The Troop

Max knelt at the closet and tore the strip of duct tape off. Who the hell had put it there? He started yanking the tea towels stoppered under the door—then stopped abruptly. What if something squiggled out from under the door? The Scoutmaster’s fingers, even, gone thin and witchy like long pointed wires?

“There’s a big storm coming,” he said to the door, to the Scoutmaster. “It’s already here.”

“I can hear it.” Tim’s voice was weird. “What you should do is get some candles and blankets and head down to the cellar.”

“What about you?”

“I think… I’ll stay right here, Max.”

The hopelessness in his voice sent a volley of cold nails into Max’s chest.

“Why?”

“You know why, Max. Are any of the other boys looking bad?”

“Yeah, I think Kent is.”

“I’m not sick!” Kent screeched pitifully.

“You shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” Ephraim said with calm contempt.

The wind dropped to a brief lull. Tim’s voice could be heard clearly.

“You have to be careful,” he said, sounding immensely tired. “Whatever this is, it’s catching. I don’t know how. But it can be passed around… round and round… I’m so hungry, Max.”

Thunder crashed overhead like massive two-by-fours being thwacked together. The hair at the nape of the boys’ necks stood at attention. A string of blood trailed under the closet door. The ventricles of Max’s heart ran with ice at the sight.

“You’re bleeding,” he whispered.

“Am I?” Tim did not sound surprised or alarmed. “I don’t know where it could be coming from. I don’t feel it at all. Now go on, Max. Get down to the cellar. Go, hurry.”

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