Camp Horror. Part 1.

This is a short story I wrote a while ago and kept locked away.  Think it's the perfect time to share it with Halloween around the corner.  If you like it let me know and I'll post more.

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Bob reclined in his chair and kicked at the dust under his feet. Looking around the campsite his gaze fell on Buddy. Buddy his best friend. It was a hot day but Bob still had his heavy black and red flannel shirt on, unbuttoned with sleeves rolled up.  He felt a grumbling in his stomach. He set to working on the burnt wood in the campfire from the night before. The fire grew. Pulling sausage links on a stick he roasted the meat carefully. Buddy was salivating and panting heavily. The sun was streaming through the trees landing on his thick white coat, his crystal clear blue eyes fixated on the sizzling meat. Pulling the meat onto some thick Texas toast Bob slathered it in mustard and ketchup, with a pickle wedged in there for good measure. He tore into the meat as Buddy began to whine. 

“Fine, here you go you beast.” Bob tossed a piece to Buddy who gobbled it up in seconds. 

 Bob looked over to the other side of the road, peering in through the trees. He saw girls in bikinis laughing.   

“Check out the new campers,” Bob said to Buddy.   

After lunch Bob took Buddy for a walk. He strolled by the girls campsite. Four young women. Three were scantily clad, one was off by herself in a bikini bottom with her top covered by a big t-shirt; she ignored him and the other girls with her head buried in a book. One of the girls waved at him and he waved back nonchalantly, he slowed his walk but didn’t stop. 

“Can’t be stopping at every campsite,” he reasoned with Buddy.    

They made their way into the forest, the trees sheltering them from the angry midday sun. They passed a creek and Buddy took a long drink. Following the creek out of the forest Bob undid Buddy’s collar. He threw a stick into the lake. There were people on the beach, lots of kids screaming, lots of umbrellas scattered around. He kept throwing the stick further and further out, Buddy up to the challenge. He recognized a lot of the families that were there from days past.    Back at camp Bob rekindled the fire. The girls and their van were gone, only their tents remained. Making another smokie he gobbled it up and gave Buddy his kibble. He grabbed a beer from the cooler. Gulping it down he grabbed another.

“Gotta start the night right.”

A few beers in Bob grabbed his axe. He wielded it over his shoulder and made his way into the forest. He hacked at a medium sized pine, each stroke hitting its mark over and over again. Bob dragged the tree back to camp. He expertly trimmed the branches and twigs and made a fresh pile of same sized logs. He threw one into the dying fire along with some brush as it flared up. Satisfied, Bob went into his camping van and fished out his old trusty acoustic. The guitar had seen better days, deep scratches along its body. Character, that’s what he called it. Digging into the strings Bob belted a 12-bar blues standard. He played the chords and threw in flourishes of little bends and runs. The sound carried through the trees. Bob sang a little bit, but made sure his voice didn’t carry.

The girls were back. As he strummed Bob hit a few bad notes, peering through the trees and squinting. He only saw three girls, the bookworm was gone. As he was craning his neck, “Nice view huh,” the bookworm said as she made her way on the path across his campsite.

“Huh? Oh just taking in the sights,” Bob replied.

“Bet you are.”

She had on a summer dress, yellow with red floral print. Big round glasses sat on top of a delicate nose, dark wavy hair falling on her shoulders.

“Nice playing, is that some Stevie Ray Vaughn?”

“Good ear.”   Buddy sniffed at the girls hand, she rubbed his furry mane.   

“That’s Buddy, Buddy this is...”   

“Gertrude.”

“Wow you don’t usually hear that name these days.”

“I’m kidding,” the girl said.   

“What is it then?”

“Play me a good song and I’ll let you know.”

Bob broke into a little diddy singing: Sometimes my heart gets cold, this old dog...   

He looked at Buddy who had laid down and closed his eyes. He glanced at the girl, his faced reddened as he sang the chorus.  He quickly looked away.

“Well done, it’s Betty.”

“Hear that Buddy, your new friend is Betty.”

Bob grabbed another beer for himself and the girl. He threw on some more logs. The sun dipped below the trees. 

“I’ve known them for a while but I’m not really the party animal like they are,” she said as they heard loud laughing coming from the girls’ camp. Her dark hair shimmered in the breeze. Buddy had stationed himself beside Bob, occasionally making a trip over to the girl for a head rub.   

“Play me another song,” Betty demanded.   

“I’ve played you pretty much all of ‘em.”

“Play that old dog one again.”

Bob reluctantly picked up the guitar off the picnic table. As he struck the first few chords they heard a blood chilling scream. It came from the girl’s camp.  

Part 2.