The scream woke them in the night. Vic Fusel sat upright in his sleeping bag.

“What was that?” Dirk Batten whispered. They’d been taught in survival camp to listen and deduce a situation before jumping in blindly. The college buddies were in the advanced survival immersion camp offered during the summer for three credits.

Mr. Fort, their counselor, would be the one to investigate the situation. It was a test; they were sure to lose grade points if they blindly lumbered out into the night, deciding to remain put, slumped back into their sleeping bags. Within 15 minutes, they were sound asleep.

In the morning, Dirk opened the zipper on the tent. It was so quiet. Guys should have been up, starting a fire, eating breakfast. He walked toward the outhouse, wiping the sleep from his eyes when he tripped on Armand Weyworth’s dismembered head. It rolled like a grapefruit in front of him. Dirk froze to the spot, feeling last night’s supper in his throat as he turned to warn his tent mate. Vic came through the opening joking at Dirk’s panicked face.

“What’s the matter?” He spotted the carnage before him. Every advanced survival camper had been slaughtered, save the two men who stayed in their tent last night because they thought it was a trick.

“We slept through that,” Dirk whispered.

“Shh. It could have been us,” Vic answered, trying to keep it together. “Let’s get out of here and go back to the parking lot.” All their training had prepared them for emergencies and survival, but no amount of training prepared them for this. Vic knew enough to be quiet. He put his finger up to his lips. Dirk nodded that he understood.

Yesterday, they had hiked several miles through the woods with their gear on their backs, pitched their tents, and told truth-stranger-than-fiction stories around the campfire.

“This can’t be happening,” Dirk whined.

Mr. Fort lay face down in front of the outhouse. Vic rolled him over, seeing machete marks cut deep into his chest.

“He’s been hacked,” Vic whispered, but Dirk was nowhere. Vic dared not call out to his camping buddy. All he could think of was to escape. His heart pounded in his chest. Survival training told him to take his water and sleeping bag. Mentally, he kicked into survival mode. Mr. Fort would have been proud of him.

Vic sprinted around the campsite, grabbing his backpack, looking for anything that would help him survive the hike back to civilization should he get turned around. Mr. Fort had them tie ribbons on tree branches so they wouldn’t hurt the trees but use the fabric to find their way back to the parking lot. Vic found two canteens full of water and slung them over his shoulder. Rolling up his sleeping bag, he tied it to the bottom of the backpack with one of the tent’s ropes. Someone had taken most of the food. He patted his pocket, finding the butane lighter his dad made sure he snuck in his gear, just in case. Vic grabbed his coat, even though it was warm, and tied the jacket around his waist. He patted the other pants pocket where he kept his army knife, going for the first red ribbon tied on a branch.

He moved as fast as he could away from the carnage. 15 miles through the woods had only taken them about six hours, stopping to tie the ribbons and learn some lessons. He hoped he would be out to the road by eleven. But then what? He had no way to drive the Jeep. His heart sank.

In exasperation, Vic crept back to the campsite. Mr. Fort would most likely have the keys to the vehicle in his pocket. Bile rose in his throat when he approached Mr. Fort. Snaking his hand into the pocket, he found the key fob and quickly snuck back into the woods.

Vic had been walking for a good 45 minutes as fast as he could, following the ribbons they had tied on the trees. The more distance he could put between him and the camp, the better. He was sucking wind from exertion, convinced he’d covered two miles already when he came into the clearing. There were tents and dead campers. He stifled a scream biting on his knuckle, trying not to cry. How could he have read the ribbons so wrong?

Vic fell to his knees, convinced that the killer had taken the ribbons and retied them on different trees and he’d just gone in a circle. Choosing a direction, he felt he should move opposite where the red ribbon had been tied. He walked while trying to calm himself down.

“Don’t panic, think,” Vic trudged along. Mr. Fort used to tell them this, but Mr. Fort was dead with machete marks on his chest, wasn’t he?

Fred McElroy had the best story last night. He talked about the long-lost campers. 19 of them went into the woods, all murdered, every last one. No one said a word. Fred whispered the details of the massacre. The survivalists drew closer to him and the fire to hear him better when Fred screamed, making them jump.

“You bastard,” shouted one of the guys, and they all started laughing. Fred may have had the spookiest story last night, but in telling the tale, had he brought the curse to their survival site? Vic came upon the river.

“River, river, oh, life-giver.” That was rule 26 of the camper’s survival guide. If you’re lost and find a river, stick with it. It will lead you out. You always had a water source, and most rivers led to civilization. He walked along the river’s edge, watching the sun fall from the sky, knowing he was officially lost.

Vic was tired and wondered if he should stop and camp near the water. Would a fire keep animals at bay or draw the animal to him? The mosquitos were thicker near the river, but he was hesitant to leave it. If he built a smudge fire to stave the mosquitoes off, he could signal the murderer where he was hiding. His face was getting bitten, so he put on his jacket and went to the river. Taking handfuls from the water, he smeared his face with a thick layer of mud. He gagged at the smell, but the goop would protect him from mosquitoes. In the last light of the day, he set up camp.

The advanced camping scenario was supposed to be a survival experience. There was no room for phones. While the others complained, Mr. Fort made a big show of locking their cell phones in the Jeep’s glove box. They had all become dependent on them. He reminded the campers there was no signal, so why risk losing them?

Vic poked the brush everywhere with a stick and stomped around, ensuring there were no snakes. The rope he tied to the sleeping bag to keep it on the backpack he put around him in a protective circle. He’d seen that done in a western. The cowboy showed the new guy to put his rope around his gear, telling him that a snake won’t cross a rope. Did it work? He didn’t give a shit. Right now, he’d do anything to survive.

Vic remembered to eat slowly, finding a fruit and nut bar in his coat so he wouldn’t choke. Despite sweating, he had to stay in the sleeping bag to keep from being eaten alive by the mosquitos.

The following morning, he took a small swig of water and continued to follow the river when it occurred to him that the river was turning into a stream that led into wetlands. Vic wasn’t about to take the marsh on. Sadly, he turned around to follow the river the other wayfinding that the current ran stronger, and the river became wider the further away he walked from the swamp. Vic had a 50/50 chance of getting it right. He’d chosen the wrong way and was hopelessly turned around.

“Save me. Save me.” Vic sent the message telepathically. It had become his walking mantra. The swamp would have meant quicksand and bug death. There was a slight wind now that blew the mosquitos away. He washed in the river and reapplied the mud to his face.

What a smell. Vic kept moving forward through the bushes, not wanting to be seen. The sun was hot, wiping the sweat from his face; his hand came away with blood.

Vic probed his cheek and found a giant leech attached to his face. When he tried to pull the bloodsucker away, it wouldn’t budge. Trying not to shriek in panic, Vic ran back to the river bank and took more mud smearing it in his hair so it wouldn’t start on fire. The lighter’s flame sizzled as he held it to the leech’s body. It wiggled and squirmed, falling to the ground after it let go of his face. Vic panted in heavy breaths as he allowed the cut to bleed out enough to clean itself. He had nothing to protect his wound and chose to apply more mud to it, this time making sure there were no parasites. He was exhausted, hoping he was going in the right direction.

Had he been able to march in the open, he would have been back to the parking area, he felt but having to keep near the brush sneaking from one safe point to the next, slowed him down because Vic was hiding from someone or something. He didn’t know.

He stooped to pick up small sticks and dried leaves to build a fire, stuffing them in his pockets. He hadn’t heard or seen anything. He decided he would start a fire tonight, feeling sure the murderer was long gone by now.

At dusk, Vic prepared his bed as he had the night before but started a fire. He didn’t care anymore. He was cold, tired, hungry, and afraid. Maybe they’d send a helicopter and they would see his fire. Surely the rangers would see the cars were still in the parking lot and that the survival campers didn’t come out according to their plan on file with the ranger.

Vic kept the blaze going, falling asleep listening for cars. He hoped he could hear them if there were a road nearby. He put the rope around the sleeping bag again so no snake would come over that rope. It seemed to work last night.

He woke from the fire dream, realizing his sleeping bag had caught fire. Vic beat at the flames, screaming, pulling himself out of the sleeping bag. The smoldering material of his jeans covered a severe burn. Vic grabbed his pocket knife to cut away the burning material. Hobbling down to the river, Vic put himself in the water. Exhausted both physically and mentally, he cried. It was too much for him. Vic didn’t want to die.

“Don’t make a sound.” A dirty hand pushed against Vic’s mouth as the man pulled him off the edge of the river dumping him to the ground. Vic’s heart pounded. The guy rolled him over, holding a machete over his body, when a car alarm sounded in a small patch of woods near them.

“What the…” The guy ran off. Vic realized when he rolled onto his belly that the key fob was activated in his pocket. He had been camping feet from Mr. Fort’s Jeep.

Vic got up and ran toward the beeping horn. He could see the vehicle lights coming on and off when he broke into a dead run, forgetting all the rules about slowing down, so you don’t break your leg walking on uneven ground.

He had one desire: to get out of here alive. He could feel the tears coming down his face and the excitement heaving out of his body.

He scrambled into the Jeep, slamming the door as the guy pounded on the driver’s side window. Vic screamed in sheer panic. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. He needed to start the vehicle and get out of here. Vic felt for the keyhole, realizing it was the fob that started the car. He depressed the brake pushing the accessory button. The vehicle roared to life.

Slamming the Jeep into reverse, he stepped on the gas. The vehicle lurched backward with the killer pounding on the window still. Vic stepped on the brake. Finding drive, he put the Jeep into gear and stepped on the gas, racing across the parking lot.

The man kept up with him. How could a human being run this fast? Then he realized the guy’s clothing was caught in the door. Vic floored the vehicle going like a bat out of hell. He’d lost any common sense he had. Not paying attention, he went over the side of the bridge into the river.

The Jeep floated while it slowly sank. Vic rolled down the window on the passenger side before the electronics could short out.

“Open the door! Help me!” the murderer screamed, struggling like a coyote in a trap, but couldn’t release his clothes from the door.

Jumping from the Jeep, Vic swam to the edge of the river, trying to block out the man’s cries for help. There, he watched the Jeep sink, pulling the stranger underwater. The headlights cast an eerie glow when the vehicle came to rest on the river bottom. Vic could see the guy struggle until he apparently drowned.

Pulling himself out of the river, Vic trotted toward the road, not believing he was getting away with his life. He moved quickly in the shadows, with his hand over his burned thigh, startled when he heard another voice shouting.

“Ned! Man, where are you? Ned?” Vic’s jaw dropped. He was an idiot. There were two of them! Vic broke into a dead run heading for the highway.

Natalie Fusel and her husband came up the dirt road. Frightened when their son hadn’t returned from the weekend survival camping, she forced her husband Frank to drive up to Devil’s Park in the middle of the night. She had a dream. She said that a monster attacked those boys.

“There he is,” she shouted. With his burned and shredded jeans, a mud-covered Vic lifted his arms to stop the car from coming down the road. “It’s the monster; don’t stop!” she shouted at Frank. He stepped on the accelerator; Vic jumped in front of his parents’ car, wanting to warn them about the killer in the park, but Frank did not stop. The vehicle struck the monster in the road tossing him into a tree.

“You hit him!” Natalie screamed. They needed to know if the monster who attacked their car was dead.

“Oh my God, it’s Vic!” Frank screamed when he showed the flashlight onto his son’s dead body.

“Ned? Ned, where are you!” The second murderer tromped down the dirt road hearing the Fusel’s screams.

“We’re here! Help!” Natalie cried, not knowing who was coming,