by Scott McEwen
Mackenzie arched an eyebrow at the boy. “Hungry, eh?” he said and reversed the motors. The boat eased up to the dock. Mackenzie looped a bowline around a post and held the boat fast. “Welcome to Camp Valor, Wyatt. I wish you luck.”
“He’ll need it.” Hallsy brushed past Wyatt, slung a large backpack onto his back, and stepped up onto the dock. Wyatt followed, wobbling as his body adjusted from the swaying boat to firm land.
Hallsy strode briskly up the little hill toward the lodge. Wyatt hurried behind, sweat dripping down his back as the day suddenly transitioned from cool to hot. They reached a porch at the top of the stairs and pushed through a screen door.
The lodge was divided into three main areas. A simple Mess Hall with long wooden tables was immediately to Wyatt’s left. Beyond the Mess Hall was a large den with a massive fireplace and a meeting area, decked out in bearskin rugs and memorabilia—snowshoes, flint knives, canoe paddles, and college pennants. Straight ahead was the kitchen and maintenance area with saloon doors—one marked “In,” the other “Out.” And directly to his right was a wall lined with photographs.
Wyatt scanned the lodge and noticed it was completely empty, the tables cleared and cleaned. Only the smell of breakfast and Pine-Sol hung in the air.
Hallsy checked his watch. “Damn. Just missed breakfast. Guess we wait for lunch.”
Wyatt inadvertently groaned.
Hallsy gave him a sympathetic look. “Never mind. This way.” He headed for the kitchen. Wyatt followed, casually glancing at the photographs that hung on the wall to his right: individual portraits of teenage boys and girls and, at the bottom of each portrait, a plaque.
No names were inscribed in the plaques, just a year and a short phrase. A photo per year going all the way back to 1941. Wyatt read an inscription.
1987
DEMONSTRATED REMARKABLE BRAVERY, COOL-HEADEDNESS, AND CARE FOR HER FELLOW CAMPERS UNDER EXTREME DURESS.
“Who are these people?” Wyatt asked, pointing to the portraits.
“Valor Wall. The Top Camper from each summer gets a plaque.”
Wyatt noticed that translucent black fabric had been hung over several of the portraits like veils. “Why are some photos covered?”
“If the photo is covered, it means they are gone.”
“You mean dead?” Wyatt asked.
Hallsy pushed through the “In” door. “C’mon. Food is this way.”
As soon as his nose entered the kitchen, Wyatt smelled new scents: garlic and fish and sourdough bread. And finally he saw people, but not campers. In the back, an old punk rocker in a tank top and an apron chopped garlic and filleted fish, headphones on, Sex Pistols—“God Save the Queen”—blasting in his ears. He had a short Mohawk and an ear full of rings and looked Indian. Needless to say, with the music shrieking, he didn’t hear Wyatt and Hallsy enter. Nearer to them, an older woman hovered over a wooden cutting board, rolling dough.
“Excuse me, Mum,” said Hallsy with more politeness than Wyatt had seen to date. “Is there any breakfast left that we might have?”
“Just tossed the last of it into the compost bin.” Without looking up, the old woman jutted her chin toward a giant trash can, the last bits of a magnificent brunch mixed in with eggshells, bacon grease, and dirt. Worse, the remains of industrial coffee filters had been dumped on top of it all, creating a small mountain of coffee over everything.
“Eric,” the old lady said without looking up. “With the start of the summer, it’s all we can do to keep up with the regular scheduled meals. You know better than to ask.”
“You’re right. Sorry, Mum.” Hallsy wandered over the trash can. “Mind if we scrounge on this?”
“The garbage? Go ahead.”
Hallsy poked through the food pile. “C’mon. You’ll want to dig in. Got a little hike ahead of us.” He brushed coffee grounds off the top of the heap.
“I’ll wait ’til lunch.”
“Suit yourself, Wyatt.”
The woman stopped rolling. She glanced back, blowing the strands of gray hair falling in her eyes. “So you’re Wyatt?” she said.
Hallsy fished a half-eaten biscuit out of the can. “In the flesh.” He blew off some flecks of egg and took a bite.
The old lady dusted her hands off on her apron. “I was wondering when you’d join us.” She stepped to the counter and extended a bony hand. “You can call me Mum.”
Wyatt reached out, took her hand, and felt thin skin around swollen, arthritic knuckles.
“I’m the director’s wife,” she said. “My job is to see that everyone here—at least while in camp—is fed and reasonably well taken care of.”
Her large, wet, blue-turning-gray eyes looked Wyatt over, holding on Wyatt’s prison jumpsuit, the trickle of blood seeping down his chest and his bruised face. “And it looks like you are in need of some taking care of. Tell you what. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll throw something together.”
Hallsy tossed his biscuit into the pile and spat out his mouthful. “Now you tell us!”
* * *
The “something” Mum threw together turned out to be a breakfast feast: fluffy eggs, bacon, fresh buttermilk biscuits with gravy and jam. Wyatt just scooped, chewed, and swallowed blissfully, not saying a word. Hallsy did the same.
Neither seemed to notice that Mum had left the kitchen and returned to the table with an armful of clothing. “Campers over the years tend to leave things,” Mum said, setting the pile down on the table next to Wyatt. A pair of cargo shorts, belt, what looked like an original Tony Hawk T-shirt—a thick reddish plaid wool shirt like the one Mackenzie wore—underwear, socks, and a pair of L.L.Bean duck boots.
The clothes were clean and neatly folded but looked old and smelled musty. Gauging by the Tony Hawk T-shirt, they were maybe thirty years old.
“This shirt is totally vintage,” Wyatt said. “Are you sure you want me wearing it?”
Mum scowled. “I’m sorry they aren’t the latest fashion.”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way,” Wyatt said, realizing he had offended the woman. “It’s a super-cool shirt. Tony Hawk is a legend. What I mean is the shirt is vintage. I know guys who collect this stuff—or try to anyway. This is worth … two hundred bucks on eBay. Maybe more. I could sell it for you.”
“You won’t have time for that,” she said, smiling. “So long as it fits you should wear it. Go ahead, try it on.”
“Okay.” Wyatt unzipped his prison jumpsuit, glad to get out of it. He put the shirt on, and it fit just the way he liked it. A little roomy. But just fine. “Perfect,” he said. “But if you change your mind, let me know.”
“Sure.” Mum nodded and turned toward the kitchen. Then she swiveled back to the table, hesitating a bit. “You might also want this.” She drew a fixed-blade knife, in a leather sheath, out of her apron. It was an old Buck knife with a pearl grip. Someone had taken good care of it. The leather was soft, the blade razor sharp.
“Mum, you can’t do that,” Hallsy protested. “He hasn’t even qualified yet!”
“He will,” she said. “I am certain of that.”
Hallsy shook his head. “Not even through the morning and you’re already spoiling him.”
* * *
Hallsy stepped out from the kitchen onto a dirt path, heading toward the imposing hill in the center of the island. Wyatt tailed him, eyeing the cabins off to the right where he saw more signs of camper life—clothes hanging from porch railings, rucksacks leaning in cabin doorways, tents spread out to dry on a patchy, athletic field, a faintly smoldering fire pit—but still, no campers.
The sun was hot and the sky completely cloudless, robin’s- egg blue. Wyatt was relieved when the path cut up into the shaded forest, lush with waist-high ferns, giant outcroppings of bedrock, and tall pine trees. A thick mat of fallen needles carpeted the forest floor.
Even though the air was cooler in the forest, they were moving quickly and Wyatt took off his new long-sleeved shirt and tied it around his waist
. He felt the gentle swing and tap of the sheathed knife against his side as he walked. The sheath, which hung from the belt Mum gave him, was leather. And when Wyatt slipped it onto the belt, he noticed a faded patch, a thick notch in the belt where a knife had hung before and worn into the leather. It was possible that this notch could have been from another knife, but Wyatt did not think so. Both the clothes and the knife had come from the same camper, Wyatt was pretty sure of that.
The ground they covered gradually became steeper. The rock outcroppings grew more prevalent, transforming into cliffs. As they hiked toward such a cliff, a girl came out from behind it, running down the narrow path toward them. Finally, a camper, Wyatt thought. And a cute camper at that—tall, dark hair, about seventeen years old. She wore skimpy track shorts and a tank top and carried something slung over her shoulder. It looked like a yoga mat or a bedroll.
“Morning, Dolly,” said Hallsy.
“Morning, Sergeant Hallsy.” The girl nodded to the thing slung on her shoulder. “Equipment malfunction. Be right back.”
“Roger.”
Dolly jogged toward Wyatt, watching him warily. As she got closer, Wyatt could see her face more clearly. He could now see she was very pretty, strikingly so, which he didn’t expect to find at a work camp for juvenile delinquents.
“Mind giving me a little room?” she asked, nodding to the path where Wyatt stood blocking her way. Wyatt blushed, realizing he’d been standing and staring at her dumbly.
He stepped aside, and as she darted past Wyatt saw that the thing on her shoulder was a … rocket launcher.
Wait, Wyatt thought. What did I see? She can’t be carrying a rocket launcher.
He looked back at Dolly hurrying down the path. Perched on her shoulder was a green-and-black four-foot tube with an eyesight, handgrip, trigger, and shoulder strap. He’d seen many like it in news stories from Afghanistan and Iraq and in the war movies he’d watched with his dad. And yes, this Dolly, who looked like she’d trotted out of the pages of a Reebok catalogue, had a weapon that could down a plane jangling off her shoulder just like a yoga mat.
“Put your tongue back in your mouth,” Hallsy called back from the far side of the cliff. “We need to hurry.”
“But, was that a bazooka?” Wyatt’s jaw hung open.
“Stinger missile.”
Before Wyatt could get words out Hallsy cut him off. “Save your questions … you’ll have more soon. Trust me.”
* * *
Keeping pace with Hallsy’s long stride had Wyatt gushing sweat, and he welcomed the fresh breeze that kicked up near the top of the hill. It cooled his skin and his lungs, which burned, as did his eyes. Behind them lay an endless spread of green islands and blue water. They were in the middle of a vast and largely uninhabited archipelago. When he had signed the waiver, he thought that if things went bad, he could run away. Looking out at this wilderness, Wyatt now knew that escape was impossible. There was no turning back; whatever awaited Wyatt at Valor he’d have to meet, head on.
Ahead rose the final ridge leading to the peak. Hiking it, Wyatt crested the rise with his head down, putting one foot in front of another and—in this way—he almost tumbled straight off the sheer rock face to his death.
The ridge simply dropped straight down into a deep, vast chasm. Wyatt staggered back.
“Whoa there,” said Hallsy, grabbing onto Wyatt’s Tony Hawk T-shirt. “Easy, brother.”
Wyatt could see the cliff face was in fact part of a long, jagged edge forming the circumference of a giant crater sunk deep into the center of the island, two miles in diameter and several hundred feet deep.
Outside of Millersville, where he grew up, Wyatt had seen his fair share of open-pit mining operations.
“Is that a strip mine? Or a quarry?” Wyatt asked.
“Caldera.” Hallsy crouched over his backpack, drinking water from a bottle. “The island that we are on is an ancient volcano, long extinct. Or so we hope.” He winked and passed Wyatt his water bottle.
Wyatt drank and peered down into the crater. The rocky sides of the caldera dropped steeply into the basin, which was thickly blanketed in lush plant life and dotted with natural pools of crystal-clear water. Woven into the greenery was an obstacle course, shooting range, pool, soccer field, climbing wall, airstrip, landing pad, hangar, a hodgepodge of military vehicles (tank, jet, drone, dune-buggies, etc.), and—yes—campers. They roved across the compound like ants.
“What is this place?” Wyatt asked.
“Told you. It’s the Caldera. Some of us call it the Sugar Bowl.”
“I mean, what goes on here?”
Hallsy made a calming gesture. “Just wait. Get it all at once.”
They heard a buzzing sound, quiet at first, then swiftly growing louder. A large hovercraft-style drone shot up out of the Caldera.
Hallsy groaned, “Security drone, hold still.”
The drone whizzed right up to Wyatt, which was unnerving enough, but what really freaked Wyatt out was that suspended from its belly was a small cannon, consisting of a large-caliber rifle with a pan of ammunition—like a flying tommy-gun aimed directly at Wyatt’s face.
“Halt. You are trespassing on U.S. government property,” said a voice from the drone, tinged with an odd accent.
A round of ammunition rotated out of the pan and into the firing chamber.
“Hallsy,” Wyatt said, panicking. “What is happening?”
The drone continued, “Put your hands behind your head and lie face down immediately.”
Wyatt dropped the bottle, and the water glugged out. He raised his hands and began to put himself on the ground. Hallsy stepped between Wyatt and the drone.
“Avi,” Hallsy said in an exasperated tone. “He’s a new camper. He’s starting late, so he hasn’t been through indoc. Take it easy.”
“I do not have any biometric data on this individual.”
“I know. I told you, he just got here.”
“This is not standard protocol. We need to resolve this as soon as you reach base camp or I will revoke your security clearance.”
“Fine. Take it to the Old Man.”
The drone backed away, then buzzed toward Hallsy. “Remove your glasses,” said the strangely accented voice.
“Avi, you’re going to scan me?” Hallsy half-laughed, backing away. “Dude, you can see it’s just me.” Hallsy put on a phony smile. “Your good ole buddy, Hallsy.”
“I don’t care how long I know you. I have no buddies. It’s how I keep us safe and secret. Don’t move.” The craft simply swooped and then hovered inches from Hallsy’s face. Hallsy’s beard ruffled in the wind from the drone’s rotors.
Hallsy removed his sunglasses, and a green light from the drone passed over his right eye.
“Hallsy, next time you violate protocol, I will have no choice but to commence with security measures.”
“Yeah, thanks a lot, pal.”
“It’s not my fault you are sloppy. And you know better than anyone what sloppiness can do.”
Hallsy suddenly looked angry, for-real angry. “Say that to my face when you’re not hiding behind a drone.”
“Yeah, right,” the drone said before banking sharply and racing back into the Sugar Bowl.
“Camp security is not my favorite department.” Hallsy kicked at the dirt. “One day I might take one of those drones and make Avi eat it.”
“Avi? Avi sounded like he had an accent,” said Wyatt.
“Good ear. Former Mossad.” Hallsy picked the bottle off the ground, wiped off the dirt, and screwed the top back on. “Israeli intelligence. He’s our new head of security.”
“New? Sounds like you’ve known each other for a long time,” Wyatt said.
“I worked a bit with Avi’s brother. Didn’t go well.” Hallsy looked off. “Anyway, don’t let Avi’s lack of charm get to you. He’s very skilled and disciplined. But by nature, he’s paranoid, deadly, and meticulous. Not a fun combo. Come on. There are people waiting to see you
.” Hallsy slung his pack onto his shoulders and headed downhill.
* * *
The further Wyatt descended into the Caldera, the more surreal it became. On the soccer field, he saw a slight, eleven-year-old girl in intense hand-to-hand combat with a bear of a man. He must have been two hundred and fifty pounds, and he was trying to club her with a baseball bat. As hard as he could. A group of children watched and Wyatt was pretty sure—or at least he hoped—that the man was her instructor, because he was swinging at her with all his might, trying to take her head off. And if he connected on a swing, with the size of her head, it might just work. And yet this girl was dodging the blows, lashing out at him with incredible speed, and handily beating him.
On the shooting range, a teenage boy looked on as an instructor showed him how to use a flame-thrower to incinerate a car. A couple rows over, a young girl launched grenades at a mud hut, like one you’d see in the middle of Afghanistan.
Wyatt now realized that what he had seen from the boat—the stuff he thought was mist or smoke rising above the ridgeline—was a mix of burning car and hand grenades.
As Wyatt and Hallsy approached a picnic area, they came upon a girl about Wyatt’s age, with short hair and soft features. She was hovering over a rough-hewn wooden table. Sweat poured from her face and ran into her eyes as she focused on something that sat right in front of her; Wyatt imagined it was a knot or some kind of puzzle, but he couldn’t see it.
“What’s that girl doing?” he asked Hallsy.
“Let’s take a look.” Hallsy walked closer, motioning for him to follow. As they approached, a female came out from a shady spot. At first, Wyatt thought it was Dolly, she looked so similar. Then he realized this girl was older and clearly an instructor. Like Dolly, she was very pretty and in exceptional shape, but there was something harder about her. She walked directly toward the table, holding a stopwatch in her left hand, and did not turn to acknowledge Hallsy or Wyatt.
Hallsy motioned Wyatt to stop. “Can we approach?” he asked the instructor.
“Just be quiet,” she said and motioned them forward. As she did this, Wyatt noticed that her right hand and part of her forearm were missing and the entire right side of her body was laced in fine scars. She wore wraparound sunglasses, and Wyatt was pretty sure her right eye was fake. Something about the way it didn’t move.