Chapter Text
1974
The man moved through the camp as if he had all the time in the world.
He started down the line of cabins, the prim little wooden things with their twinkling bulbs just at the porches, the only spot of light in this dark forest. The moon had gone elsewhere, but the stars were out in droves, nearly painting the inky sky. The crickets roared. Everybody else in the camp had gone silent. They were made to go silent.
The man had made them go silent.
He moved down the row of cabins, towards the little path that led to the mess hall. His feet crunched in the dirt beneath him, but only barely. He had dressed all in black for the evening, black trousers and a black jumper. Not that anybody could see it, but underneath the jumper, he wore a blue shirt emblazoned with the words Camp Baker Stream.
It was good to have pride in one’s work.
The man left the row of cabins behind him. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, sleeping quite like the dead. There was a little drip-drip-drip as the man moved towards the mess hall—the sound of blood dripping from the knife the man clutched in his hand. He had blood leaking down his fingers, caked nearly up to his elbow. Messy business, all that.
As he neared the mess hall, he could almost hear it—the little choked-off whimpers. A gaggle of naughty children—the children who weren’t in their beds, who were very much supposed to be in their beds—trying to hide away.
Little schemers, he thought. He grinned.
The whimpers faded away, and soon the only sound was the man’s breathing, the echoed puffs of air against the hard rubber of his mask.
The man liked the mask. He’d slipped it away from one of the campers just a few days ago, one of the boys now sleeping forever in his cabin, no longer wondering where his mask had gotten off to. The mask was shaped to look like a cartoon wolf, the kind with big, oval eyes and a long snout, a glimmering red tongue sliding out from a smiling mouth filled to the brim with sharp teeth. The man licked his lips, mimicking the tongue. He wiped his bloody hand across his forehead, smearing blood over the mask.
He eased open the door to the mess hall.
He didn’t bother with the lights.
He’d been at the mess hall earlier, to get the knife. The knives were locked away in the kitchen, safe from the little children. The man’s new friend had let him in. It was good to have friends, especially friends with knives. The man hadn’t thought he’d be back in the mess hall tonight, but it all ended up being a new kind of fun. And the night had already been so fun already.
“Once upon a time,” he said, walking slowly into the large room, “there was a litter of piglets.”
He heard someone squeak. The sound was abruptly silenced, as if by a hand over a mouth.
He sauntered towards the noise, nearly letting the air drift him through the room. “These little piglets,” he said, “they were ever so naughty. They ran from their little beds at night. They hid away from the world, where they thought no one would ever find them.”
Just in the corner of the room, someone had shoved several tables to the side. Some of them were tipped over, creating a sort of barrier to the back of the hall. The man smiled.
“But the Big Bad Wolf,” he said, “always finds little piglets.”
He grabbed the first table he could reach, shoving it to the side with a clatter. The thing bounced across the room, a leg splintering. Another little squeak, the squeal of a terrified piglet. The man—the Big Bad Wolf—grinned wider.
“The Big Bad Wolf,” he continued, grabbing another table and flinging it to the side, “he has a trick, you see. A trick that always helps him get the little piggies in the end.”
A third table was gone. He was reaching the end now. He could see just under the table, pale little legs quivering at the back of the room.
“He huffs…”
Another table was gone. Behind that, a few measly chairs that couldn’t shield anybody from anything.
“And he puffs…”
The chairs scattered one by one. Nobody was trying to stop the piglets from whimpering and squealing now.
“And he BLOWS THEIR HOUSE DOWN.”
The Big Bad Wolf threw the final chair away. It hit the wall and shattered. He barely flinched. There, cowering in the corner just in front of him, was a group of little piggies. They were all balled up inside themselves, trying to make their bodies as small as possible, hiding behind nothing. The Big Bad Wolf could smell their tears.
Just in front of all the little piggies was a single lad. He was taller than the others—older, meant to be in charge—but still a mere piglet himself, his dark hair falling around his pale face. He had hardly any meat on his bones, his legs mere sticks escaping from his shorts, his arms shaking like twigs as they clutched, in front of him, a gun.
The Big Bad Wolf lifted the mask off his head. He smiled down at the lad, baring his real fangs. “Hello there,” he said.
The lad swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He did his best to look brave, despite the streaks his tears cut into the blood caked on his face. “Jim,” he said.
He fired.
The bullet whizzed past the Wolf’s ear, lodging itself in the far wall. The sound of the shot was near deafening, and the children screamed soundlessly behind the lad. The Wolf rubbed at his ear, shaking out his head. He grinned even wider.
“You missed me,” he said.
The second shot ripped through his jaw.