May Haven: A Post-Apocalyptic Mystery

THE LAKE

Sam awoke to sunlight, the smell of dirt. His dripping hair matted over his face, he slowly came to, an intense soreness aching through his body. He was lying face down, he realized with vague confusion, on a wet bank of grassy mud. With weak arms he lifted himself and sat up, his lungs surging with air and a fit of coughs suddenly escaping from him. Bewildered and light headed, he looked around.

The fire, that was the first thing he noticed. A small campfire just ahead, burning logs surrounded in a perfect circle of stones. A cliché look to it, like something out of a cartoon. There were things scattered around it too. With wet hands he haphazardly rubbed grogginess from his eyes and stood, weak legs shaking beneath him.

A hiking pack leaned against a thick log nearby, a few tin cans scattered nearby, a ratty pair of boots just beyond. Sam looked down at his feet. He wore socks, soaked through as they were, but no shoes. What the hell is going on?

His clothes were wet too, still dripping. He turned back. The lake stretched on towards the horizon, a cluster of barren hills just beyond. The calm water reflected clouds overhead, and the sight of it suddenly brought something back, the flash of a memory that now seemed so faint. The coolness of the water, splashing. Had he fallen? But it seemed almost a dream, faint and foggy, were it not for his dripping clothes.

A pain swelled at the side of his head and he gingerly touched the spot, where a hard mound had formed just beyond his temple, too sensitive to touch. Must've been hit. He scanned the campsite, looking over the scattered cans, a sleeping bag, some kind of toolbox. But with what?

DAD!

The voice came back to him, a muffled memory that seemed hazy and far away now. A young girl yelling. His girl. Allison. It was coming back now, her standing on the edge of the water yelling to him . . . something hitting him hard in the jaw, a flash of white . . . splashing into the water. . . crawling up the bank, breathing . . . and darkness. Passed out. 

He remembered the way his head had been spinning, fast images and sounds flashing as if in a sped-up sequence of dreams, his thoughts spiraling together, internal voices overlapping, making him feel insane and out of breath, and then finally a flash of light as he opened his eyes. The smell of dirt.

Allison. Sam spun in all directions, frantically scanning the area. A hundred yards north of the lake began the tree line of a thick forest. To the south was a rocky dirt slope that led towards some kind of building in the distance. Everything else was steep hills, distant jagged mountains, scattered brambles and, of course, the lake. A panic shot through him as he realized she was nowhere to be seen.

"ALLISON!"

His voice faded into the distance. There was only the light buzz of insects to answer him, and the faint sway of tree branches moving with the wind. He yelled again. No answer.

Sam made his way to the campsite, his head still hazy and heart pounding in his chest. He tore everything from the backpack, throwing cans of food, a canteen, shirt, medical kit, and electric lantern from it, frantically digging through the supplies. As he reached the bottom of the pack, his heart sank. No cellphone.

"Fuck!" He threw it back to the muddy ground. Tears swelled in his eyes as he scanned the valley again, his mind racing. They had been hiking from some town, he remembered now. On a trail through the forest. But everything after they stopped at the lake was just a blur. His mind was a jumbled mess of hazy memories, half-remembered voices murmuring together, flashes of movement . . . a hooded face. It came back to him suddenly. The one who hit me?

Yes, he decided. The man had been wearing a thick black hood that cast a dark shadow over most of his face as he swung something at Sam. He recalled wrinkles on the man's face, or scars perhaps, but nothing else. No height, no voice. Just the smell of dirt.

As he stood next to the fire, his thoughts slowly coming together, something caught his eye from behind the log. Sam made his way to it, and stared down at it for what seemed like minutes, his stomach feeling suddenly hollow.

A hockey stick. There were long cracks along the wooden shaft, a sizable chip missing from the heel. The rest was spotted with grime and mud.

With one hand, he felt the lump near his temple. It was a thick swollen welt, stinging to the touch. He could only imagine what color it must've turned. But could a hockey stick do that?

It seemed to be the only explanation. But how the hell did it get out here? He picked it up and brought it back to where the backpack lay near the now dwindling fire, Allison's voice echoed in his mind.

He fought nausea, steadying himself against the log. Have to find her, he frantically thought, tossing the hockey stick near the other supplies. Have to find her.

He repeated it to himself again as he packed up everything he could find into the backpack – the food, medical kit, sleeping bag, toolbox, canteen, and shirt – and slung it over his shoulders. 

The boots fit perfectly as he laced them up, and leaving only the hockey stick behind, he began making his way towards the building looming in the distance.