Campfire

Tired of standing and unwilling to sit on the muddy bank, Thomas hunkered down, still endlessly defending against the miasma of mosquitoes. He scanned his bare arms for landed mosquitoes, and finding none, turned his attention to his two wards. His niece Danielle splashed on the edges of the lake, shrieking gleefully. She hopped around like a jubilant tyrannosaur, pouncing and smacking the surface of the water. His nephew Deacon, a year younger than Danielle, sat near Thomas and babbled gibberish as he watched his sister. Deacons clothes, a pair of jean cover-all's on top of a blue shirt, were slathered in mud; Danielles bright orange sun-dress was drenched from the waist down. Neither of them noticed. Why do I have to watch the kids? Are they my kids? No. Theyre Stephs. So why doesnt she watch them? Thomas thought--the newest beginning to his non-stop internal dialogue. Shes watching Dillon. So? What about David? Whats he doing? Being a jerk--its a full time job. What about Tony and Tina? Why dont they have to do this? They know more than I do. And Im stupid, especially about kids. What if something happens? Good idea, grown-ups. Leave the half-wit with three and two-year-old babies by a large body of water, alone. Why am I always left babysitting? As if I didnt have hikes to take and fish to catch. What about-Dani--hey! Stop! Dont touch that plant, honey--its poisonous, Thomas said as he jumped up and scooped the child off the ground. Danielle had left the water to investigate the

Campfire/2 nearby foliage. Her dress clung to her legs, sopping wet, and drenched his ratty T-shirt as he held her to his chest. No! she squealed, squirming as he lifted her. You dont want to touch that plant, Dani--it will make you itch and scratch and feels really yucky on your skin. Which plant? She asked. She somewhat left out the L sound in plant. This one, hon. Remember this one, he told her, pointing at the poison ivy. Its very bad. You never want to touch it. How do you know? Did you touch it? she questioned, now hanging on his neck like a leech. No, Ive never touched it. But uncle Brian gave me a book one time that taught me to remember it. Its like the chickenpox, Dani, you remember those? The three year old nodded, scrunched her nose, and growled. But a million times worse! Thomas threatened, widening his eyes and looming. Danielle screamed and wriggled in his arms until Thomas playfully roared at her, tickled her and made her screech with laughter. He turned while he did it so he could keep an eye on Deacon. The kid sat wide-eyed, rubbing mud on his cheeks, watching Thomas. Thomas heard his step-dad Johns two-toned whistle and traded Danielle and her stilldripping dress for Deacon and his mud-covered everything. He took Danielles hand and began to walk, carrying Deacon in the other arm. Thomas was already a mess. He would have to change clothes. Come on guys; time to go back to camp, Thomas told them. About time, he thought. But I wanna go in the water! whined Danielle, pulling against him.

Campfire/3 Fine, but I thought you would rather have some smores instead of go in the water, said Thomas, pulling her inexorably towards camp. Deacon was busy styling Thomas hair with mud. Smores? Danielle breathed in wonder, following him excitedly now. Yeah, you like chocolate, right? he asked. She nodded and smiled. And marshmallow, right? She nodded vigorously and smiled. And delicious honey graham crackers, right? She nodded vigorously, smiled, and jumped along, trying to hold herself off the ground by hanging onto his hand and swinging. He allowed a few tries and then calmed her down. Well then, I suggest we go back to camp. Well have dinner and then--smores! This set her off into another bout of attempting to swing from his hand, and again he calmed her. He walked quickly, trying to get back to the fire and perhaps some relief from the plague of insects. As he topped the rise that led around to the camp, he witnessed the muscled brute David and Thomas' brunette, slightly pudgy sister Stephanie in conversation. David had Stephanie gripped tightly by her upper arm and was speaking to her in a quiet, firm tone. Her face betrayed her discomfort at his grip, and though she tried to shy away from his singular, intense gaze, he kept shaking her and forcing her to look at him, angling his own head to pierce her defenses and direct her attention toward himself. Get your damn hands off my sister, you disgusting Neanderthal, Thomas thought, instantly furious. Go get your daddy, Dani! he whispered to Danielle, releasing his hold on her hand. She squeaked and launched herself towards her parents. Thomas readjusted Deacon and continued up towards the camp, which would take him past his sister and her horrid husband. David, hearing Danielles approach, squeezed Stephanies arm tightly for a moment and slightly shook her once

Campfire/4 more before abruptly releasing her to grab Danielle and swoop her up into the air, laughing with her as he did. Until, that is, he realized Danielle's dress was all wet and dripping on him. He loosed an irritated groan and held his daughter out away from his body, her giggling all the while. David glared at Thomas, who was still holding the muddy Deacon. Nice job, Thomas. Thanks for letting her get all wet. And Deacon all filthy, David said. No problem, ass. Maybe you should watch your own children next time, Thomas thought. But he said, Sorry. It was hard to watch them both at once. Oh, its okay, Dave. Here Tom, Ill take him and get him changed and cleaned up, said Stephanie as she took Deacon. David scoffed and shook his head. Take her with you and change her, too, David told Stephanie. Go with your mother, he told Danielle, and he pointed her towards Stephanie and walked away towards the camp to change himself, and eventually took a seat next to Thomas Aunt Molly at the fire. As Stephanie took Deacon from his arms, Thomas glimpsed the mottled patch of greentinged skin on her cheek just below her left eye. Thanks for watching them for awhile. I really appreciate it, she said. No problem, he replied, smiling. But he did not mention that he could still see her fading shiner. What good would it do? Would she listen to me? No. Why would she? If she wont even listen to Mom why would she listen to me? He walked around her, went to his tent and changed into a fresh pair of jeans and pulled out a new shirt to replace his muddy, wet one. Freshly clothed, he exited his tent and ran up to where his Uncle Brian was standing at his RV, preparing and seasoning the steaks, burgers, and brats for dinner. Hey, uncle Brian, whats cookin? he asked.

Campfire/5 Hey, Tommy, Brian said as he looked over at Thomas and then back at the meat. You ready to eat or what? You gonna help me grill these? inquired Brian. Sure. What do you need me to do? Go set the grill up over the fire. You just open the legs and stick it inside the pit, see? Brian held up the grill and showed Thomas how it unfolded. Okay. Thomas took the grill and headed off. His aunt Molly and his mom, Heather, sat in folding chairs near the fire, talking. David was nearby, busying himself by poking the fire with a stick. Heather cradled Dillon in her lap. Dillon looked asleep. Thomas smiled at them but said nothing as he approached and immediately began to set up the grill. He leaned over to set the legs into the pit when he heard something. He paused, listening for it. There--a whistle? Did you guys hear that? he asked the women, ignoring David. They paused. Both said no, and went back to talking. Thomas cocked his head to the side, stood a few steps from the fire, and listened. There! Definitely a whistle--repeated, piercing whistles. Thomas had his own emergency whistle around his neck. Is there an emergency? he wondered. You guys dont hear that? he asked again, shushing people and this time including David with a glance. David shrugged. The women paused, but gave no indication they heard it. The whistle got louder and he was sure they must hear it, but it was drowned out by the gradual approach of screaming. Someone was screaming. Chills went up his spine as it got louder and louder--as it approached their camp. Out of the woods across the clearing from their RV, cars, and tents, a man came hurtling out of the trees, screaming, stumbling, his entire body engulfed in eldritch green flames. He sprinted parallel to their camp, yelling and slapping at the flames as he ran.

Campfire/6 Thomass mind splintered into parallel processes. The first process saw only one single detail: the mans eyeballs were on fire. The globes of his eyes were wreathed in green fire. Thomas was distantly horrified. The second process saw only the hue of the flames, and he instinctually knew it was wrong. The glow of it made him feel sick and hollow, like he needed to vomit on an empty stomach. The third process wanted to make him crack up laughing. He almost felt himself begin to laugh as he thought, Is this a joke? A stunt? Are we on TV or something and this is some scripted event? Are we being Punkd? Reality seemed a thin faade supported by sticks and bent wires. The fourth process rapidly pistoned his legs and he only noticed he was sprinting after he had already fled the campsite and plunged into the trees after the man. He followed the screams but it was difficult to keep up. A flash of surreal emerald flames here, a cry there--that was all he had to go on. He realized his uncle Brian was running behind him when he heard him shout, We gotta catch him Tommy! Gotta put him out! Hurry up! And Brian passed him, slipping forward into the woods after the man. Thomas added speed, went a bit left of his uncle, and hopped over a fallen tree with a lithe grace no one had ever witnessed. Thomas ran. Time took a deep breath and held it. For a long moment, all Thomas heard were his own harsh breaths and the snap and crunch of the underbrush as he ran. Time exhaled. And suddenly he was upon the man, who had fallen to the ground, writhing in agony and endlessly shrieking in inarticulate terror. Thomas fell to his knees and began slapping the mans

Campfire/7 legs and body. He was trying to smother the flames, but everywhere he put his hands it just scalded his skin and the flames only danced away, they did not die. Roll around, roll around! Thomas screamed, but could barely hear himself, and it did not work anyway--the man just thrashed spasmodically, kicking and screaming. As Thomas flailed, ineffectually trying to put out the flames, he nearly gagged on the smell: the man reeked of burning flesh and polyester. He was also caked with some caustic, flammable chemical-whatever it was that was making the fire green. His uncle Brian arrived and seconds later another man, but from where, Thomas did not know. Together, all three of them tried to manhandle the poor guy into a manageable position for them to put him out--but each only burned themselves for their efforts. The chemicals and melted plastic covering on the man were too thick--they could not defeat the flames with their hands. None of them were thinking. It was too much. When Thomas finally tore off his shirt and began to smother the flames, there was a thin moment between seconds when the two other men had minutes, hours, days to react--they looked at Thomas, looked at each other, and both immediately followed suit, ripping off their shirts and beating the flames to death. The man still moaned and screamed unintelligibly, twitching and kicking as they worked. After an eternity, the flames died. Just a smoldering, whimpering pile of charred meat remained. The man's clothes had fused with his flesh. His head was a mass of twisted, amorphous features. He convulsed and shook, trembling in his misery. Has anyone called 911? Brian asked the man who had helped them. His voice was hoarse and strained. He trembled and breathed heavily.

Campfire/8 Don't know. Followed the screams--Im alone, I didnt. Got a phone? answered the man. They talked rapidly, coughing, nearly shouting, both speaking almost at once, panting. Tommy, run back to camp, tell em to call 911. We have a man badly burned here. Go! Thomas ran. At first, he did not remember where camp was. His mind was empty. There was just the green blaze coating the mans eyeballs; his irises shrouded in the sickly fire. Thomas ran. And ran. And ran. Where is my shirt? he wondered in the back of his mind. He could not remember taking it off, and later, when going back over the event in his mind, he would still be unable to pinpoint the moment he had done so. With a skid, he abruptly emerged onto the dirt road that wound around the mountain and led to each campsite. The sunlight danced in shafts through the trees and struck him in the eyes, blinding him for a moment and clearing his thoughts. Camp. Where? He got his bearings and sprinted towards camp, which was just down the road and around the curve. Call 911! Call 911! Call 911! he shouted over and over as he raced into camp. He saw Tony and Tina had emerged from wherever they had been. His step-dad John was near Heather talking on the phone to someone, and Aunt Molly was near Stephanie and David and their brood. The children were shaken up, but seemingly unaware of the situation. Oh, thank God, Heather said as she ran towards Thomas and embraced him roughly. The zipper on her sweater was chill against his exposed skin. She shouted at him through gritted teeth, Boy--dont you ever run off like that again!" She enunciated each syllable independently and shook him slightly with each word. "You scared the shit out of me! She hugged him fiercely, but he struggled, saying Is John calling 911? Yeah, he called. Are you alright? What about Brian? Where's your shirt? said Heather.

Campfire/9 Thomas shook his head, numb, and shrugged out of her arms. He went and sat down on a thick slice of log--a makeshift chair someone had dragged to the fire pit long ago. His hands hurt. They were somewhat clenched and as he tried to open them they stretched and tore and his blood pooled in his cupped hands. The cracked, red skin of his palms was covered in blisters. Here and there were swatches of skin coated in the burnt jogging suit the man had been wearing, and here and there were swatches of raw, bloody flesh where the flaming plastic clothes had melted to his hand and then torn off and taken his skin with it. The pain was so great and his skin was so taut that he could not open his hands all the way, especially not without tearing them further. He tried to imagine that pain over his whole body. Coating his eyes. He unexpectedly recalled the smell of burning flesh and he leaned over to the side and vomited explosively, causing Heather and Molly to flock to him and get him water and napkins. I cant believe a dude ran through here on fire and I missed it, said Tony, surly. I hope hes okay, said Tina, How could this happen? How did he catch on fire? His girlfriend, the one who was blowing the emergency whistle, said he did it to himself. Its horrible, Molly said, and then turned to Thomas, Here, honey, do you want some water? Thomas took the water and swirled it in his mouth a few times before he spit it back out, taking some of the vomit taste with it. He did not drink any. Well, that's just great, snarled David. Now that that idiot there has gone and lit himself up, this entire trip is ruined. For everyone! Not just us or that guy and whoever he was with, but everyone in this entire site. Now were going to have parades of cops and ambulances and fire trucks and bright flashing lights and emergency crews and fire marshals and park rangers all over the place. So much for enjoying the outdoors and getting away from it all. Dave, please, murmured Stephanie, and briefly touched his arm.

Campfire/10 In the background, Thomas heard Tony say to someone, "He set himself on fire? Why?" Honking horns and diesel engines; radios squawking over and over with those annoying little bursts of static. Damn human torch over there had to ruin this nice peaceful weekend for everyone. Fan-tastic. David spat. Itll only be for tonight, said Molly. Then they should clear out. Yeah, except that all anyone'll talk about now is the flamer over there. All conjecture and gossip and nonsense about some guy none of us know or care about, continued David. Now he paced back and forth and occasionally poked the fire as he passed, stoking the heat. In the background, Tina said, "Maybe it was an accident." Come on, Dave, it wont be like that, chimed Stephanie. Says who? You? he scoffed. What will it be like, then? Since you know everything. He glared at her and turned his body towards her, standing over her while she sat. Itll be an hour until the medics get here, if they get here that quick. Then they got to find the guy. Then transport him. Then the cops, or whoever, will need a statement from everyone. And I mean everyone. Everyone in every campsite around here. That will take all night. Then-- Even from me? I didnt even see the guy, asked Tony. Everyone, said David. Thats how cops work. Theyll want to know what you were doing and why you didnt see it. Tony scowled at that and looked away, kicking rocks and pinecones out of his path. I still hope he's okay--I didnt see him though--do you think he'll be okay? asked Tina. I dont know, answered Molly. It looked... she started, but she trailed off into silence as she shook her head and pondered. See? Conjecture and gossip. Just like I said, said David.

Campfire/11 Yeah, because the things you talk about are so riveting, so damn interesting, that we'd be unable to survive if we discussed this instead of whatever inane thing happened to pop into your stupid head, right David? spat Thomas, suddenly rising from his log. His fists were clenched, and blood slipped from between his fingers in a slow drip. Like a mans life is less important than your fleeting, useless thoughts, right? Thomas, said Heather, but he ignored his mother and continued. Mr. Big Shot over here, telling us how our camping trip is ruined because a tragedy occurred nearby. Go then, asshole. Leave. We dont want you here anyway. No one does. We never did. Leave my sister and her children and run along. We have an RV and plenty of space, so if you want to leave, then good riddance. He turned to the side and hawked a nasty wad of vomit-tainted phlegm into the dirt, then looked squarely into Davids eyes. Thomas was shirtless, scraped, sweaty, and blood fell from his clenched fists. The effect was palpable. Thomas sighed and looked down as the scene faded, biting the inside of his cheek as that reality died before it was even born. There was a tiny spot on the ground where his blood had dripped, dripped, until it created a small divot in the dirt. He slowly slid his foot over the spot, smoothing the dirt over the top of it and erasing it. Thomas turned to his mom and said, Im going to go see if I can help uncle Brian. And with that he got up and left them, grabbing the first-aid kit on his way out of camp. Silence stared after him. He took the road back up and cut across into the forest about where he thought he had left it earlier. He shouted his uncles name until he got a response, and after a few more back-andforth shouts, he found them. He gave his uncle the first-aid kit, and Brian did what he could,

Campfire/12 which was very little. The man still moaned uncontrollably. For a moment, Thomas saw the green flames, saw the mans eyes, and he shuddered. Thomas wondered if the man would live. It did not seem like it would be worth it. He was ruined. Thomas tried not to look at him. Not to hear him. Or smell him. After a couple of hours a small posse of paramedics, firemen, police, and park rangers made their way to Brian and Thomas and ushered them out of the way so the medics could get the man out of there. After another hour of statements to the police and medical treatment for the three pairs of burnt, blistered hands, they were allowed to return to their camps. Proud of you, Tommy. You saved his life. You did good, son, said Brian quietly as they walked. Thomas was silent with doubt. When they got back to camp, everyone looked at them expectantly. Brian stepped forward into the campfire circle to explain the entire ordeal, while Thomas expertly, and invisibly, walked around them and made his way down to the water where Danielle had been splashing earlier. Exhausted and indifferent, he collapsed cross-legged on the muddy bank and stared at his bandaged hands. Rorschachian bloodspots had already begun to ooze through the thin gauze. In his mind he saw burning green eyes and shook his head, as if like an Etch-A-Sketch he could simply erase the image. He idly wondered if his hands would scar. For a split second he almost broke down and started bawling, but then green fire flashed and burned away his tears, leaving him empty. He sat there until the sun collided with a mountain and the yolk broke into the clouds, at first with radiant oranges and yellows but then coagulating and bruising into blues, indigos, and purples. Night ripened. He sighed, flexed his injured hands, got up and made his way wearily to the campfire.