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|Run Boy Run-Woodkid|

HE IS RUNNING. Running as fast as his legs can carry him.

His focus stays ahead, ears straining for any sound—anything to signal they are nearby. Following. Watching.

He doesn't stop or look back. His lungs burn, his legs scream, but he forces himself onward.

Then he hears them—their howls carried by the wind. Sharp and foreboding. He pushes harder, jaw tight, eyes locked on the distant watchtower.

The darkness presses in, and his pace quickens—pounding the uneven ground. He stumbles over a pit in the path, slamming face-first into dirt. Warm blood drips as he pinches his nose.

When he looks down, he freezes. A torso lies in the dirt— mutilated, almost unrecognizable. What's left of a shirt clings to its body.

His stomach churns as he crawls backwards, gagging at the stench.

Something glints in the moonlight, catching his eye. A brass novelty knife lies nearby, the handle crusted with dried blood.

Recognition hits. His breath hitches.

"Fuck, Wes," he whispers, voice trembling.

The howls rise again, sharper, closer.

He forces himself to look away. "I'm sorry, man."

Springing to his feet, he scrambles up the nearest tree—hands shaking as he climbs branch after branch. Every muscle in his body screams, but he keeps going, eventually settling in the crook of a limb.

Below, they emerge— a dark, shifting mass sniffing the ground where he fell.

One of them lifts its head, sniffing the air. It swings its head toward the tree. He holds his breath.

A whistle cuts through the night, high-pitched and sharp. They bolt like discharged bullets, vanishing into the woods.

He doesn't move. He clings to the tree, his sobs muffled into his shoulder. He wants to go home. He doesn't want to die—not like that. Not like Wes.

His eyes dart around, searching for the watchtower. He sees it, peeking above the treetops. It wasn't far. He feels relieved, but it is short-lived.

An arrow buries itself in his shoulder and pain sears through him as he loses his grip.

He falls.

The ground slams into him, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He gasps, struggling to breathe.

A whistle shrills again, this time just a foot away.

"No," he rasps, tears spilling as he trembles. "I don't . . . I don't want to die."

The ground vibrates beneath him as they approach.

Before he can scream, they spring for the bushes. Teeth tear into his throat, silencing him in a wet gurgle.

Spencer shoots up in bed, clutching his ears as a foghorn blares.

"Rise and shine!" Killian's chipper voice rings out.

Spencer blinks, disoriented, as Killian strolls down the aisle, neatly folding yellow bandanas and placing them at the foot of each bed.

Spencer collapses back on his pillow, staring up at the log ceiling.

"Up and at 'em, gentlemen," Killian urges. "Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy and wise!"

Spencer groans, pulling his pillow over his face to drown out Killian's voice—or smother himself. Either would work.

The students cluster in their cabin groups in a small clearing, scattered across the open space. They laugh and chatter as many wait for direction from their counselors.

As Spencer fastens the bandana to his wrist, his eyes drift towards the forest's edge, the dense wall of trees looming quietly. His stomach knots as he thinks back to the shadowy figure he saw last night—or what he thought he saw. He quickly looks away, forcing the thought aside.

His attention shifts to Baylee, her laugh cutting through the noise. She talks animatedly with a friend as their counselor leads her group towards a large cabin.

Spencer watches a moment too long, drawn in by the ease in her smile. He catches himself and looks away again, irritated by the slip.

"Ah, finally! Here it is," Killian announces, tapping his clipboard.

Spencer naps back to the group.

"Looks like we got lucky—canoeing today!" He gestures towards the stack of upturned canoes piled near the equipment shed.

The boys erupt with excitement, dashing to claim one. Ernest doesn't seem to match that excitement as he trails behind slowly.

"Remember the buddy system!" Killian calls after them. "Let's get those canoes out on the lake safely!"

Spencer lingers back, staring at the water with a bit of apprehension. From here, the lake looks serene, even inviting. Up close, though, he knows it'll be darker and less forgiving.

"Hey, you've got that 'I hate fun' look again."

Killian appears at his side, clipboard tucked under his arm and a teasing grin on his face.

"Huh?"

"Mr. Frowny," Killian clarifies. "You've been scowling since you got here."

"I'm just not a morning person."

"Okay," he says, undeterred. "But, come on—who can frown at this?" He gestures broadly, motioning to the forest, the lake, the entire scene.

"Hey! A little help over here?" Keat yells, struggling to drag a canoe.

Killian chuckles and pats Spencer on the shoulder. "Try to enjoy it, Spence."

Spencer stiffens at the nickname, his irritation immediate.

He pulls away from the touch. "Please, don't call me that. Spencer's fine."

Killian's shrugs, his grin fading just a little. "Look, I get it. You don't want to be here. But since you're kind of stuck, maybe give it a shot? Worst case, you might actually have a little fun."

Spencer knows he's right, though the idea still feels like a concession.

"Oh, don't mind me!" Keat yells again. "Just breaking my back over here."

Spencer exhales, nodding at Killian before jogging towards Keat.

"See you guys out on the water!" he calls after them.

Spencer and Keat glide out onto the water, the canoe moving smoothly as their paddles dip and pull in rhythmic strokes. The lake is vast and still, with only the occasional ripple breaking the surface.

Spencer fixes his eyes on the back of Keat's head, though the tight knot in his stomach refuses to loosen.

"You good back there?" Keat asks, glancing over his shoulder.

"Yeah," he says quickly, his tone clipped.

"You sure? You're gripping that paddle like it owes you money."

"I said I'm fine," Spencer snaps.

Keat nods, but doesn't say more.

"Alright, that's everyone," Killian calls, guiding his single-seater. "Follow me!"

As they paddle toward the north side of the lake, Spencer notices two figures near the tree line. One sits in a wheelchair while the other waves something in his hand.

"Who are they?" Keat asks, nodding towards the shore.

The groups turns to look, but Spencer shifts his focus to Killian. His easygoing demeanor vanishes, replaced by something colder.

"Those are the Colony natives," he says stiffly. "Or what's left of them, anyway."

"What are they doing?"

Spencer spots faint wisps of smoke rising above the men.

"They're smudging," Fisher says before Killian can answer. His voice is calm, almost reverent. "There must be wasicun sica here."

Killian glances at Fisher uncomfortably, his jaw tightening briefly before steering his canoe toward the dock. "Doesn't matter. Just stay off their reservation. Wherever they are, trouble follows."

Their low, rhythmic chant can be heard, its sound creeping under Spencer's skin.

"Not gonna lie," Keat mutters. "That's creepy. Let's go."

Spencer nods, following Keat's paddle strokes as they fall in line behind the group. But he can't help himself from stealing one last look.

The men's movement grow more intense, their chanting swelling to a fever pitch—like they're seeping into the air itself. The sound presses against Spencer's ears, distant and yet unbearably close, as if they were sitting right beside him.

He shakes it off, turning back around when Fisher's voice cuts through the stillness.

"What the hell is this about?"