In hindsight, I'll admit I had plenty of forewarning that this camping trip will be a disaster. It was last-minute, something my two friends and I settled on when we eventually realized we were too poor to go on any real vacation after our high school graduation. I suppose our parents only said "yes" because it meant they had the long weekend all to themselves. I'll also admit, we aren't glowing angels of household kids.

At this point, I'm not sure where to start on the list of things that have gone wrong thus far: forgetting the marshmallows, realizing a leg of the tent was missing, nearly rolling the car over on the treacherous drive up the mountain... Yeah, it's been an experience

We had driven pretty high up the mountain, so high that snow covers the ground even though it's June. One of my friends, Pickle (his real name is Dylan, but we shortened it to Dill, which quickly evolved into Dill Pickle, and obviously that just turned into Pickle), grew up in Florida, so he's been complaining about the cold nonstop. That's what you get for coming to Canada, pal. Brody and I only put up with his yammering because we're too lazy to change camping areas. Plus, even Pickle admits, the view is nice.

It's the second day of our adventure of independence now. I'm sitting on a rotting log trying to get some points in a little lakeside fishing competition with Brody. I say "little" because the only fish existent in this lake are the size of baby carrots. Brody's known as the outdoors person of our trio, so of course he has the most amount of catches so far. I thought I would at least do okay, but I have a stunning one fish in my bucket. I hope it's enjoying all that swimming room. Throwing my rod down, I trudge up the shore to the tree line and find a branch worthy enough to be Gandalf's staff.

"What're you doing?" Pickle calls from where he huddles next to our dying fire, still tightly wrapped up in his green sleeping bag. He looks like a bent pickle. I don't know if he's doing it on purpose or not.

"What're you doing?" I shoot back when I notice a striker in one hand and a gas lantern in the other.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm trying to get more fire. Been at this for like ten minutes."

"Wait, ten minu—"

Well, it becomes very apparent that he isn't lying about the ten minutes, because he finally gets a spark and the whole lantern goes up in a ball of flames. He drops the objects with a scream. The fire catches his sleeping bag and he hops in panic like a springy worm. I just stare in shock. To be fair, I know the material is fire retardant. Pickle eventually topples over his chair and starts rolling down to the lake. His fire disappears by the time he comes to a halt, so I pay him no attention and busy myself with grabbing my fish bucket and throwing the contents over the burning lantern. The fire dies. So does the fish.

"Jesus Christ, Pickle," Brody says as he helps the other up. "Are you okay?"

"Fire," he huffs. "Hot."

We have a pretty good laugh about that. I'm sure our parents aren't missing us.

I go back for my magnificent branch and rummage through our supplies. I find the pack of metal skewers and feel a pang of despair for the fluffy marshmallows we left behind. Shaking those dismal thoughts away, I take one of the pointy sticks and strap it to the end of the branch. Ah yes, a fine weapon of man.

Brody and Pickle eye me with raised brows as I run to a nearby felled tree that reaches over the still water. I have no intention of falling into the freezing lake, so I cling onto the trunk like a baby koala as I make my way to the end. I must look ridiculous because Brody bursts out laughing and starts taking pictures on his phone.

"Laugh while you still can," I say, flipping the bird. "I may have sacrificed my fish for our campsite but I'm not letting you win that easily!"

I scan the water for any sign of life.

"Guys!" Brody suddenly shouts. "Guys, look!"

I'm not about to be duped like that. I keep my attention focused on my task. The moment I see something vaguely fish shaped, I plunge my makeshift spear into it. My weapon comes back empty, but I can still see the creature's shadow beneath the ripples. I blindly stab the water several times before I finally feel something make contact.

"I got it!" I announce triumphantly as I wave my spear above my head, not even bothering to check what kind of fish I've impaled.

To my annoyance, Brody and Pickle aren't paying me any attention. Rather, they're staring and pointing at something farther in the lake.

"Five!" Pickle exclaims. "Five are alive!"

I follow their gestures to see a few splashes breaking the water's surface. These are pretty big splashes, too, not the tiny plops we've been seeing from the fish.

"Bears?" Brody says as he shoots us each a confused look. "They look like they're drowning!"

I squint at the entities. No, that can't be it. These splashes don't look like they're coming from struggling bears. I can't put my finger on it, but they just don't look...right.

They're getting closer. Brody has his phone out recording the weird anomalies while Pickle seems to have completely forgotten about the cold. I shift my position on the tree to go join my friends, but then I remember the fish I speared. I sit back and pull the end of the branch toward myself. I have to say, this is the weirdest fish I've ever seen. It's rounded, lumpy and covered in sickly olive-green algae. I reach my hand out to pick away the vegetation, but a sudden chill fills my body and I freeze.

The fish isn't covered in algae.

The fish isn't even a fish.

It's a human finger. A bloated, rotting finger so diseased looking that I fear it has infected me just from looking at it.

I gag and hastily shove my spear into the water, desperately trying to shake the piece of corpse off.

"Get away!" Pickle cries.

My mind is too slow to register the warning. The water beneath me explodes as a pair of zombified hands burst out and latch onto my spear. My body is paralyzed for a horrifying moment as I find myself staring into the foggy eyeballs of a decaying corpse. It seems to scream at me through the black hole of where its jaw should be. I manage to let go of the stick, but the zombie bobs back up and latches onto my leg, dragging me into the numbing depths of the lake.

~

From the Golden Quill Society Creative Writing Marathon day 5 prompt.