12 LITTLE CAMPERS - A TOTAL DRAMA ISLAND FANFICTION
PART ONE
CAMP WAWANAKWA, CANANDA - 1:14 AM
Inside a dilapidated old cabin, a young girl with long raven hair tossed and turned in her bunk. Her dark eyes fluttered opened and she rose from beneath her covers. A scowl crossed her delicate lips as she slowly descended the rail of her bunk bed. The ice-cold wooden floor stung her feet and she shivered in her pink boy shorts and cream t-shirt. Blindly, she felt around with her toes until she located her sandals. Tiptoeing by crescent moonlight, she snatched up a flashlight near the door before exiting the cabin.
The flashlight clicked on, guiding the girl down the short path towards to communal bathhouse. The faded olive green bathhouse lay hidden in dark shadow, since the single lamp lighting the doorway had burnt out. The drowsy girl was glad she at least had the flashlight to guide her on this cloudy night. Still even with the dim beam to light her way, it didn't prevent her from clumsily stumbling over a large obstruction in her path.
"Damnit!" cursed Heather, the camp's resident snob, as she tumbled face first in the dirt. Sluggishly she sat herself up, brushing off her hands and knees. She reached for the flashlight that rolled away, growling in frustration. The beam of light scanned the ground, searching for what she had stumbled over. The light finally rested upon a shadowy, disfigured lump half on the main path. Heather's eyes widened when she processed what she was before her; she took in a deep breath and screamed.
THE MESS HALL - 1:37 AM
Twelve teenagers gathered in tense silence inside the dining hall of camp Wawanakwa. They'd met here many times before to eat the inedible camp food, or await the challenge of the day, but never for something like this. None of them looked too thrilled to be here so late, the majority of them still in their nightwear. Most of them gathered at their respective tables, while Heather planted herself on the floor alongside two of her teammates who were attempting to console her.
"I still say we're being punked," the camp's green haired delinquent Duncan, pounded his fist into the table. Two of his fellow campers, geeky and shy, Harold, and bossy Métis, Courtney looked weakly at him.
"Yeah, punked. Man, they got us good." Harold forced a laugh, clearly not convinced.
The resident goth girl, Gwen, rubbed her arm absently, her vision focused on the floorboards, "Sure. That was an awful lot of blood though."
"Yeah, but that can be faked…" Duncan pointed out. Harold nodded, explaining in a matter of fact tone, "They use corn syrup and dye in the movies… or strawberry Quik."
"Fake!?" Heather shot up flabbergasted, startling blonde-haired Lindsay and outspoken Leshawna, "When you fall over a dead man's body, you'll know it's not fake!"
"Oh, I'll believe it when I see it!" the punk continued to express his doubts.
"Guys, a brother is dead," the brawny Jamaican native DJ, timidly added between the two bickering teens.
"You wanna check? Be my guest! But believe me, Chris Maclean is…"
The doors to the dinning area abruptly swung open, interrupting their argument. The intimidating form of "Chef" Hatchet wearing his fuzzy, white night robe and slippers, lingered in the doorway. His nostrils flared as his beady eyes surveyed the rustic room, studying each of the startled campers.
"Chris Maclean is dead," he finished the girl's words, than barked, "Now all y'all sit down an' shut up!"
Obediently everyone dropped down on bench or cold floor, allowing the dark skinned man their full attention. Chef carefully scrutinized the lot of them, a million thoughts running through his head. He now had twelve confused, irritable and frightened teenagers; and one dead body on his hand. His mind wandered back to a half hour prior when Heather's screams of horror rang across the entire campsite. Within seconds, everyone leapt from their beds and rushed to the communal washrooms to find Heather sitting alone in the dark, a few feet away from a yet unrevealed mass. The hysterical Asian beauty didn't appear to notice the spectators as she continued to scream her lungs out.
"Yo, what's white girl screamin' for?" Leshawna inquired, attempting to warm herself in her sheer purple chemise against the cool night air. Her tired chocolate eyes were puzzled and disturbed by the sound of her teammate emitted.
"Heather, stop screaming!" Courtney urged, also holding her grey sleepwear tightly to her body. She hesitated stepping towards Heather when Duncan bumped his shoulder to hers. The brunette glared at him, thinking how typical it was for a "delinquent" such as him to show up late to the party. Even more curious was that Duncan arrived fully clothed in his skull adorned black t-shirt and baggy navy shorts. She couldn't be sure, but it didn't even appear he'd come from the direction of the team lodges.
"What n' the hell is all this racket 'bout!" Chef irritably demanded, pushing through the mass of campers. No one provided an answer for the imposing man, and Heather still continued to scream out, her volume unwavering despite how long she'd yelled.
Gwen finally marched forward in her long black nightshirt, stepped over the mass and slapped Heather. The strike resonated; Heather's blood shot eyes flew open and she immediately leapt up to challenge her assailant, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Me? What about you? What the hell were you screaming for?" Gwen gestured, equally incensed.
"It could be the dead body on the ground," Harold wheezed matter-of-factly.
"Body?" Gwen squeaked, focusing on the form she'd just walked over, "Holy crap!"For the first time, the entire group acknowledged the mass on the unlit path as a human body. The goth and snobby princess scurried to find refuge within the mob of campers. Immediately the twelve teens widened the space between themselves and the bloodied corpse.
The clearly male body was twisted unnaturally; face down in the grass, his injured left arm curled over his backside. The blue shirt he wore was blood splattered and torn, revealing a multitude of stab wounds to his back. Courtney gasped, automatically turning to Duncan, burying her tear stained face into his chest. Bridgette has also burst into tears as she inched closer to Geoff, but she was unable to avert her gaze.
"Great Caesar's Ghost," the portly and enthusiastic Owen breathed, putting a comforting hand on Lindsay and Leshawna's shoulders. Gentle giant DJ turned away completely, using a free hand to cover the jeweled eyes of his pet bunny. In vein, Trent tried to comfort Gwen, but she seemed more fascinated with the cadaver than appalled.
"Good God almighty," breathed Chef, gingerly approaching the corpse, he took its pulse. After feeling no life, his stern face became even grimmer as he discreetly lifted the body's shoulder to discern its identity. His large form obstructed the view for most of the curious campers; but, it wasn't hard to guess the identity of their venerable host, Chris Maclean.
Dropping the body face down into the dirt again, Chef somberly stood and pointed down the path, "Get to the mess hall, the lot o' you! On the double soldiers!"
Without so much as a peep, the twelve campers made a hasty retreat for said mess hall.
Well, there's the first chapter of my TDI fanfiction. Comments, critiques and even flames are welcome (but I'd prefer constructive comments - or if there's a mistake, I won't be insulted if you point it out). Next chapter coming soon, I'm in the process of re-proofing it and doing some last edits... although edits can be ongoing as I just edited the crap out of this first chapter again...
