Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 5 - Zombie Tag [MH]

SCREAM: CAMP WATTPAD - TASK FIVE

Look what you've done?

Look what you've done?

Look what you've done?

You've gone batshit is what you've done.

Mickey Haverin has never been one for games. In youth, grades second and third forced kids to occupy themselves indoors during recess, torn boxes yanked from high shelves and placed on a desk, where each snot-nosed student would congregate to either watch or compete. Monopoly, Sorry, Chutes and Ladders, they'd never interested Mick. A little girl came up to him, once, beads tightening her hair and pink dress ruffled at the knees. She'd asked him to play a game with her, and when he said no - politely, of course, he was no heathen child - she'd grabbed up his arm and tried to drag him along anyways.

In response, he'd swept the board right off the desk, and, to make matters worse, taken the piece she'd claimed, the green go-cart, and shoved it right down his pants. It earned him a time-out, but when it came to games, he wasn't playing around.

So when Mickey sat right firm beside Cabin Oak's back window, nose pressed up against the screen, and saw dark, quick movements flicking heavily from one distant tree to another, he was ready to fight just as hard against what could've either been a demonic entity or a very large raccoon as he did against that little girl with the pink dress.

"My gay ass ain't dying today, oh no, no it ain't." He said this with a tightening of his clammy hands about the base of a lamp, streaking sweat over the smooth ceramic. It glistened in a trail, and smelled just a bit, but nobody else seemed to give a shit, really.

Their numbers had been significantly diminished since the start of the camp - since Ryan'd gone, really (cold breath snatched him from warm sheets in the middle of the night, mere feet away, mere inches) - but technicalities didn't mean much anymore. Now it was just he, a boy who checked his watch to an incessant degree (albeit, the snooty attitude had toned itself down to a wary tremble), another boy who clung to the watchful one like a leech, which, considering his pallor, Mick wouldn't be surprised if he was literally absorbing the blood through their skin (maybe that's why he touches everybody so much!), and the little twinkish power bottom who'd dragged him through the lake and from the bathroom and did most of the dragging, really, except for that of queens.

It's not my optimal zombie survival team, Mick thought, casting a distasteful look over the busied cluster of Oak, but Momma always said you get what you get and you don't throw a fit. Then, hell, maybe I shoulda thrown fits. I wouldn't be here if I'd thrown fits.

Thought of Momma brought along an unprecedented round of knee-bobbing; she knew nothing, she knew nothing. Mick clutched the sharp corner of the table he'd drawn a chair up to. With the other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sad-looking cellular device, the screen protector nearly ripped off and bubbling up on the actual screen. He worked through the ugly to unlock it, then went to the little text bubble again. The stretch of loading brought teeth to lips, a steady grind.

To: Momma

I love you

The message still hadn't delivered; anger flushed up and through the fingertips, and soon the phone slammed face-first on the table, a grand slam reverberating throughout the cabin. He felt eyes on him - watchful and leeching and dragging - and lazily threw his head around to face them. "What?"

"Are you..." Tyler struggled to find the words, tongue pawing wetly at the air. "...okay?"

Mick swivelled on a chair without wheels, a quick gesture of fingers flinging forward. "I don't know, Ty, maybe you should ask Jack and Ennis over there instead."