I'm not sure how good this is; feels a tad sloppy, but I think it might be okay. Also, there is a reference in Spencer's section to something. If you can tell me what it is you get a virtual Christmas tree! Merry Christmas, iCarly diehards!

Freddie hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he tasted an intolerable flavor of morning breath on his tongue and teeth. As he reoriented himself, he found he had sprawled out flat, his limbs stretching into oblivion at his sides. He rubbed the crispy residue from his eyes and moved to his supplies. His drowsiness diminished swiftly when he noticed not all were there. One of his books had somehow disappeared. He scoured the RV roof for them, and then figured he must've knocked them over in slumber, so he looked out over the campsite. He gaped at what he saw.

The entire site was in ruins: the sleeping bags that had been left out were torn badly, and a trail of food followed out of the vehicle, consisting of various items from potato chip crumbs to slices of half-eaten lunchmeat. Freddie leapt from the top in a single bound and walked among the wreckage that had been caused while he dozed. As he walked, his foot hit something that crumpled. Instantly he moaned. Not my book, he begged, but alas it was that very thing. The cover had been shredded so the character on it couldn't be deciphered if Freddie hadn't known ahead of time; pages were ripped and some half-torn, which felt more painful in Freddie's bookworm heart; worst of all, a sustenance that resembled saliva dripped from the mangled corners.

Even though this was his least favorite book of the three, he found himself horrorstruck, as though someone tore away a chunk of his life. He fell to his knees, his fingertips grazing the slobbery book cover, and continued to let his jaw wiggle back and forth like a pendulum. This act was not committed by any old felon—Freddie knew this wasn't even the work of a human being. Something snuck into the camp while Freddie rested, and it made its presence known.

What could it have been? This damage was done by a much more dangerous creature than a deer, or a beaver, or a raccoon…

Maybe a beavecoon.

As soon as a twisted image of this animal invaded Freddie's mind, he found himself rooted to the spot. Suddenly, time ceased to exist as he stood still in the midst of the debris, like a soldier on an empty battlefield. It could've been his imagination, the next thing, but he knew it wasn't. The sound of leaves scraping against each other, of soft, throaty growling, of…claws…dragged along the grass.

He didn't turn; he didn't fight; instead, he ran into the RV, shutting himself away. Freddie made sure to lock the door, but he still pressed his body against it to prevent the dastardly freak of nature from taking his life away. His knuckles grew white as he held tightly to the edge of the door, and he began to hyperventilate and shake, slinking to his knees.

Freddie spotted his cell phone on the counter; he had to call for help, or this thing could kill him silently. Though he feared for his safety, he left the door and nabbed the phone. The first number that popped into his head was surprising but he couldn't waste time remembering another—at the promptest pace he could, he dialed.

Carly recalled all the moments she'd kissed him; his lips always tasted salty and most definitely hospitable. He'd wrap his strong, tanned arms around her thin waist as he deepened the kiss, relishing every flavor his mouth produced into hers. His kisses were genuine, all flavorful, and all lovely.

But these were kisses of the past; now was the present. It tempted her, as she remembered all those past moments with him—she could have that again, right now. She couldn't though, and so she pressed her hands against his chest, and swiftly pushed him off.

To deny he was shocked and offended would be an outright lie; his face contorted into one of utter astonishment at being rejected. Carly bit her lip fretfully, feeling overcome with nausea at his expression. She even went to hold her stomach to prevent unwanted substances from bursting out, but Griffin spoke so she paid attention to him, and not her back-flipping belly.

"What?" he said, "Why won't you kiss me?" His confusion shone clearly in his dark eyes, and his stance of hands outstretched.

"I-I'm sorry, Grif…" she said, using his nickname only because she couldn't bring herself to say the full. "I like you a lot, but…but it doesn't feel right. You're spectacular, but there's—" Griffin's bewildered expression morphed into one of wholesome odium for what she'd say next.

"There's Gibby?" he spat, elongating the syllables of the boy's name to make it more repugnant, "That little, fat weirdo?"

"Don't call him…!" Carly started, but her voice faded as Griffin continued to fume.

"Why do you still want him?" he demanded, throwing up his arms, "He's not attractive, and he's not cool! Why want him when I'm here?"

"You don't get—"

"Oh, I get it. You choose him."

"No, it's not like that!"

"You chose him, even though I'm the one who came out here to find you, while he's off with another girl!" Carly went to speak again when she suddenly processed his words. It was true: Griffin had escaped from the bedroom to find her and bring her back, while Gibby decided to help Sam. It was hardly believable, and yet made so much sense she couldn't knock it away.

"B-But…" she stuttered, "But it's Sam." Griffin scoffed.

"Like it matters—he's still not here. He would rather drive off with Sam in the middle of the night to do who knows what than risk getting even sicker by leaving to find you…like I did." By now the anger in his features melted to concern, though in his heart it was faked. This could be the clincher of their relationship; Gibby had no romantic feelings towards Sam, or any other girl, as Griffin was conscious of, but just mentioning it to Carly could change her ways. Even though he was defying Spencer as the man went to find her, he still knew the fact he was there and Gibby wasn't would register in her brain as a point towards himself. And he needed every point in this war for her heart, and, more importantly, her lips.

When she didn't move, Griffin did, holding out his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers in a gentle show of care. "I like you very much, Carly. I just want you to see that."

"I-I do, Griffin…" she stammered, vision shaking as tears began to form—tears at Gibby's insensitivity, and at Griffin's pressuring.

"Then will you kiss me?"

Gibby could feel in the pit of his stomach a sense not all was well. Even as he pretended to sleep next to Sam as she stroked Ayala and listened to soft rock, he knew there was something bad going on elsewhere. He couldn't rightly tell, but it was an intuition that left him uneasy.

The meek cloudburst had ceased, but evidence of its visit was strewn across the car and forest with droplets of rainwater. The two still refused to leave the warmth and refuge of the truck, causing an anxious Ayala, who longed for the freedom of the wilderness. As Gibby pretended to sleep, he peeked at Sam with slits as eyes; she looked contented, but it was a forced contentment. He reckoned she was still mad at Freddie, but knew better than to say anything that implied that.

A quiet ring interrupting the melody caused Gibby to flinch and open his eyes, immediately stating his lies. However, Sam took no note of this as she seized her cell from her pocket. Gibby gazed at her as she listened; there was a high-pitched squeal coming from the other end, and Sam looked revolted with it at first, until the message sunk in.

"Oh my God!" she suddenly exclaimed, "Are you crazy? It's really there? There's really…something…?" Gibby craned his neck to move closer, trying to catch what was being said. All he heard was the squeal, and Sam's responses that didn't give much information anyhow.

"Well, we'll…try…no, we will. Shut up! You want help or not?" A buzz on the other end. "Okay, we're coming…yeah, just…please, just stay put. I…I need to know you'll keep yourself safe." Gibby gripped the edge of his foam seat—Carly was Sam's best friend. What if this was her calling, and she was in grave danger?

Sam hung up the phone finally and turned to him with worry in her eyes. "That's Freddie," she said, and Gibby was stunned as he recalled the past conversation. "He says something's at the camp, and it could…hurt him." Gibby knew this had to be the premonition he was feeling, though he sensed it wasn't the only horrible thing occurring.

"But we don't know how to get back." Gibby said.

"I called the ranger station a few hours ago and told them our whereabouts, so hopefully they'll get here soon. I'm gonna call back just in case." Sam's words were rushed and harried as she whipped her phone open and dialed. Gibby sensed panic rising within her at the thought of Freddie in danger. He was scared for him too, but Sam was taking tremendous action; she called the station three or four times more, her anger growing with each call. On around the last time she started to get ugly, using profanity to get her point across. Still no lights came before them.

Sam punched the buttons on her phone with much anger. "I swear to God, if they don't come…" Gibby bravely took the phone from her hands and snapped it shut—he was worried what would come out of her mouth next if she were to contact the station yet again.

"Look, they'll come soon." he said, "I'll call and tell 'em about Freddie, so he'll be safe if we don't get there first. Okay?" Sam just stared at him, eyes wide as a doe's, but eventually nodded, a big surprise. Instead of attacking Gibby for taking her phone, she simply accepted his judgment and petted Ayala more. Gibby didn't linger on it, though he was quite puzzled. He called the station and told them about their worries (and apologized for Sam's insufferable behavior). They said they'd send a ranger to the campsite as well, and then each hung up.

Sam was silent. Gibby stared at her face, curtained by her ringlets. "Sam?" She rose her head, and he saw her cheeks had grown red, as well as her eyes. Tears were on the verge of bursting through her sockets. Her lower lip trembled, something that normally happened only when she was angered.

"What's gonna happen?" she whispered, "He…he sounded so upset over the phone…w-what if…if it gets him? Whatever it is? Oh, Gibby…that can't happen…!"

"And it won't." He wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. She rested her tear-soaked cheek against him, and tried fruitlessly to keep the onslaught of teardrops from growing worse. "A ranger's heading over there right now, and Freddie's barricaded the door, right? Nothing will get in that isn't safe. Come on, he'll be fine."

"I can't let anything happen to him…" Sam mumbled, "I love him…h-he's my best friend, just like Carly! I love them both…"

"And me?" Gibby inquired, taking a stab at comedy.

"Oh, Gib, I can't stand you." A piteous laugh gurgled in Sam's throat, and Gibby was happy her mind was straying from Freddie. Despite their strong dislike of one another, Sam's breakdown proved Freddie and she were true friends, and that they cared and loved each other. However, the second part of her blubbering seemed to have been quickly condensed, as if to cover something up. Obviously she wouldn't have wanted Gibby to receive the wrong message and believe her love wasn't platonic.

Gibby patted her on the back before withdrawing his arm. "Understandably, I'm no Freddie. But I'm here, and he's safe." Sam nodded, but she didn't look satisfied.

Spencer was lost.

And not regular lost, either—more like totally out-of-his-element, on-the-streets, no-assistance-nearby lost. Which was the worst kind of lost.

None of the trees, bushes, or flowers looked familiar to him. The eerie sound of faraway chirps and croaks unsettled him, as he was accustomed to hearing distant voices of human beings. That way, he knew help was somewhat close, but now the sole human was himself. He was pretty certain Carly wasn't nearby, and the roads Gibby and Sam were on were too far-flung for them to possibly hear his shouts of their names.

He wished he had let Griffin follow him, for even the weakest human companionship would've been better than journeying over leaves on his own. He tried to scream for help again, but still no answer came in.

Defeated, Spencer collapsed onto a log. His stomach was growling at him angrily, but he had brought no food to sustain him—he thought he'd be in and out fast but how wrong he was, and now he had to listen to his belly nag at him. It made him wonder if Carly felt the same, hungry and dejected and lost, and he was left sick.

"Ah, shnit…" he groaned, grabbing his tummy, "This sucks…like, hardcore sucking. Oh, now I'm talking to myself again! My therapist told me not to do it…ugh, and now I'm thinking about Dr. Dowell and his weird mole! Oh…and now his mole's turning into a chocolate cupcake…mmm, cupcake…" Spencer began licking his lips, mouth watering for the mole/cupcake on his therapist's face. If insanity hadn't struck him before, the imagery of eating chocolate that grew on Dr. Dowell's chin was a sure sign it had then.

But Spencer knew thinking of food would make him hungrier, and being hungry would make him glummer and he couldn't have that, so he lifted himself off his rock and strode forward. As he continued his search, a cool mist washed over his face. He knew it wasn't humidity, because it felt refreshing like water. He closed his eyes, letting the mist wash over his eyelids; he sighed blissfully, glad to at least have some succor in this wilderness he was lost in. However, this comforting feeling of the mist left him after a bump in his path. He opened his eyes and fell, squealing, into a huge puddle. It wasn't even a fresh-feeling puddle of water—it was murky and green, with little unrecognizable creatures floating about. Spencer popped his head back to the surface, coughing and spluttering as he thrashed about.

"Help!" he screamed, "Help, I'm drowning!" He kept yelling and flaying, stuck in this swamp that was sure to eat him from his feet to his neck. Oh, what a cruel world! he thought, Swallowed by the seas, my goodness! I never got to tell Carly I loved her, or that Freddie was my brother from another mother, or that Sam needed to return my hot-glue gun before I went crazy! But now all of that is impossible…sweet death, take me away! Take me—

"Man, it's five feet deep!" shouted a voice from above. Spencer squinted against the swamp water that clouded his vision to see a woman peering down at him, hands on her hips. When he understood her words, he stood up to indeed find the water only reached his waist. He restrained a blush, embarrassed at this fact, but kept a cool head in the presence of this woman: she was breathtakingly gorgeous, with blonde hair flowing and brown eyes glistening. Even under the heavy camping clothing of flannel, jeans, and a vest, Spencer could seek out her striking figure. Who knew he would be able to find such a super-mega-foxy-awesome-hot supermodel in the middle of nowhere?

"Erm, whoops." he said, smiling.

"Yuck." she said, gesturing to the seaweed adorning his shoulders. He tried to casually shrug it off, to no avail. "Come on, let's get you inside n' dry you off." Inside? thought Spencer, as the girl turned both of them around. He gasped as he saw the huge lake house perched over the swamp. Kerosene lamps dangled from the porch, and it looked old but with some kind of class. It was built of complete wood, and sat on long pillars that stretched to the land and the bottom of the lake but it didn't look wobbly at all.

First a hot girl, then an awesome lake house? Maybe getting lost would be the best thing that happened to Spencer yet.