Camp McClane

by Grant Fieldgrove

  Camp McClane

  By

  Grant Fieldgrove

  Copyright 2017

  Watch the Sky Media

  All rights reserved

  ISB 978-1548905064

  Published by Watch the Sky Media

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over or does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright 2017 by Grant Fieldgrove / Watch the Sky

  Cover Design by Miroslav Zubovic

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  First edition: October 2017

  A Very Important Message from the Author

  I grew up in the 80’s and horror movies were my favorite thing in the world. Even then, I knew most of them were terrible, but that didn’t stop me from loving them. To this day, the worse they are, the more I enjoy them.

  I wrote Camp McClane as a loving homage to these wonderfully awful flicks.

  Those movies would always have plot holes, they would always have nonsensical dialogue, they would introduce characters that you think might be important but turn out to be absolutely insignificant or forgotten completely, either due to incompetent direction, or more than likely, due to mandatory cuts made by the studio to get the runtime down to that precious 90 minutes. And they would always, always, have nudity and foul language and would NEVER be PC!

  I tried to write this book with the same heart and soul as those movies, and if you pay enough attention, you will catch the fun little plot holes and inconsistencies. These are here purposely, as well as all the little in-jokes only horror experts will catch.

  I’ve even formatted the book in a way that mimics watching one of these movies at home on your VCR. I added a few short stories as ‘previews’ before and after the ‘feature presentation.’ Feel free to ‘fast forward’ past them, but who knows what awesomeness you’ll be missing! Also, the font is a little bigger than normal due to the way VHS movies were always formatted to fit your square-ass, 200 pound 1980’s television, making everything look ridiculously zoomed in.

  I truly hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. My original intention was to write a Friday the 13th novel. There had been several written in the past but then they just kind of disappeared. I thought it would be fun to give them a reboot but I was having trouble getting the rights. New Line Cinema sent me to Paramount, Paramount sent me to some out of business publisher, they sent me back to Paramount who then sent me back to New Line Cinema where the cycle continued until I just said to hell with it and wrote this instead.

  So sit back, relax, and shut your brain down, because you won’t be needing it here.

  Happy reading, friends!

  -Grant Fieldgrove

  July 3, 2017

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  VICTIM

  Amber Howard stood at the podium, her mascara dripping from her eyes and streaking down her face, as she cries so hard it muffles her speech. I’m in the back row, standing room only, watching.

  All eyes on Amber. This is her big moment, her time to shine. Laid out in front of her is her dearly departed mom, tucked away in a seven-thousand dollar casket.

  Her dad is now taking the stage to sweep his daughter up in his arms and remove her from the stage.

  All eyes are still on Amber. That bitch.

  The funeral ends and we’re all lined up to offer our condolences, all these kids from our school, giving her attention, one after another until it’s my turn. I lean over, Amber dressed in all black, seated on a fold-up chair, and say, “You look beautiful.”

  This isn’t the first funeral I’ve ever been to before; in fact, it’s not even the first funeral I’ve been to this month.

  Haley Mirovich’s sister drowned in the family swimming pool and everyone at school showed up for that funeral, too. It was a closed casket affair because the body, I had heard, swelled up to three times her normal size. I knelt down to Haley and said the exact same thing.

  That bitch.

  But now it’s Amber’s time to shine. I take her hand in mine, give it a little squeeze, and then move along so the next in line can do the same.

  She’s still getting attention when the body is dropped into the ground, and blotchy make-up or not, she manages to look stunning as she bends down, grabs a handful of dirt, and tosses it down on her mom.

  She’s pulled herself together at the after-party. Yeah, the after-party, because that’s what high school kids do, there is an after-party for everything, and Amber is the guest of honor. She’s sitting on the sofa, so heartbroken, still getting attention. Simon McDaniel, the guy I’ve had a crush on since middle school, brings her a drink, a colorful little foo-foo number that seems oddly out of place at a high school party, but it’s what Amber wants. And today, whatever Amber wants, Amber gets.

  The girls I’m sitting with are all talking about how strong she is, how good she looks, how impressed they are she’s managing to keep it together so well. These are the same girls who called her an ugly slut two weeks ago and were absolutely relentless to her in the halls.

  Jerome Hughes, the ex-boyfriend of one of the girls I’m sitting with, joins Amber on the sofa and puts his arm around her. It’s not long before she’s retreating into the closest bedroom with both Jerome and Simon, leaving me to hear about how lucky she is.

  Lucky, I think. Her mom just died. I keep my mouth shut, though. As always. I bet none of these girls sitting around me even know my name.

  It’s Miriam Huff, by the way, and I’m a nobody, just like Amber was before her mother was nice enough to be sideswiped by a hit and run driver. My best friend, Sherry Walters, couldn’t make it, and I’m none too happy about that as these cackling hens around me continue to squawk about how great Amber is.

  A long hour later, the bedroom door opens and out walks Amber, wearing just her pink camisole and skirt, her shirt probably tossed in a corner. Her hair is tousled, what would probably be called sex hair, and she sits back down on the sofa, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. I have no idea where Simon or Jerome are or what they’re doing, but Sean Lucas, who I know from advanced algebra class, walks to the sofa and extends his hand to her, in it, a highball glass with a gold liquid and three ice cubes sloshing around. Amber smiles but doesn’t say thank you. She takes the drink and brings the glass to her lips just as Simon and Jerome walk out of the bedroom, fully dressed, with grotesque smiles practically disfiguring their faces.

  By the end of the night, Amber is so drunk she’s lying in the bathroom. I’m with her because no one else would be. The party is down to a few stragglers too drunk to drive home, or passed out on the floor, or doing God knows what behind locked doors, and here I am, alone in a bathroom with Amber, the woman of the hour, holding her hair back as she pukes into the toilet, and I’m jealous of her.

  I’m jealous of a girl whose mother just died.

  Amber’s back arches like a frightened cat’s and I prepare myself for another round of vomit. It comes fast and violently and I find myself holding her hair with one hand and the back of her skirt with my other, just to make sure she doesn’t go face first into porcelain.

  And that’s when I see it.

  A small piece of paper that fell out of the small back pocket of Amber’s way too short jean shirt. I wait for the heaves
to subside and I reach down and grab it. It looks like a business card, but only has two words written across it.

  VICTIMS INC.

  Below that, a phone number.

  I walked home alone that night.

  I’m in my room after kicking my nosey sister out, sitting on the corner of my bed, cell phone in one hand, the mysterious card in the other. It’s late and it would be stupid to call right now. Surely, they would be closed.

  But why not, I’ll leave a message.

  A man answers on the first ring and I’m not sure what to say so I just say hello.

  “Hello,” the man says. “How may I help you?”

  I still have no idea what to say, so I just tell him I got his number from a friend.

  “Excellent,” the man says.

  Silence.

  From outside the door, my sister is asking if she can come in. She’s always asking if she can come in and the answer is always the same. I have no idea how she manages to get in here while I’m gone. It’s the main reason I have to hide anything personal. It’s not my parents who snoop, it’s her.

  “Are you there?” the man asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m here.”

  “I can tell you are confused. Let me start by saying this call is encrypted and cannot be recovered or recorded. Also, I assume any friend who gave you this number trusts you, or else… Well, never mind. Did this friend tell you our operation?”

  “No,” I say and he tells me he doesn’t discuss anything with someone he’s never met. I end the call and set the card down on my desk. I’m asleep in minutes.

  The next day I am sitting in the waiting room of VICTIMS INC.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but after I filled out paperwork and showed valid I.D., they were digging up dirt on me, which, sadly, is in pretty short supply. I’m lead from the waiting room into an office and have a conversation with a well-groomed man in his early fifties. He tells me of the service they offer and he promises me I’ll be the most popular girl at school for at least a week. After that, it’s up to me to keep the attention trained on me.

  I nod.

  “How much does all this cost?” I ask.

  “Not a cent.”

  I tell him I don’t understand and he goes into detail about quenching a thirst and by the time I walk out of the office, I understand completely and am totally excited to get started.

  Now it’s my turn to shine. I’m wearing my best dress; my once perfect make-up is now a smeared mess, as I struggle through the tears.

  “Sherry Walters was my best friend,” I manage to choke out.

  All eyes are on me and I love it.

  “She didn’t deserve to die. She was too young, so full of life…and such a good swimmer, I just don’t understand how it could happen.”

  I say all this through an abundance of crocodile tears.

  Everyone in school is watching me. Simon is watching me. Sherry’s parents are watching me.

  So this is what being in the spotlight feels like.

  No one whisks me from the stage because I’m not ready for this to end yet.

  All these phonies are standing around, talking about how much they loved Sherry, but it’s all bullshit and everyone knows. Everyone knows she was my best friend, and no matter how much people try to share in the victimization, this is my day. My time to shine.

  And shine I do.

  At the party, it’s me on the sofa getting handed drinks.

  It’s me on the sofa with arms around my neck.

  It’s me locked in the bedroom with Simon and two other guys I hardly know.

  It’s me the girls are all jealous of, all talking about.

  It’s me. It’s all about me.

  And I love it.

  Three weeks later and here I am, lying in the street, my legs broken, but that doesn’t even matter because the spine injury isn’t letting me feel them. Blood is spilling from the several lacerations over my body, but the internal bleeding is far worse. My head is pounding like someone is smacking it with a hammer, over and over. I imagine that is my brain swelling, or maybe hemorrhaging.

  The truck that hit me drove off into the night but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who it was.

  Before I slip off into the forever sleep, the last thing I think of is how could I have been so stupid to leave that card out where my sister could find it.

  NARCISSIST

  Don’t fall asleep yet. I need you to know why I am murdering you.

  You remember me, don’t you?

  Of course you do.

  We went out on two dates about five years ago and I found you absolutely insufferable and stopped talking to you.

  Yeah, you remember. Of course you do.

  You ruined my reputation because you couldn’t stand that someone didn’t want to see you again. How could that be, right? How could someone not want to see you?

  Do you remember what you told everyone? Do you remember telling all your little friends that I was violent? That I had grabbed you hard by the arm and slapped your face? Do you remember saying that?

  You blocked me from all social media before you went on your little smear campaign, but it got back to me. Of course it did. That’s when I started doing some digging.

  Perhaps I should have done it before I even asked you out, but that’s not really my style. I’m not the jealous type and I’m certainly not the stalker type, but after a few dates with you, everyone sure thought otherwise, huh?

  I found out what you said about the guy you dated before me. You said he tried to rape you, but you successfully fought him off.

  Was that true?

  I also heard about the man who stalked you on the subway, who made you feel so unsafe that you contacted the transportation department via Twitter and filed a complaint, then retweeted their response to you so everyone would know.

  Was it even true? Or did some guy just smile at you while on the train? Or maybe he gave you his seat just to be a gentleman…

  Always a victim. Always the hero, you are.

  This wasn’t hard to find, you put it out on social media for the world to see. Scratch that, you put it out there for everyone to see except the people you smeared. You blocked them first, of course.

  Are your lies conscious or unconscious? Who is the real psychopath here?

  The list of people goes on and on, the people who have wronged you, stalked you, hit you and threatened you, and they’re all bullshit. Of course they are. Because you always have to be the victim. You always have to be the one with the rock solid reputation. It doesn’t matter whose reputation you trash as long as yours gets built higher and higher.

  Open your eyes, dear. I’m not done yet. I need you to stay awake.

  You see, I was pretty pissed when I heard what you were saying about me. And I was really pissed when I saw you had done it many times before and probably many times since.

  You see, this is a classic narcissistic tendency, so I can’t really blame you for the way your sad little brain works. I was going to let it slide, try and just let it go, stew in my anger for a while before it eventually faded away.

  But you couldn’t let it go. You couldn’t let it go.

  You kept tabs on me and when I started dating someone else, someone who I genuinely liked, you contacted her. You contacted her and told her I had been hitting on you behind her back. And she believed you. I don’t know why she did, but she believed you and she left.

  And for what? What reasoning? Because I had the audacity to not want to date you? Because I rejected you and your narcissistic little mind couldn’t cope?

  Well, my dear, that was the last straw.

  I tracked down all your old boyfriends, even the ones you had since our two little dates, and guess what…

  That’s right. You trashed their reputations because they didn’t want to see you anymore.

  Can you feel this? If you can, you might be a little confused as to why I’m making you hold a shovel. I need you to get
a splinter or two, then we’ll move on. This might sting a bit.

  Don’t worry. This will all make sense in a minute.

  Anyway.

  Everyone always believes the sweet little female victim, right? Your precious reputation remains intact as everyone else in your path’s crumbles.

  Here, prop yourself up on this pillow. You don’t want to miss this part.

  As far as revenge goes, I don’t think killing the person is very creative. It’s lazy and there is no real sense of justice. It’s simply you’re alive one second and dead the next…and then what?

  No no, that’s not good revenge. Want to know what good revenge is? It’s patience and planning. It’s a complete architecture design of pain. And that’s what I’ve done. And before you die, I want you to know all about it. I’ve let you be the victim long enough. I’ve let your ego and reputation swell to epic proportions, but now it’s time for it to all burst.

  Remember when you’re brother died?

  Of course you do. Silly question.

  The medical examiner wrote that off as a severe asthma attack, if you recall? Poor guy had been struggling with that terrible annoyance his whole life. But, you want to know a secret? It was no asthma attack.

  It was Abrin. I won’t go into details about how the poison works, but once it is inhaled, it causes respiratory failure. May not be so fatal to someone with healthy lungs, but with your poor brother, it only took a few minutes.

  I broke into his house while he slept and held it under his nose. I watched him wake up coughing, struggling for breath. He saw me holding his inhaler just out of reach. When he hit the ground, I put it in his hand and showed myself out.

  Now, that’s good revenge. You were devastated, and rightfully so. I saw you turn to social media again and gather all the sympathy you could get. Once again, you were the innocent victim, the poor girl who needs all the support in the world. The woman of the hour.