Camp Horror. Part 2.

Part 1.

“What the hell,” Bob said as Buddy sprang up barking. The dog ran towards the girls’ camp, jerked to a stop by the rope he was tied to. Another scream. Bob grabbed his shotgun from the van.

“You stay here, keep Buddy quiet,” he said to Betty.

He moved quickly; shotgun cradled in his right hand, finger on the trigger, flashlight in his left. Reaching the camp his breath caught in his throat. One of the girls was slumped in a chair, blood soaking through the chairs fabric. Another lay by the fire, her guts strew across the dusty ground. The last girl was doubled over the picnic table, large gashes running along her back. A scream. Bob swiveled his flashlight in the direction of the sound. It was Betty; she had fallen to her knees, rocks digging into them.

“I told you stay back!”

“What the fuck!” Betty yelled hysterical.

“Let’s get... out of here,” Bob tried to stay calm, his voice cracking.

He grabbed Betty by the arm dragging her up, her knees scrapping against the gravel. Another scream. They started running. Betty tripped on a log. Bob helped her up firmly grabbing her hand. She squeezed back hard. Back at camp Buddy was straining against his rope.

“It’s okay boy,” Bob said as he removed the rope and tied on a leash. He grabbed the guitar and threw it in the van. Peeling out of the camp they heard another scream. Bob hit the brakes. He looked down at his hands.

“I... I can’t just leave, I gotta help these people.”

Betty grabbed his hand. “It’s okay Bob you don’t have to be the hero.”

Bob threw the van in reverse. Rummaging through it he stuffed his pockets with shotgun shells, slung a machete to his belt and strapped on a headlamp.

“I want you to stay here. If you hear me yell drive the van down the path, but stay here for now.”

Buddy whined.

“You gotta sit this one out boy,” he said kissing the top of the dogs head. Getting out of the van he went to the passenger side window.

“I’ll be back soon.”

He leaned into the window and kissed her, whipping tears from her cheeks.

He clutched the shotgun, his knuckles white. Walking past the girls’ camp he looked reluctantly.  Poor girl. Guts strewn on the dirt but the incision was precise, too precise for an animal. His heavy flannel shirt stuck to his body. Wiping his brow he was drenched in sweat. The images of the bodies haunted his mind as he walked on. The next campground was no better. A family. The father had attempted to shield the mother and child, his mangled and bloodied body draped across theirs. Next campsite, next horror scene. A single elderly man, body laying prostate with bloodied ribs sticking up. Whatever this thing was it was making quick work of the campers. He heard a snarl behind him.  Swiveling around, he saw a flash of red and brown.

Part 3.