Camp Omigosh
by
Wade Bradford
Copyright 2013
Chapter One: We Almost Die
Blat! Thup, thup, thup, thup!
The flat tire slapped against the asphalt. The bus lurched from one lane to the next. Sleeping bags and backpacks rained down from the overhead storage racks. A canoe paddle slapped me in the face, knocking me out of my seat. I tumbled down the aisle on my hands and knees, crumpling each time the bus veered out of control. My gut quivered, worse than the first time I jumped off the high dive. Daring to glance up, I could see bright sunshine through the windshield, but from my vantage point at the back of the bus the light felt far away, like I was at the back end of a cave. Still, I could make out a few details. The yellow line of the steep mountain road slalomed back and forth. Everything felt as if it was moving in slow motion. Just a few moments ago we were all singing a foul-mouthed version of "Thank You Mrs. Bus Driver," and now we were about to die.
I scrambled into a different seat, bumping into a pale, blonde girl who was staring out her window. How can she be sightseeing at a time like this? I peered over her shoulder to see a jagged ravine and a raging river far below. We were going to plummet over the edge.
"Everything is under control!" the bus driver screamed at the top of her lungs. The brakes screeched in a pitch so high it was just a few notches below dog whistle range. More camping supplies flew in our faces as the bus tilted on two wheels.
Sparks bounced against the window as the bus scraped against a metal barrier, the only thing saving us from a cliff-dive. The bus Ka-Chuncked back down on all four wheels. The bus spun like a drunken ballerina. Three times around and then we stopped. Amazingly, no one died. Nobody was even hurt. Some of the younger kids whimpered and sobbed. A few older ones shouted “that was awesome!” but you could tell deep down we were all scared. Me included.
"You can stop holding my hand now," said the blonde girl. I looked down and realized that I was squeezing her hand. Her finger tips were turning pink.
"Sorry," I mumbled. I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or amused, but I quickly let go of her. She looked about thirteen, my age. Her eyes were a fiery green, and I probably would have kept staring into them but she stood up and said, "Let's get off this bus before it explodes."
* * *
"Everything is perfectly fine!" screamed the bus driver. She was the first one off the bus. The rest of us quickly followed. I grabbed my deck of cards to keep me company.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the bus was the crisp fresh air. It smelled wonderful. I used to live in Orange County, in a town called none other than the City of Orange. And during the summer, the California smog sets in, and every night the sky turns orange. The air pollution gets pretty nasty in my hometown. But here at the edge of the Rocky Mountains, everything looked and felt different. The puffy white clouds in the insanely blue sky looked like a painting from one of those museums my mom would drag me through. Even that deadly ravine seemed beautiful now.
We really were in the middle of nowhere. This was the loneliest road I had ever been on. About two minutes passed before we could hear something approaching. It sounded like a lawn mower. But it turned out to be an old yellow Ford Pinto. I had heard about those cars before, and had seen a few pictures online, on some website about the world's worst cars. But I had never seen one in real life. I figured they had gone extinct.
