The Camp
Title page
Copyright
Your free book is waiting
Dedications
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-three
Epilogue
The Camp
Kit Crumb
Published by Lost lodge Press at Smashwords
TheCamp Copyright 2015 by Kit Crumb
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any form
or by any means, graphic, electrical, or mechanical, including photo copying, recording
taping or information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the publisher
Smash words Edition
Lost Lodge Press
40 Water Street
Ashland, Oregon 97520
Cover design by Chris Mole Design
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To Chris who’s spirit of creativity touches my soul.
Chapter One
The girls sat listlessly on the bench seats that ran down the middle of the van. Some leaned into the backrests, chins resting on their chests, while others hung their heads, swaying with the rhythm of the van, arms draped over their shoulder harnesses.
The pills hadn't worked on one of the girls. She kept her head down but snuck glances at the driver in the rear-view mirror.
She felt fuzzy, like the time she'd had a bad case of the flu: aware and awake, but dull.
The driver kept reaming out his ear with the little finger of his right hand, a nervous habit.
She’d unbuckled, but was holding her seat belt in place and waiting, for what she wasn't sure.
All she knew was that she had to get him to stop the van. She had to get out, get away.
The warm air from the heater and the droning of the tires on the road made her sleepy. She had to stay awake, and closed her eyes not to sleep, but to remember. To understand how she'd ended up like this.
Back behind the camp, in an old barn, she'd seen what happened when any of the girls refused to take the pills. One man stood at either end of the line of twelve girls who were made to stand single file, shoulder to shoulder, while a third man walked along, handing each girl two pills to take.
When the girl to her right refused to take the pills—she took them into her mouth and then spit them out—she'd been pulled out of line, shoved to the floor, and raped.
She'd clamped her eyes shut to forget the violence and wished she could also erase the memory of the screaming and grunting. Even now, she couldn't get the scene out of her head.
Then it was her turn. She'd held her hand out.
“That's a good girl.”
He'd watched to be sure they went into her mouth. Then said, “Open wide. Lift your tongue.”
She'd taken the pills. What choice did she have?
What was supposed to happen? Looking down the line, the other girls had begun to slump, their heads drooping. When they were led out of the barn to the van, they shuffled, so she shuffled.
She allowed herself to be manhandled into her seat. Watched how they moved. One man urging them on from behind, and one in the opening, pulling them up into the van. She'd wanted to scream, to punch and kick these men. From behind, it was push on the back, usually the hand to the butt went low. Oh god. The man inside latched onto hands and pulled, usually rubbing or grabbing a breast in the process. The girls did nothing, gave no reaction. Not a flinch, not a grimace. The verbal abuse was almost as unbearable. When the two men exchanged looks while passing a girl up, that's when it got bad.
For the first time in her life, she wished she were ugly and flat chested.
The van suddenly fishtailed and she was roused from her reverie. She opened her eyes. She wanted to throw her hands out, grab something, steady herself, but he might see. Instead, she pushed her butt further into the back of the seat and set her feet further apart. When she looked back at the driver, he was lifting his right hand toward his right ear. That's when it happened.
First she felt the shift, the girls all leaning in the same direction. The driver’s right hand groped for the steering wheel, but missed. She could just see enough through the windshield to know that something was wrong. The van was climbing and as if she were on a carnival ride, her stomach lurched with the steep incline. She pressed back into her seat, then thrust forward, fingers white-knuckling the shoulder harness until they were torn away and she felt herself rocketing to the front.
Halfway up the embankment, the van slammed into a boulder and all the girls were pressed into their harnesses except one, who was tossed the length of the van where she slammed into the back of the driver like a rag doll tossed away by an angry child.
The van did three rolls down the embankment and then landed on its top before gently rocking back onto the driver’s side.
The double back doors had sprung open when the van lost its shape, and the windshield had popped out. Inside, twelve sets of hands were searching for the seatbelt release button. One by one, the girls dropped to the side of the van and began to crawl toward the light that flooded in through the back.
Chapter Two
Rye Anderson couldn’t find his wife. He leaned his six foot two inch frame on the stack of boxes directly in front of him and heaved a long loud sigh.
“Time for a break?”
He looked around and spotted her leaning against a row of boxes. Her petite figure was made smaller as she squatted, pulling her knees to her chest.
“How long you been resting over there?”
She stood as he turned, took two steps, and leaned her head on his chest. “Not long enough.”
His hands drifted down to her waist and as though he was executing a ballet lift, he hefted her to the top of a stack of boxes so that she was at eye level with him.
“This measures out as more square footage than the old Victorian.” He looked across the sea of boxes and then back at Claire. “But it sure doesn’t look like it.”
“Are you kidding? It already feels roomier and now the garage accommodates the ambulance, your sidecar rig, and the Fiat.” She turned and scanned the rows of boxes. “It does look a little daunting, though. And we’re definitely going to need some help moving the gym equipment.”
They were silent for a moment as they looked around at what would eventually be the living room. Without knowing it, they were both remembering the final move from Snoop Drive. Following the moving van as it crossed Ashland and wound up Valley View Road, pulling into the driveway of the five-acre parcel, and parking in front of their new ranch house.
Rye stretched and flexed his arms; every muscle in his body reminded him of the boxes he’d moved. “The one thing I won’t miss is the traffic we had to cross coming and going from every call.”
Claire remained silent.
“The garage is set up, ambulance plugged in. I got the phone connected, too. Once we find them, we can hook up the computers. Boxes marked “K” are in the kitchen and my books are in the spare bedroom in the back. I’d say we’re making progress.”
When a Klaxon alarm went off, Claire gave Rye a serious look. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Hey, I wanted to be sure we could hear a call from any room in the house.”
She pushed off from her perch and landed lightly on the balls of her feet. Rye was already weaving his way through the maze of boxes. “I’ll unplug and open the garage door, if you take the call.”
Like she had a choice. He was already across the kitchen and on his way into the garage.
“Okay, sure. Fine.”
She didn’t really mind. He’d been the one to hook up the extension that plugged into the ambulance to keep the fluids to temperature and avoid a warm up. Dispatch had been her baby.
She scooted around half-unpacked boxes to the walk-in closet that she’d set up as Dispatch, complete with a red phone. She picked it up, not that she didn’t trust her husband, and listened to the dial tone. “Yup.”
Rye was just backing the ambulance out when Claire emerged from the house through the front double doors holding a clipboard.
When she climbed in, they both stared at the converted ranch house and attached barn. Their house and the new home for their business: Rogue Rescue and Ambulance Service.
She turned to Rye. “First call under the new name.”
He reached over and gave her thigh a gentle squeeze. “Here’s to no eviscerated bodies.”
She smiled and patted his hand. “Yeah, and may all body parts remain with their original owners.”
He guided the three-ton ambulance onto Valley View Road. “Wow, not a car in sight. What’s the call?”
She frowned as she read. “Single vehicle accident, multiple victims. No other details. Called in by cell phone. Interstate 5, north. Should be just past the 28 mile marker.”
Fifteen minutes and no sign of an accident. Claire took in the empty highway at a glance. “No traffic, no accident.” Then she looked down to re-read the call sheet.
First there was an audible gasp from Rye and then she was pressed into her harness as he brought the ambulance to a quick stop.
She looked up at a scene that could only be described as a middle school recess gone bad. Children were scattered across two lanes, standing, sitting, or even just lying on the ground. Several were walking around. Interspersed were concerned motorists. Some had pulled to the shoulder of the road. Others had stopped, blocking traffic in the middle of a lane.
Rye had already assessed the scene. “There.” He pointed at a van that lay on its driver’s side on the shoulder at the base of a hill. It had lost its shape. Both rear double doors were open, as was the front passenger side door that stuck up and looked like a hatch.
Claire snagged the jump kit from between the seats and was out of the cab at a run.
Rye cautiously guided the ambulance off the shoulder, where he’d first stopped, and into the middle of the slow lane to create a traffic barrier . He turned off the siren but left the lights on.
He pulled the handle, put his shoulder to the door, and was rewarded with a honking horn when an SUV zipped by. Taking a calming breath, he checked the elephant ear mirror and then slipped out.
He pressed against the ambulance as another car careened past. Looking over the hood of the huge rescue vehicle, he watched Claire approach the van.
Like a man on a ledge, he made his way to the back of the ambulance, flung open both doors, and snapped up a jump kit. Then he shot his arms through the straps and pulled it tight to his back. He pulled a backboard from under the gurney, relieved when he turned around that traffic had slowed and cars were giving the emergency vehicle a wide birth.
The dilemma for any Emergency Medical Technician arriving at the scene of a multi-victim accident is where to start. The level of carnage, which indicates those most injured, often answers the question. But this was crazy. Rye counted eleven children across two lanes.
