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You clench your teeth. You shake your fists. God, you want to scream so badly, but then you'll wake up the people in the neighboring cabins again. And then they'll call the rangers, and the rangers will kick you and the others out. And then the twenty-hour drive to the middle of nowhere will have been for nothing.
No. You need to wake someone up. Maybe Jake's still awake; he said he'd quit drinking for a while, so he shouldn't be—no, voicemail. He's passed out too. Well then.
You sigh heavily and take a seat by the fire pit. The wood burned out long ago, and there's nothing but the faintest orange simmer rising gently from the circle of stones.
You smile and turn towards cabin number four. The family who lives there started the fire. Wonderful people, they are an older couple with three or four kids, all brimming with energy and cute as hell. They lent you their boat and sport tube, and they showed you where to find the best food whenever you went to town. They even drove your drunk ass home on more than a few occasions.
You need to plan better. You chuckle a little, but frown as you listen close and hear nothing. Their lights are on. Aren't they usually playing cards by now?
You glance over towards the other cabins. Total silence. This is a first. There's normally someone up. Did everyone just go out into the woods somewhere and leave you alone?
Your eyes wander in the direction of the woods. Your imagination starts to grow. You know, people around here do disappear sometimes. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. The locals have some troubling legends. One myth is that an entire tribe of natives wandered into a certain section of the woods during the relocations. They spoke of great and terrible beasts with greying, decaying flesh and huge claws that dragged along the ground as they walked. They were never heard from again after that.
Or so the myth says. Or so you say. You don't know anymore. You help yourself to a smoke as you crouch by the dying fire.
There was a faint rustle. What the fuck? Your eyes dart off to the side. A raccoon. Your quick, nervous laugh echoes through the canyon as you lean back, hands atop your head. God, you're so stupid!
Thump. Roll. Sounds like someone finally moved Jake's fat, drunk ass aside. Fucking finally.
You hurry to the door, but pause at the window. The realization sets in very slowly, each of your muscles tensing one by one as the big, hairy man in the canvas jacket and latex gloves eyes you, his expression bewildered and a bent crowbar and roll of duct tape in his hand.
Wh—who the fuck is that? And why's he covered in...?