CWD-B | CAMP CAMP AU

01 | Prologue/Pilot

The day the world fell to shit was great. Of course, Harrison is lying, but that's what he'd let you believe.

The extensive fear that you develop what the government called Chronic Wasting Disease-Type B and essentially become a zombie was mortifying to any and everybody.

David and Campbell (begrudgingly) had collectively locked all of the campers in the mess hall. They'd have Gwen and that CJ guy, too, but they were out of town and would not be returning.

It started three days ago. The campers were living off the pantry and fridge, although rationing.

Cloth was hung over the windows during the night. Harrison couldn't sleep. He'd stayed up late, afraid of what could happen to them.

His mind drifted off to their neighboring camps, the Flower Scouts and the Wood Scouts, and what had become of them.

Harrison looked around the mess hall. Neil and Nikki were curled up with eachother (Nikki looked terrified, Neil looked dead asleep and very, very tired). Max's hood was up and he was leaning on Neil's shoulder.

Space Kid and Dolph were laying under a picnic table, also asleep. They looked like the were talking before the inevitably passed out.

Nurf and Ered were separated from the others, but by no means sleeping near eachother.

David was propped against a wall, sitting up. Harrison knew he wasn't sleeping because of the lit lantern and hunting knife in David's hand.

Preston, Nerris, and himself with kind-of-cuddling, but not really. They were just having a lot of physical contact.

The room was lukewarm from the Wisconsin summer. None of the campers really needed blankets, and instead took off things like jackets and overshirts when sleeping.

Going anywhere wasn't safe anymore. Leaving camp wasn't safe. Leaving the mess hall wasn't fucking safe.

Harrison's destructive thoughts were cut short by the meander of voices outside. He stiffended. David stiffended.

But those voices were muddy. Hardly familiar. But he recognized them.

David stood slowly, lantern and hunting knife in hand. Harrison readied his magic, following suit.

The steps and voices were hard to identify against the rain, but they were moving towards the front door. By the way their numerous steps sounded (heavy, strong, determined), they weren't victims of CWD-B- whose steps were indicated by their disorder, listlessness, and stumbling efforts.

A grunt outside the door was heard; then a hard rapping against the door.

David lowered the knife and looked towards Harrison. Harrison nodded.

David's hand extended shakily for the doorknob, unlocked it, and opened it wearily, raising his lantern.

Six dishelved figures on the other side. The three Wood Scouts and the three more well-known Flowerscouts. Pikeman had a fire axe, Snake had what looked like a tranquilizer gun, Petrol had a wooden plank, and Tabbii— the only armed Flower Scout —had a whole motherfucking chair.

"David," Pikeman started, his voice the same usual nasal tone. "We're here.." He swallows shamefully. "We're here for refuge. Our camps aren't safe. None of us are infected, swear."

David's once firm and stoic gaze turned to one of pity; Harrison knows David couldn't turn away children.

"Come in," he replies, putting his pocket knife away.

Pikeman doesn't utter a verbal thank you, but nods in what could be respect.

The Wood Scouts and Flower Scouts look undeniably worse than the Camp Campbell campers. Hair sticking out every which way, brown (mud? Dried blood?) stained clothes, visible bags under each of their eyes, and clear distress.

They settled in, too. But they didn't sleep. They talked, albeit almost silently, with eachother. They were shifty and afraid, and Harrison didn't blame them.

They were just kids trying to survive on there own. Maybe there was more when their group formed- maybe their friends had... had died.

Harrison shuddered as he curled back underneath Preston's left arm.

Finally, he fell asleep. A short dreamless sleep that only ended when the sun went up three hours later.