Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 6 - The Campout [MH]

SCREAM: CAMP WATTPAD - QUARTERFINALS

Something new that Mick's learned since arriving at this camp is something he'd've rather gone without, but knows he'll be better off with in the long run, if ever he gets out of the wretched and clawing nature of Camp Azeban. No, it's not some fresh swimming skill. No, it's not how to properly start a fire in the middle of the woods without tossing all the trees into a blaze of heat. And, no, it's not the very advanced directions on how to create a stunning macaroni necklace in the arts and crafts section. He could make one of those with his eyes closed, honey.

It's that when people are afraid, they tend to crawl back into their little shells and wait out whatever it is they're afraid of if there's no option to flee. That's always been the way of lockdown drills in school (the last he's heard of the procedures, anyhow): if you can't get away, wait it out, real quiet and scared-like.

They sit, all of them, outside, lit wetly by the dry heat of a bonfire. Real quiet and scared-like. The mood shows easily from the little'uns, either shivering beside warmth or staring off with a dull deadness in their eyes no child should have in place of that special little glimmer characteristic of youth. Counsellors sit beside them with a similar look; they're different only in the sense that their expressions are thinly veiled by weak smiles and eyes that flick to every dark space between every dark cabin. They even reach out to rub the backs of the trembling campers. Apparently, legalities don't mean much when there's demons literally ravaging these earthly pleasures of theirs.

Earthly pleasures are certainly being taken advantage of here, Mickey notes, vacuuming in the soft tones and touches of two boys in the background. Fingers rush over knuckles over cheeks over skin. It's sickening to have to hear.

Even Jonah, a boy who's been relatively quiet sitting in the outdoor circle, lands his own strain of irritation in Mick's big 'ole scrapbook of 'em. He just looks at everybody - judging them - and whenever he comes full-circle and finds Mick staring he just presses his lips tight and nods and keeps on going 'til the thing happens all over again.

Mick can't stand it. Not the children, not the counsellors, not the lovers, not the watchers. None of it. They represent inaction - and Mick is a man of action. So, with a cough clearing his throat, he offers a little something up.

"How's about we all walk out down the road until we find someone?"

Maeva and Jeremy share a tight look, the former rubbing a little more roughly into the back of some kid with a quivering lip. She looks at him with one of those well-manicured and apologetic stares - the sort conditioned into counsellors to give to kids with dumb questions. That's how she looks at him: like he's just asked a dumb question. "There's nothing out there for miles, Mick. And it's night, and we don't know what's out there. It's just...not a good idea." With the suggestion thoroughly shut down, her chin bows, lips muttering hushed reassurances into the ear of the child beside her.

Mick means to continue his thought, to argue, but her soft tone weakens him, and his lips are left shifting uncomfortably over each other. The moment is lost. He leans back and rubs his lip with his thumb. This is pointless, he thinks. Anything I say they'll shut down. We'll just keep sitting here until something chops our fucking heads off. An aimless nod lifts his chin once, twice, throat tightening. "Okay."

And then he stands up. Knees crack and wobble, but he's there, standing stiff and strong. And he moves those legs, stiff and strong, but Jeremy calls after him. "Hey, you should get back here. So we can stick together, y'know, dude?"

Mick begins to descend the hill, but takes the time to reply with a roll of his eyes nobody behind him can see. "You wanna hold my dick when I go to the bathroom too, hon?" When no response comes - except for maybe a small noise of disgust from the younger generation - Mick lengthens his face into one of the flat and pissed variety and continues walking until he comes down to the very bottom of the hill, turns around the bend, and simply stops being seen.