Frenzy

by Robert Lettrick

  The stallion was snorting and bucking, smashing the barrel of its body against thin tree trunks as it tried to round on Quinn inside a section of tightly grouped saplings. Its bridle snagged on a branch. It whinnied and jerked its head from side to side, twisting the branch like a corkscrew, but the bridle stayed fast. The horse was stuck. The attack stalled, but the damage had been done. Quinn’s body was bent in a weird position on the ground beneath the beast.

  “It killed him!” Dunbar wailed. “Oh, man! It killed him!”

  “Is that one of the camp’s?” Sylvester asked, slightly crouched, staring in disbelief.

  “It’s Onyx,” Emily choked as she identified the stallion. “He was still in the arena when we left. He was fine. It was Sweet Pea that was acting weird.”

  “I just rode him,” Dunbar said numbly.

  The group was transfixed, barely there, their ­bodies heavy and leaden like statues. All except for Will, who was always moving forward. “You guys can stand here and wait for that thing to free itself,” he said. “I’m gone.” Will ­continued on down the trail toward the buildings.

  Most of the others soon followed, but Emily was rooted in place and Heath couldn’t leave her. Horses were her world. He knew there was a part of her that could only ever see Onyx as the camp’s pet, but that version of the horse was gone now and Heath needed to get her away from him quickly.

  “We have to go, Em,” he said softly.

  “Heath…”

  “Em…the wolves. We have to go.”

  Her eyes met his. He hated to see her crying. He hated to see anyone crying as a rule, but especially Emily. He didn’t know her well, but from casual observation—okay, maybe more than casual—she seemed very mature. Maybe that had something to do with her equestrian training. ­Controlling a half-ton animal probably took a level of self-discipline that other girls Emily’s age didn’t need to develop so soon. ­Seeing her cry affected him. It made him feel like crying, too, and that made him uncomfortable. After his last doctor visit, he’d promised himself he’d never cry again. Besides, with three campers dead, likely more, he figured there’d be a monsoon of tears in the camp before the day was over.

  “Okay?” he said.

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her velvet riding glove. “Okay.”

  They ran to catch up to the others.

  Emily looked back twice.

  The others were too far ahead to catch, except for Emma, who had doubled back to find her sister. She scolded Emily as they ran.

  Farther up the trail, things went from bad to worse.

  The camp was under siege. Animals were everywhere, streaking across the grass, up and down trees, across the plank porches of the buildings. Some were ramming their heads against the windows or clawing madly at the glass. They were all going berserk. The horrific scale of their situation became apparent.

  “It’s not just some of the animals,” Heath said, chills running down his spine. “It’s all of them. They’re coming from the forest in droves.”

  “Look out!” Emma shrieked.

  Above them, a raccoon rappelled headfirst down a spruce, sending a shower of bark bits down onto their heads. The creature hissed, then, hanging on to the tree trunk with its back paws, reached out at them. Each paw had five twiggy fingers that looked eerily human. The raccoon’s mouth gaped wide, revealing two rows of pointed teeth dripping with saliva. Its fur was filthy, covered in burrs and bits of leaves. Perfectly round eyeballs, fit to burst from the animal’s black bandit mask, were wild with rage.

  The raccoon clawed at the top of Emily’s equestrian helmet, scratching the felt as she ducked under the animal. It jumped to the ground and chased them, but they were too fast, and it quickly gave up and rocketed up another tree.

  As they came to the edge of the lawn in front of the main lodge they finally caught up to the others.

  “Look!” Cricket pointed. “It’s not just the wolves! Everything in the forest is trying to kill us!”

  “We know!” said Heath. “They’re everywhere!”

  Kids were running in all directions, screaming and clutching one another, pushing, pulling, and tripping as they were chased by dozens of small animals, mostly squirrels, but Heath also spied a woodchuck and possibly a chipmunk or a rat.

  Even more horrifying were the ten or more bodies sprawled prostrate across the lawn. They were all covered with the same purple pattern of infection Heath had seen on Rich and Saul. Heath spied the only dead adult among the slaughter, a young woman slumped in a protectoral position over the body of a little girl.

  “That’s Katey.” Heath pointed out the assistant camp director. Every morning it was Katey who led the kids in prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance. She was the closest thing to a chaplain the camp had, and the only staff member Heath had willfully trusted with his secret. She was so easy to talk to and had a way of getting you to spill your guts. And now hers were—

  “Oh God,” Emily whimpered. “Poor Katey.”

  “There’s Billy from our cabin,” Cricket nodded toward a boy not much taller than himself who was wearing a Ben 10 T-shirt and yellow swim trunks. He was on his back, staring up at the sky with empty eyes.

  “And Javier…Jenny…Levi…”

  “Ugh, the flies are already—”

  “Where’s Levi? I don’t see—”

  “He’s there…and over there.”

  Dunbar dry heaved, but mercifully held down his lunch. They didn’t need half-digested pizza added to the carnage.

  “Thumper!” Floaties shouted.

  The group scanned the lawn for Thumper’s body, and when they couldn’t find it, they followed Floaties’s line of sight and saw that Thumper was alive and running toward them farther down the trail. He was still a ways off, waving his arms frantically in front of his face. They couldn’t hear what he was yelling, but they didn’t need to. They could see why he was running for his life. Barkly was chasing Thumper and quickly closing the gap. Any negative feelings Heath may have had toward the kid were gone; they were all in this together—whatever this was.

  “Run, man!” Heath yelled to Thumper. “Don’t stop! Just run!”

  “Run!” the twins added their warnings.

  Heath and Floaties picked up rocks and charged down the path with the intent of stoning the rabid dog before he could kill Thumper. They threw and both rocks narrowly missed. There was no time for another try. Barkly caught up to Thumper and the small dog bit into the flesh of his calf. Thumper’s face hardened into a squinched mask of pain as purple tendrils crisscrossed his skin, snaked up his neck, and filled his contorted face so completely that only his eyes and teeth remained untinted. He fell backward, landing on top of Barkly, pinning the dog under his weight. Barkly was growling and pawing at the ground, trying desperately to crawl out from under ­Thumper’s body.

  Heath was positive that Thumper was dead, but for Floaties this fact wouldn’t register. “Get away from him!” he roared, picking up a huge rock and hurling it like a shot put at Barkly. Floaties missed a second time. The rock thudded in the dirt next to Barkly, drawing the dog’s attention and fury to their group. He dug his claws into the ground and struggled even harder to free himself. Barkly snapped his jaws at Floaties, exposing black-spotted gums and two rows of sharp teeth, reminding Heath that even a dog as typically friendly as a beagle could rip a man’s throat out if it wanted to.

  Heath threw an arm around Floaties’ neck, which took a jump to accomplish, as the boys were so mismatched in height. Floaties barely noticed the added weight. He carried Heath toward Barkly. The dog had managed to free one shoulder blade. If he escaped, Heath knew he would attack them next.

  “Help me!” Heath called out desperately to the others. “I can’t hold him!”

  Sylvester, Dunbar, Cricket, and the Ems ran to him and swarmed Floaties, grabbing his arms and legs.
Everyone was yelling, ordering him to stop. Still, he continued to inch on toward the dog, dragging them forward, too.

  “Help us, Will!” Heath cried to his cabinmate, but Will didn’t move. He seemed paralyzed, staring at them with no emotion on his face whatsoever.

  Finally Floaties dropped to one knee. Their combined weight was wearing him down. “Get off me, you idiots!”

  “He’s dead, man!” Heath tightened his choke hold. “Thumper’s dead, I promise. Please….”

  With a yelp of pain, Barkly squeezed his rear half out from under Thumper. The group, including Floaties, froze as the beagle approached them, crouching low, his back and tail raised. A hateful, guttural growl came from somewhere deep inside the dog. He fixed his gaze on Floaties’s right thigh. Heath knew these were behavior signs that the dog was about to attack.

  “You guys get ready to run,” Heath whispered. “I’ll hold him off.”

  Before Barkly could lunge, Uncle Bill, Marshall, and twenty or more campers charged from the far side of the lodge with water guns, shouting loudly like an army of Vikings. They surrounded Barkly and shot him with streams of water. The dog lifted his head high, bayed in agony, then flopped sideways to the ground and died.

  Uncle Bill turned away from his beloved pet, dropped his squirt gun to the grass, placed his hands on his knees, and puked baked beans and hot dog chunks onto the lawn.

  The kids released Floaties. While the others tried to comfort him, Heath knelt down beside Marshall, who was checking Thumper for a pulse.

  “Well?” Heath asked, already certain of the answer.

  Marshall shook his head in frustration. “He’s dead. The bites are lethal every time.”

  “You killed Barkly with water, just like I killed the porcupine. I thought you said—”

  “I was wrong,” Marshall admitted.

  It’s the rabbit in the cage effect, Heath thought. Fear was the killer. “If it worked on Barkly, maybe it’ll do the same with the wolves—”

  “Wait—you saw wolves?” Marshall glanced around nervously.

  “Yeah, we were attacked by a pack of grays. They killed two campers. They’re here somewhere.”

  “Maybe Uncle Bill was right,” Marshall said. “Maybe those people are responsible for this.”

  “Who, Marshall? Who are you talking about?” Heath asked.

  “Them. Downriver. The virus kills so quickly. There’s nothing natural about it.”

  Heath was frustrated by the vagueness of the response, but there was no time to press him.

  Uncle Bill had picked himself up and was ready to take charge again. “Okay, everyone,” the camp director said shakily, “let’s get inside the lodge. It’s not safe out here. Are we ready?”

  “Bill, I don’t think the lodge is safe either,” Marshall objected. “The windows are old, held in place mostly by caulk. There’s a crawl space under the floorboards. The roof hasn’t been inspected in—”

  “Nonsense,” Uncle Bill said with a dismissive wave. “It’s sturdy enough, and it’s the only building that will fit everyone inside. We’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

  Heath would have preferred for Marshall to lead them. Running a summer camp was one thing; surviving a bloodthirsty assault by rabid animals was another. Marshall seemed more collected and he knew a lot about the disease. But there was an order to things at the camp, and even in this unprecedented situation, Marshall fell back and allowed Uncle Bill to take charge.

  The campers, including Heath and his group, followed the two men toward the main lodge, firing their squirt guns at squirrels that attempted to ambush them as they marched across the grass. They’d made it to the steps when they heard the thudding of hooves hitting the ground. A herd of deer thundered down the trail, across the lawn, and directly into the line of campers. Their leader, an enormous buck, lowered his head, aiming at one of the kids. Marshall jumped between them and the buck caught him square in his wicked antler rack, skewering the man upon the points and carry­ing him away from the group. The flocking doe knocked several campers down, but continued running, staying close behind the buck that had fixated his attack on Marshall. It happened in an instant and all the kids could do was watch.

  Uncle Bill stood there, his mouth agape, stunned into useless rigidity. The screaming campers ran past him, up the stairs, and through the double doors of the lodge.

  On the porch, Heath looked around for Will. He saw him racing down a dirt path toward the small, ­shoe box–shaped building between the main lodge and the Dray River.

  “Will!” Heath called after him.

  “Where’s he going?” Dunbar asked.

  “The canoe livery,” Heath replied. “He has to be. There’s nothing else in that direction.”

  “What’s Will after?” Cricket asked. “Wait—do they keep guns there?”

  “Of course not,” Emma snapped. She and Emily were holding hands, waiting for their turn to squeeze into the lodge. “This is a summer camp for kids! How unsafe would that be?”

  Heath, the Ems, Cricket, Sylvester, and Floaties watched Will as he disappeared down the bank where the lawn sloped sharply away.

  “Something’s up,” Heath said. “He’s not the type to risk his life needlessly. If he’s after anything, I’d say it’s probably his own survival.”

  “Good riddance,” Floaties growled. “Useless.”

  The group was being jostled along toward the doors by a sea of panicked campers. Heath knew he’d be swept inside in seconds, and once inside there’d be no leaving the lodge, on Uncle Bill’s orders.

  “No! We have to follow him,” Heath said, pushing back against the crowd. “Will must know something we don’t. If it was safe inside the lodge, he would’ve been the first inside.”

  “Maybe he’s right,” Emily said, and Emma nodded in agreement.

  “Will’s smart,” Dunbar pointed out. “He knows things,”

  “You’re all nuts,” Floaties snorted. “I’m going in.”

  “I can’t stop you,” Heath said, “but I’m going to the livery.”

  “Me too!” Cricket weighed in.

  “Okay, let’s go.” Heath began to weave his way back through the crowd and thumped down the steps, followed by Emma, Emily, Dunbar, Sylvester, and Cricket.

  The lawn was a blanket of corpses, but the animals had scattered to attack other areas of the camp. The coast was clear. The group ran down the trail toward the canoe livery as fast as their legs would carry them. Their route was an obstacle course of bodies.

  “There’s so many…” Emily choked, slowing, scanning for foot placement as if she were tiptoeing through a minefield. “I—I can’t help stepping on them.”

  “Don’t think about it, Em. They can’t feel it,” Heath said, coaxing her back into a sprint. “Just keep moving, everyone!”

  They noticed the trees lining the path were swaying despite the lack of a breeze.

  “The pines!” Cricket warned. “They’re full of squirrels!”

  Heath realized too late they should have scavenged the lawn for squirt guns. Without them they were defenseless.

  The branches above them started bouncing up and down. Green needles and pinecones showered down on their heads.

  “Keep running!” Heath ordered. “We’re almost there!”

  When they reached the canoe livery the door was shut. Two girls were pounding on it, begging whoever was inside to let them in. Heath stepped in front of them and banged hard. “Will! It’s Heath! Open up right this—”

  The door swung open wide. Heath ushered the two girls in, then stood back and allowed the rest of his group to enter before him. Will stuck his head out. “Is that it?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Heath replied, slipping in past him.

  Will tried to yank the door shut, but a huge paw caught the side and forced it back open.

&n
bsp; Floaties was standing in the entranceway, his face red and sweaty. He did not look happy. “You ask me to follow, then you try to shut me out?”

  “Hurry up,” Will said, grabbing him by the arm. He pulled Floaties over the threshold and slammed the door shut behind them, plunging the room into near darkness.

  Something hit the door with such force that it shook the frame and a screw popped free from one of the hinges. They heard a loud snorting sound on the other side.

  BANG!

  Heath jumped.

  BANG!

  Someone tried to muffle a scream.

  BANG!

  And then finally, mercifully, whatever it was went away.

  I had a dozen eggs, all

  tucked snug in their crate.

  I had intent to cook them—

  that should have been their fate.

  But to my surprise they hatched,

  and my cat can hear them shout.

  Sadly all my birds are doomed,

  inside their box or out.

  THE CANOE LIVERY was dark except for a small square of light, a porthole that framed the main lodge perfectly through its dirty glass, as if it were a painting of the nature-­besieged cabin. Most of the group stood far back from the window. It was clearly the brick structure’s ­Achilles’ heel. Heath and Will, however, took positions on either side of it and peered out, careful not to make any sudden moves that would attract the attention of the rabid animals running pell-mell across the lawn outside. It was fairly quiet inside except for some panting, muffled crying, and someone with asthma wheezing and puffing on an inhaler. In the gloomy darkness it was impossible for Heath to tell how many ­people were in the building with him.

  “What the heck hit the door?” Heath whispered to Will’s silhouette.

  “A deer, probably.”

  “A deer?” Heath found that hard to believe. “It sounded like a rhinoceros.”