’s better than framing you,” she seethed, “is that this well holds twenty-five quarts of water. I removed ten, but the body only has between five and six. Even if you squeezed out every last drop, you wouldn’t come close to getting that key.” She leaned in, nose to nose with Scott’s pallid face. “And that’s how I want you to die. Groping in the dark, tunneling underground like the squirming worm you are while listening to her burn and picturing me walking away happily ever after.”
Charlotte slammed Scott over the opening of the well, and he wheezed through his throttled windpipe. As she bore down, her lips curling into a maleficent smile, Scott saw—almost in slow motion—the chain of her gold necklace tumble out of the V in her blouse. He reached up and snatched the locket in his fist, pulling with every muscle his good arm could summon, and the chain yanked her closer, tearing into her neck.
Charlotte’s eyes bugged out. “Stop—!” she screamed, suffocating.
Scott looped the necklace tighter around his hand, tugging, tugging…
The chain snapped, and Charlotte clutched her chest in shock, gasping.
No!
The cord was limp in Scott’s palm, and he realized with a rush of dread that he had lost his last chance for survival. Then his fingers closed around the locket, feeling the metal point of the heart, and without hesitating, his hand soared through the air and jammed the locket into Charlotte’s neck.
Charlotte screamed as the tip punctured her skin. Scott threw the chain around her throat, pulling her back, and stabbed her twice, three times, four times. On the fourth stab, he tugged as hard as he could and tore the locket across her jugular vein, severing it, and she collapsed on top of him, all tension and resistance draining out of her body.
Hot blood gushed over Scott’s face like a waterfall.
He didn’t waste a second. He elbowed the body aside and reached into the well while the stream of blood raised the water level higher.
“Come on,” he muttered, teetering on the precipice of unconsciousness. “Come on, come on…”
His fingers stretched to their limits, swirling in the dark. Nothing. He thrust himself deeper, reaching around Charlotte’s head and scraping his shoulder against the well’s wall.
Charlotte’s eyes gaped up at him, an inch away, cursing him in death.
“Come on!”
He felt a tap on his middle finger, and his whole body vibrated as he plucked the fishing bob out of the water with the handcuff key tied on the end.
“Brynn! Hang on!”
Click-tick-tick. The cuff rattled open, and Scott hobbled to his feet. The hedges swirled around him, and he took two steps forward, then collapsed.
You’re too close. Don’t stop—keep going, keep moving.
He got to his hands and knees, but his left arm buckled and he plowed face first into the sod. Don’t…Give…Up. He reached out with his right hand and grabbed a clump of grass—pulling himself forward, clawing with every fiber of his being—and managed to get one foot underneath him, then the other.
“Brynn? Brynn?!”
The pyre teemed with smoke. It was so thick he could no longer see her.
With a final shot of desperation, he swerved across the enclosure to the flaming woodpile and lunged into the searing heat. The flames singed his leg hairs—licking the soles of his shoes—and he slammed against the pole, wanting to cry out in pain but too weak for even that. He missed the cuffs on the first two tries but shot home on the third, and the restraints clattered open as Brynn tumbled to the ground.
Scott grabbed her by the wrist and, with great difficulty, pulled her through the stifling smoke. The fire roared, and the flames caught the edge of his shirt. He gave one last tug, and both of them toppled off the woodpile and went rolling across the grass, extinguishing their burning clothes and landing beside the arrow that Charlotte had fired to determine Scott’s final resting place, a safe distance away from the blaze.
He turned his head, watching Brynn’s chest for signs of movement. The world was dimming fast.
I’m sorry—
But the thought cut out as everything went black.
32
Scott woke up in the grip of a Burmese python—at least that’s what it felt like had coiled around his arm and caused the intense tingling in his fingertips. His eyes flickered open. No python. Just a red uniform knotted into a tourniquet above his left elbow.
“Hey. Heeeey. He’s moving, he’s moving!”
“Mmmgphh,” Scott moaned. “I’m okay. Just…Just shhh.”
But it was too late. Some overenthusiastic individual flung open a window curtain, and the sun poured over Scott’s face, blinding him before he could discern his location.
“Scott?” Brynn’s voice entered the room. “Oh my God, how are you? How does your—whoa, take it easy, take it easy. Don’t sit up too fast. How does your head feel?”
“Mm. Like somebody’s gouging my eyes out with a rusty switchblade.”
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Mikaela, shut the curtain, okay?”
The light dimmed, and Scott peeked his eyes open again.
His surroundings were familiar. My room, he thought, his vision cycling in and out of focus. My room in Camp Mandolin. He was lying on the bottom bunk with his left arm elevated by two pillows. A group of girls chatted by the door, and opposite them, Tyrell sat on top of the hut’s desk, his ratty shoes discarded on the floor below him.
“I told them to get me if you woke up,” Brynn said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I was terrified, absolutely terrified, but it turned out the cuts weren’t—never mind. I mean, the bleeding hasn’t totally stopped, you’ll need stitches, but I think most of it’s wrapped up pretty good for now, and there’s some water here you should drink, but for God’s sake, I need to shut up. How do you feel? Honestly?”
“Dizzy.” He tried recalling the events before he
had blacked out. Running to the fire, collapsing, stumbling through the searing heat. “What about you? Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said, adding, “a bit dizzy too, but not dead. Thanks to you.”
They shared a look—a grateful one, but one that wasn’t devoid of pain—and held each other’s gaze.
“Ahem,” a younger voice cut in. “Take your medicine, please.”
Scott looked down to see Mikaela offering him an orange Tic Tac and a Dixie cup containing a shot of pink Kool-Aid.
“How about a cigarette?” Scott asked.
“How about you take your medicine and don’t get smart with me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He popped the Tic Tac and swallowed the Kool-Aid.
“Better?”
“Not really.”
“Give it ten minutes.” Mikaela nodded, done, and went to join the other “nurses” who were gabbing by the door.
“Speaking of time?” Scott asked.
“Twenty after seven,” Brynn said. “The bus should be here in six hours or so.”
“Seven in the morning?” He gauged the sunlight incredulously. “Holy shit. That means I’ve been unconscious for…”
“About fourteen hours, in and out. After you fainted, I had to find my way out of that stupid maze and run for help. Get this”—she shook her head—“she told the kids to go to the fort and stay there until she made sure everyone else was okay. How’s that for a steaming pile of hypocritical morality BS? Anyway, I took the six oldest boys, and we grabbed a mattress and ran back. You should’ve seen us. It was like the seven dwarfs carrying out frickin’ Snow White.”
“Mm,” he grunted. “Can we lay off the fairy tales for a while?”
“Gladly.”
Scott tipped his head against his pillow. The world was spinning, and he yearned for unconsciousness again.
“I’d give you a painkiller, but I can’t find any.”
“That’s all right. I’ll sleep. Just a few more hours, right?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Just a few more.”
Scott let his eyelids drift shut. He heard Brynn stir on the bunk bed, and then he felt the soft touch of her supple lips on his forehead. He let out a quiet sigh, and his mind swelled with a wave of lightheadedness that spilled over him and tucked him back into darkness.
____
When Scott awoke the second time, Brynn was gone. The girls were still there, but they had moved outside and started a game of hopscotch.
“Hey,” he called through the open door, groggy. “What time is it?”
“I dunno,” Mikaela answered.
“Yeah,” another one said, “I dunno.”
Then the third: “I dunno.”
None of them so much as glanced into the hut. Great. Scott snickered. If something happens to me, at least my attendants will be having fun chanting their way through “I’m a little Dutch girl” and “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree.”
“Want me to go ask?”
Scott craned his neck—stiff vertebrae sending rods of pain shooting down his spine—and saw Tyrell still perched on the desk behind him. “Oh,” he said, surprised. “No. No worries.”
Tyrell propped his chin on his knees and continued massaging his feet. Neither of them spoke for a full minute.
“I, uh, I imagine everyone’s waiting for the bus. Why are you hanging around here?”
Without looking up, the eight-year-old replied, “You got my back, I got yours. Remember?”
Scott tilted his gaze upward, recalling the night when he had taken Tyrell from the square and led him safely to the fort. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He smiled and pointed at the room’s window. “Hey. Mind grabbing those curtains for me?”
Tyrell hopped off the desk and shuffled to the drapes. Brace yourself, Scott thought, shielding his eyes as the boy reached up and pulled back the fabric.
Sunlight flooded the room and drove daggers into Scott’s temples. Grunting, he forced himself to lower his hand and look outside.
A distant view of the clearing appeared beyond the windowpane. Judging by the angle of the sun, it couldn’t have been later than eleven or eleven thirty. A few hours to go. Scott yearned for Tyrell to close the drapes again—to restore the darkness that would soothe his relentless migraine—but he didn’t say anything. The view of the camp had cast a spell over him.
As he took in the clearing, he thought of everyone who had died there. Dominique, Erin. Chase, Kimberly. Meegan, Bethany. Cynthia. Nikki. Lance. Mai. Roddy. Denisha. Ella Ross, Norma Bromwell, Bruce Bergman. He had come so close himself (and not to say he was out of the woods yet), but at least he was still breathing. He had survived while their blood, as Charlotte had put it, was on his hands.
“Tyrell?”
“Yeah?”
“Come here. I’ve got a…a mission for you.”
He motioned Tyrell to the bed and explained what he wanted him to do. Tyrell listened carefully, nodding at all the right places, and then grabbed his tattered shoes and strode to the edge of the room, pausing in the doorframe. “You gonna be all right?”
“Sure hope so.” Scott forced a grin.
“Remember,” Tyrell said. “We make it out of this, we can make it out of fucking anything.”
Tyrell disappeared, and Scott closed his eyes. A grin reappeared on his face, small at first, and then it broadened into a genuine smile. Less than a minute later, he was fast asleep.
____
“Pst. Pssssssssst. I did it. Just like you said.”
“Hmm?”
“Come on, everybody’s waiting.”
“Everybody?” Scott stirred, wiping the crust out of his eyes.
“Brynn saw me puttin’ the sticks together, and she said everyone should help. Come on, come on! Take a look.”
“Okay, okay,” Scott said, propping himself up with the speed and agility of a ninety-year-old man. Tyrell pointed at the window enthusiastically, and Scott’s gaze shifted to the view of Crownheart.
A shiver rushed through his body.
All of the camp’s other children were standing in a semicircle around the hut. In front of them, sticking out of the ground—not quite as high as their waists—was a grid of fifteen wooden crosses constructed from tree branches and neon-colored yarn. Each cross had a nametag slung over the top: one for every person who had perished there.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s perfect,” Scott said. He stayed quiet for a moment, then: “Got any sticks left?”
“Lots.”
He told Tyrell to bring him two branches and some yarn, which the boy obliged, and then he went to work stringing together his own creation with only one hand to aid him. When he finished, he wrote something on a blank tag and hung it over the cross. “Here. Put this with the others.”
“Sure,” Tyrell said, taking it from Scott. He got all the way to the door, then stopped. “Who’s Desiree?”
Scott surveyed the clearing as exhaustion seeped into his muscles for the thousandth time that day. “A friend.”
Tyrell left and reappeared on the other side of the window, approaching the ersatz cemetery, and stuck the cross in the ground. Brynn stepped forward and helped him push it deeper into the soil, and then the two of them stood back and assessed their work, reverent, as Scott closed his eyes once more.
Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a bus started honking.
33
Bert Hernandez picked his nose with his pinky finger and flicked a record-size hunk of snot into the bushes outside his window. Good for vegetation, he told himself. The seat’s springs cried out in agony as the bus driver adjusted his cramped legs side to side, but each squeak was promptly muffled under Mr. Hernandez’s gargantuan ass.
“C’mon, c’mon.” He leaned on the Greyhound’s horn, and the bus let out a rumbling hoooonk!
The man was more impatient than usual. The Yankees were playing the Nationals at seven, and his wife Melinda had assured him she’d have his favorite meal waiting on his
TV tray by the time he got back: chili in a bread bowl and a bottle of Bud Light on the left-hand side. Such pampering was also Melinda’s way of saying she was off her period, but, truth be told, Bert was more interested in seeing how Ellsbury was batting tonight than stepping up to bat himself. It’d been a rough morning—these gravel roads were a bitch on the hips and back—and home was at least another four-and-a-half hours away.
Honk! Hooooooonk!
The drawbridge didn’t budge.
He mumbled something to the effect of “deaf buggers” and undid his seatbelt (no small achievement for a man of Bert’s proportions) before popping open the driver’s door and stepping onto the running board. That was when he saw it: the emergency exit gate in one of the towers standing half open. I’ll be damned, he thought. Never noticed a side entrance before. They’re gettin’ sloppy.
He waddled forward and tapped the gate with his sausage-link fingers. A moment later, he emerged from the tower and lifted a hand over his eyes, squinting in the direction of Storybook Square.
The camp appeared calm and peaceful for all of three seconds. Then a tornado materialized in the east. Not a tornado, exactly, but I’ll be double-damned if it doesn’t look like the Tasmanian Devil whirling straight for me. He planted himself to the spot, and in less than a minute, dozens of children were swarming around him, some crying, some jumping, some grabbing onto him and shouting things that he couldn’t distinguish among the constant bleating and puling and sobbing. Only one adult accompanied them, a young girl—maybe nineteen or twenty—and she was crying too, demanding something about an ambulance over and over again.
