By Kevin Shea
The young man dashed drunkenly down an unsteady forest path. His built torso and scrawny legs cast terrifying shadows in the moonlight.
Deeper and deeper he surged into the darkness. Branches whipped his cheeks, trying to hold him back. The uneven rocky path dislodged his footing and he stumbled, fought to regain his footing, and finally crashed. Mud splattered his face and drenched his clothing. The fast approaching shouts distracted him from the pain and quickly brought him to his feet. They were catching up.
The scuffle of sneakers on the path grew steadily louder. Both sides of the path provided possible exits: densely packed woods guarded his right, and the lake lay to his left; violent waves smacked the stones by his feet. The lakes cold hands reached out for him like psychotic fans at a concert.
He examined the forest again. With considerable effort he could bury himself deep in the belly of the woods, but they would find him eventually. He needed a distraction.
A glint in the dark grabbed his attention. A large rock, about two feet high and equally as wide, sat in the lake. The water soaked it with the crash of each wave. The young man squatted beside it, and grabbed the boulder with his tree-trunk arms. With a grunt he lifted the rock off the ground, spraying frigid lake water everywhere. The rock sailed in the air for several seconds before erupting into the lake. Immediately the young man turned and dashed into the woods.
Lights shot out from the trail. The man ducked behind the coat of a pine tree.
For what seemed an eternity, the chaotic mesh of lights gathered, spraying small beams of yellow light in all directions. A soft mumble could be heard coming in the direction of the lights, but the man’s gasps for air drowned out the actual words.
A deep voice punched the air, “You check the lake!”
Greg.
The young man almost sighed in disappointment but kept quiet.
“The rest of you come with me!”
With a final unintelligible scream, the stampede returned to pounding the wild trail. The young man waited until the beating dulled into a soft drone, and then returned to the trail. Instead of continuing in the same direction, he returned to where he had come: Camp Chinqotigue.
This is stupid, he thought to himself. But there was no other way, and he knew this. In order to live tomorrow, he had to go through hell tonight.
The hair on his neck stood erect. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. To better hear the snap of a twig or the stomping of feet, he slowed his pace considerably, pausing every few minutes to listen more carefully. He couldn’t be stopped now; he had just begun.
A shout from behind startled him. His gargantuan hands grabbed the nearest tree and cowered behind it.
The howl of the wind haunted the woods. Murky clouds loomed in the distance, threatening to devour the moon. Tree limbs staggered over pricker bushes and tick-infested ferns. The environment around him was very much alive, but no humans came rushing towards. He was safe, for now…
Kevin Shea
Kevin Shea is an editor and contributor for The Apollos. View his bio here!