Camp Kill Yourself

Chapter 11: Tinkles

The guys had worked together to hoist TJ, carry him into the great room and settle him onto the shorter of the two couches. Victoria and Ruth were now kneeling on the floor beside him, trying to figure out where he was bleeding and apply gauze and/or bandages where necessary. He groaned. "Lower Vee," he urged the younger girl onward.

Victoria touched several finger tips to his lower abdomen, just below his belly-button. There was blood here, but it looked to her like dried-up run-off from the first time he was attacked and received a superficial wound to his stomach. She frowned. "I don't see anything," she made the statement a question.

"Lower," he directed her.

Vee frowned and slipped her fingers underneath the waistband of his blood-splattered, torn black jeans. "Where?"

Wednesday stepped up behind her friend and slammed her fist down into the male's crotch. "There?"

TJ's eyes rolled back into his head and he wheezed loudly. When he spoke, it was in a falsetto. "Why deed you do that?" he squeaked. "Owwwwww."

"He was trying to get you to stick your hand down his pants," she informed Vee. Patting the other girl's head, she grinned. "At least this mystery killer got the 'ASS' part right!"

Vee jumped back from her injured friend, wincing. "Hey! That's not nice!"

"You feel for it," TJ giggled like a deranged chipmunk. "Free handjobs over heeya!"

Wednesday clenched her fist and growled. "Shut up, fuckface!"

"Okay, people," David cleared his throat then and glanced up from his trusty clipboard. "We need to put our brains together and try to figure out what to do next."

"Holy shit!" Ryan's head spun quickly toward the right, to Chris. "Did he just say something coherent and intelligent?"

Chris shrugged. "If you wait long enough, even a chimp with a pointer can get something right."

Ruth finished placing her last bandage onto TJ's forehead and sighed. "You need to get back into your car and drive into town and get help. While you do that, we need to find Spencer."

Ryan placed his fingertips to his temples and made a strange "ohm-ing" noise. "I am summoning my psychic abilities and they are telling me that Marchand's spiffy dream car is not going to start."

Ruth stood up, wiped her hands onto her dark jeans, and winced. "Why would you even say that, Ry?"

He shrugged. "You and I both know that whatever the fuck is going on right now, whoever is to blame attacked that car the second we left it behind. Which was a fucking dumbass move on our part, and I should have realized it much, much sooner."

Wednesday sat down on his lap and sighed. "I think Ryguy is probably right. So how the fuck are we going to get out of here?"