Mosquitoes

The first thing I realized when the sun finally came up was that I was still alive. I also realized that a lot of other people weren't.

The campground was silent except for the timid cheeping of birds high in the trees. The air was thick and still. I crawled very slowly out from under the dead log where I'd wedged myself during the attack and walked on numb, tingling feet to the edge of the woods. Looking across the campsite to the beach and the water, I could only stare, open-mouthed, at the horrific scene before me.

There were bodies everywhere. Pale, deflated sacks of flesh with vaguely human features. Limbs splayed unnaturally, signs of struggle in the sand beneath.

The carnage was unthinkable. I wretched and vomited a thin yellow stream, but there was little left inside. I hadn't eaten since the previous day's lunch.

The lunch I was eating when we first heard that horrible high-pitched sound...

* * *

Hamburgers spitting grease on an open charcoal grill. The smell of greasy smoke wafting through the camp. There's nothing better.

I actually don't like camping very much. Not that I have something serious against it, really. It's just that I don't see the point, you know? I mean, it's not like what my friends call “camping” is actually what the nomadic tribes did; or the cowboys out on the plain; or the pioneers settling the west; or the Sir Edmund Hillarys of the world.

What we did was the lamest semi-nod toward those great campers of old. It was essentially carving a three-day weekend out of our normal schedules to spend sitting on less comfortable chairs in front of a fire, drinking beer that wasn't quite cold enough and ending the day sleeping in nylon instead of cotton. Hardly roughing it.

But, for some reason, I do love a campfire meal. And the sound of the dawn woods is nicer than any alarm clock I've ever woken up to. So, any time a few of my buddies decide to take a weekend to pitch a tent within sight of the campground bathrooms, I'm game.

So I was in charge of the grill, and it was coming out beautifully.

“Burgers in three minutes!” I yelled.

Vicky stuck her head out of the screen house and asked if I had the Kraft Singles. I told her I did, because a cheeseburger isn't a cheeseburger without Kraft Singles. I took in a breath to yell again, but at that moment, Chuck, Vicky's latest boyfriend, rounded the trees at the end of the campsite and waved to acknowledge he'd heard me.

I'd been best friends with Vicky since Junior High School. We dated off and on for a few years in High School, but we both decided we were just better off as friends. Since me, she'd meandered through a long list of guys, none of which seemed to suit her just right. Chuck was ok, but I knew he'd probably be gone before too much longer.

Right at the three-minute mark I flipped the last burger onto a heavy paper plate and laid a slice of cheese on top. I carried them to the picnic table under the small screen house like a snooty waiter in an over-priced French restaurant, a dirty paper towel slung over my forearm and my nose in the air.

“Smells good, Booger.”

Maybe Chuck wasn't ok. That unflattering nickname had stuck with me since Elementary School, a natural alteration of my last name, Booker. Dan Booker. Vicky's the only person who's never called me Booger. Maybe that's why I loved her.

So we started eating a perfect meal together. Cheeseburgers, Vicky's potato salad, Doritos and iced tea. Companionable conversation about whether we wanted to sit by the fire or sit by the water when lunch was over.