So I'm screwed.
The hum kicks up, the ever present reminder that my morals have no place in this life.
A door bangs closed. I slink around the side of the counselor cabin. Two kids head toward the building on the opposite side of the camp.
I trail them from a distance, thankful for the lamps on the front of each cabin since I didn't bring a flashlight.
My foresight is outstanding.
The kids enter the building, the door slamming behind them. I pick up my pace and go around the back. The only window is frosted. This must be the bathrooms.
A plan crops up in my head. It's a little devious, but I think that ship has sailed for me. Hell, I doubt that ship was ever in the harbor.
I rap on the window. Loudly.
A second of silence. Then the kids scream like something right out of a B-rated horror movie.
I expect the kids to go charging out of the bathroom, but they don't. They're just screaming. And screaming.
Good thing I'm not a serial killer out here with a chainsaw. These counselors are worthless.
I rap again. The screams sharpen.
The staff cabin erupts into chaos. The numbnuts have finally heard their charges wailing in terror.
Three of the counselors make a run toward the bathroom facilities. The other two break off and head for the sleeping cabins.
I squint. Robert is one of the two. He's making his way toward the far end. I bolt for the row. My lungs struggle with the thin air. I push forward, arching wide and coming up behind the cabin. Robert is inside. His voice carries, asking the kids if they are alright.
I crouch behind the building, then reach up and tap my knuckle against the window.
More screams.
I have to make this worth my effort. Make sure Robert reacts the way I want him to. So I beat my fist against the wall.
Robert yells, “Stay right here!”
The door slams at the front.
He bounces around the corner. I lunge up and sock him in the gut. He doubles over.
I grab the syringe from my jacket pocket, yank off the cap, and plunge it into his neck. He tries to rear up, but I swing my knee to his shoulder and shove down. He falters, then collapses.
I clench the back of his shirt and run. My God, I have never run so fast in my life. Uphill. Dragging all one-hundred and eighty thousand convulsing pounds. I think he's trying to struggle, but the drugs are swarming his veins.
At the top of the hill, panting and unable to breathe, I shove him hard. He tumbles down the other side. I hurry after him, my soles sliding on the pine needles.
His form is laying at the bottom of the hill. Just as I reach him, he jerks upright. Then he takes off.
“No, no, no! You're not supposed to run away!” I growl and charge after him.
He is obviously disoriented, because he's running from the camp and farther into the woods. Here's all the damn trees I wanted.
My hand goes to another syringe in my pocket. I have a brand new set, and I will use every last one to take this pissant down if I have to.
He stumbles on a log and falls into a tree. His head must be spinning. Mine is, and not just from the choir hum. The forest has that effect.
He glances at me. I leap on his back, knocking him to the ground. He tries to push up. I stab the syringe into his arm, followed by one more for good measure.
He falls flat on his face. Hopefully I didn't just kill the guy.
I crawl off and check that his chest is still moving. He's breathing, but his brain is offline. I drag him the rest of the way to my car and struggle to shove his limp body into the backseat.
This is a better workout than the gym.
Once he's shackled, I dodge around the car to the driver seat and floor it.
***
Robert is groaning and making generally unwell sounds in the back of the car by the time we reach the desert. His head rests against the passenger seat.
He mumbles something I can't make out. I suspect he's cursing me and all of my heirs.
Too late, buddy. Someone else got to that first.
He sits straight.
I jump, then glance at him in the rear view mirror. “How you feeling?”
His face is a little bloody. Some parcels are damaged during shipping. That's just how it goes.
“Fuck you,” he says, quite clearly.
“That's not a very camp-friendly mouth,” I say.
His eyes lower to his lap. He's just noticed the shackles.
He's either going to try break them like he thinks he's King Kong—some of my victims give an applause-worthy performance—or he's going to sink into despair. I have no preference. It's all reruns.
He clears his throat. “What the hell is going on?”
“You'll find out in a few minutes,” I say.
Something clunks me on the back of my head. My face hits the steering wheel. The car swerves and then slides down a shallow embankment.
I slam on the brakes, burst out of the car, and throw open the backseat. He tries to dodge out, but I shove him back and jab another needle into his arm. He twitches. I yank out the syringe from his flesh and stand, waiting.