The Camp

Sarah Robauch glanced at the clock on the dash — 2:45 p.m. — and pressed a little harder on the gas. The white Lexus rolled down the tree-lined street of their gated Mandeville subdivision, its polished frame catching streaks of afternoon sun. She tapped the steering wheel, her mind ticking through the next two hours like a mental calendar alert.

Pick up Stacy. Doctor’s appointment at 3:15. Broken arm follow-up at the local clinic.Pick up Tim from Game Club at school. Baseball practice at 4:30. Snack? Water bottle?Home by 5:30. Steven lands at 4:50. He’ll be tired…and hungry, she grinned! Be there.

A chime interrupted her thoughts — low fuel warning. Of course. She exhaled sharply, signaling right as she turned into the school parking lot. The usual crowd of SUVs and waiting parents. Kids clustered at gates and beneath trees, backpacks bouncing, phones in hand.

Stacy came out through the side entrance, tall for thirteen, her purple cast tucked casually across her midriff. Despite the injury, she walked like a girl used to landing aerials and sticking it — confident, agile, all sharp edges and teenage certainty.

“Hey, Mom,” she said as she slid into the front seat. “We’re late.”

“I know,” Sarah replied, already reversing. “Traffic was a mess.”

“Did you bring the insurance card this time?”

“I did. And the form. And yes, I’ll remember to ask about regionals.”

They drove in silence a moment, the radio low. Taylor Swift sang about her boyfriend.

Sarah turned it down with a flick of her fingers.

After the appointment, it was a sprint to pick up Tim. He was waiting near the flagpole, baseball bat poking out of his gear bag and a juice pouch and his Nintendo Switch clutched in his hands. Sarah waved and he jogged over, face red from the afternoon heat.

“I beat the final boss,” he said breathlessly holding his game as he climbed in. “Took me six tries but I did it. You’re late!”

“Great job, buddy, and, yes, I know.” she said, distractedly. 4:38 p.m.

Baseball practice started at 4:30, but the coaches didn’t seem to mind if kids trickled in. She dropped him off at the gravel lot by the practice field and watched him sprint toward the dugout, cap crooked, cleats flopping a little. Ten years old and still believed in heroes.

She took a breath, finally. Her phone buzzed… spam. Stacy was absorbed in her sketchbook.

No new messages. Steven’s flight had landed by now. He usually texted once he was through customs. Maybe there was a delay.

Sarah tapped a quick note: “Just dropped off Tim. Heading home when he's done. Call when you can ❤️”

The radio murmured again — mentions of emergency WHO briefings, questions about an emerging illness with no clear origin. Hospitals in Milan, London, Frankfurt — cities Steven had just visited — were “monitoring cases.” She frowned, but only slightly. Flu season. Hype.

She changed the station.

---

The Mercedes purred up the driveway at 6:10 p.m., headlights sweeping across the marina-blue shutters and white stucco of their house. Sarah was already at the front door when Steven walked in, suitcase in one hand, blazer slung over his arm. His tie was half-loosened, and fatigue clung to him like a heavy coat.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough and low. “Miss me?”

“Every minute,” Sarah said, reaching up to kiss him. He returned it, but his lips were dry — chapped and warm. She pulled back, her brow knitting slightly. “You feel hot.”

“Just jet lag,” Steven said, waving it off. “Frankfurt was brutal. Hotel AC was shit.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you call? I’d have found you something better.”

“Didn’t want to make a fuss. Just needed to push through the last meetings.”

She nodded. This was routine. These extended trips — Rome, London, Frankfurt — were part of his world. International finance. He was often gone for a week or more, and Sarah had grown used to running the house solo while he juggled currencies and contracts, using his command of multiple languages. He always kept in touch. Texts. Video calls. But this time, something about him felt different.

“The kids are upstairs,” she said. “Stacy’s in the shower. Tim’s probably still in baseball socks.”

Steven gave a short, tired chuckle. “How was practice?”

“End of the world, apparently. The coach is mean and everyone else got a hit.”

Steven started up the stairs, pausing halfway. “I think I’ll shower. Shake off the plane.”

“I’ll heat your plate.”

He hesitated. “Actually… I’m not hungry.”

Sarah frowned. “Really? You’re not hungry?”

“Not tonight.”

She watched him disappear up the stairs, a note of unease settling into her chest. Steven hated airline food, he was always hungry when he got home after long flights.

Steven shut the bathroom door behind him and leaned over the vanity. His reflection in the mirror was foggy, distorted by travel and something else — something deeper.

---

His skin felt tight. His head pounded just behind the eyes and the back of his head, and his throat was dry. Too dry. Like he hadn’t had a drink in days. He turned on the cold tap and cupped the water in his palms. The sight of it made him flinch. His stomach churned, unprompted. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the nausea.

He hadn’t been near anything dangerous. No hotspots. No clinics. No coughs in close quarters. Just a conference. A hotel bar. A handshake. An elevator.

The whites of his eyes looked… pink. Probably the lighting or his blurry vision.

The guidelines had been clear: no symptoms, no spread, that’s what they said. He wasn’t symptomatic. Just tired. Jet lag. Stress. Heat.

He turned off the water without thinking and skipped the shower. He stepped back, shutting off the light, put on some pajama pants and slid into bed.

----

Steven hadn’t left the bedroom or the bed, in nearly two days.

He barely moved at all — just shifted beneath the covers like someone drifting far below the surface. The room smelled faintly of sweat and something metallic, something that didn’t belong. Not just sickness. Something deeper. Something wrong.

Sarah kept a cool, damp, cloth folded on his forehead and changed the sheets twice when he soaked them with fever. He hadn’t eaten since he got home. Hadn’t drunk anything either or used the bathroom. He had shoved away the Gatorade she’d brought him on Saturday evening with a look that frightened her.

“It burns,” he whispered hoarsely, clutching his chest. “I can’t.”

That was when she started sleeping downstairs. For his comfort, she told herself.

She told the kids their dad had picked up a bug on his trip. Maybe food poisoning. Maybe a foreign strain of flu. Stacy had asked if they should bring him to the ER. Tim wanted to know if it was the thing on the news. Sarah brushed them off, trying to sound calm. The doctor’s office was closed over the weekend but she sent a message via the app.

She didn’t want to panic them.

She didn’t want to panic herself.

---

Monday morning arrived soft, humid and gray.

Sarah got the kids up, dressed, fed, and out the door like always. No one asked about their dad. Tim glanced upstairs as he put on his shoes but said nothing. Sarah kissed both of them a little too hard before sending them to the bus stop.

When the door closed behind them, the house fell into an eerie silence.

She climbed the stairs slowly, pausing outside the master bedroom. The air felt heavier. The door creaked softly as she pushed it open.

The room was dim. The curtains stayed drawn. She pulled them back just a sliver, letting in a pale blade of morning light.

Steven lay still, his skin waxy, his brow damp. He hadn’t spoken since Saturday. But as the light touched his face, he stirred.

“Steven,” she said quietly, stepping closer. “Wake up.”

His eyelids fluttered, and after a long moment, his eyes opened. Bloodshot. Clouded. But for the first time in days, somewhat alert.

“Sarah.” His voice was barely a whisper, dry and cracked.

“I’m here,” she said, sitting on the side of the bed. “ I messaged the doctor, I should hear something soon.”

He reached for her hand. His grip was weak but urgent. “You need to go.”

“What?”

“The kids,” he rasped. “Take them… get the boat… go to the camp.”

She frowned, trying to keep her voice calm. “Steven, no. I’m not taking the kids away anywhere!”

His eyes watered, his jaw tightening. “You have to… take food… water… blankets. Get out of here.”

“Steven, please — ”

“I can feel it,” he interrupted. “It’s in me… I think I’m dying…I can’t hold it off much longer.”

A shiver ran through her. Then she saw it: a thin line of blood leaking from the corner of his right eye, trailing slowly down the curve of his cheek.

“I’m scared,” she said, her voice breaking. “Me too”, said Steven, trying to smile.

“I…I can’t…”, she said.

Steven didn’t respond. His hand slipped from hers, falling limp against the sheets. He exhaled and sank back into the pillow, eyes half-lidded, the whites pink. Asleep — or unconscious. She couldn’t tell which.

Sarah stood there, frozen, the heavy air pressing against her chest. After a long minute, she backed out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her.

Downstairs, the living room felt colder than it should have. She sat on the edge of the couch where she’d been sleeping, reached for the remote, and turned on the television.

The news was already mid-story.

“… now confirmed in over two dozen countries,” the anchor said, his voice steady but grim. “The World Health Organization has officially designated the outbreak Neurological Rabiform Contagion Virus — HXV-25. Early reports suggest the virus is airborne, with an incubation period of up to a week or more during which no symptoms are present.”

Sarah didn’t blink.

“Once symptoms appear, infected individuals develop high fever, hemorrhaging, and an intense aversion to fluids, irrational and increasingly violent behavior seem to be common. There is currently no known treatment and those experiencing symptoms are asked to contact local health authorities. Vaccines are being developed…”

The screen showed footage — chaotic hospital scenes, emergency crews in hazmat suits, barricaded streets and civil unrest in European cities she recognized from Steven’s itinerary.

“…If you or someone you know is exhibiting symptoms, authorities urge you to call local emergency services and avoid all physical contact.”

Sarah stared at the screen, her breath shallow.

Steven had told her to run.

And now, she knew why.

Sarah stood in the kitchen for a long time after the news broadcast ended, her fingers still curled around the remote. The living room clock ticked steadily. A bird chirped outside. Everything looked normal. But it wasn’t.

Steven had told her to go.

Her mind spun through the list — food, water, clothes, medical kit. Batteries. Flashlights. Chargers. She pulled a yellow legal pad from the drawer and started scribbling. Years ago, they’d joked about stocking the camp for hurricane season. Now it wasn’t a joke.

She moved with mechanical focus: Grabbing trash bags and packing dry goods from the pantry, bottled water from the laundry room storage shelf, candles, matches, extra jackets. She grabbed one of Tim’s duffel bags from the hall closet and filled it with first-aid supplies, ibuprofen, bandages, and wipes. The bags piled up fast — too fast.

Then she picked up her phone and called the school.

First Stacy’s. Then Tim’s.

She kept her voice calm — said something about a family emergency and needing to check them out early. The secretary at the middle school didn’t ask questions. At the elementary school, the line was busy twice, she got through the third time and said she had to pick up Tim.

By the time Sarah pulled into the middle school parking lot, the lot was barely half-full. She parked and saw kids already being led away by anxious-looking parents. She spotted Stacy as she exited the building — purple cast, heavy backpack, eyes scanning.

When she saw Sarah, she hurried to the car and yanked open the passenger door.

“Mom,” she said, breathless. “Half my class is gone. Like — just didn’t show up and everyone is leaving!”

“I know, baby. Come on, let’s get Tim.”

The elementary school was worse. A line of cars wound through the pick-up lane and several teachers stood outside talking in hushed voices and ushering frightened children. Sarah didn’t see Tim and had to park and go inside. Tim was sitting on a wooden bench near the office with some other children, swinging his legs, his backpack at his feet. When he saw her, he leaped to his feat.

“Is Dad okay?” he asked.

“We’re going to the camp,” she said softly.

Tim blinked. “Wait — like… now?”

As Sarah got Tim into the car, Stacy looked up from her phone, wide-eyed. “Is it the thing on the news?”

Sarah nodded, slowly. “Your dad told me to take you both and go. I don’t know everything, but… I trust him.”

Tim’s voice was smaller now. “Are we going to be okay? Is Dad okay?”

Sarah reached back and held his hand, “I don’t know. But we’re going to be smart. And we’re going to stick together.” Starting the car she told the kids, “When we get home, I want both of you to grab anything you think you’ll need or want. Clothes, games, chargers. But keep it light. We’ll be going to the camp.”

“Dad’s not coming?” Stacy asked.

“No,” Sarah said quietly. “He… he’s too sick.”

They didn’t ask anything else after that.

The ride home was silent.

The house was too quiet as Sarah and the kids moved from room to room, gathering whatever they could.

Backpacks. Phone chargers. Extra socks. Flashlights. Batteries. Granola bars. Canned food. A lot of random stuff. Stacy filled a tote bag with her sketchbook and a paperback. Tim tossed in his Switch, a few action figures, and his baseball glove. Sarah packed a plastic bin with more food and grabbed the .380 pistol Steven had given her last Christmas — still in the original case, barely touched. It went in her purse with two boxes of ammo. She also packed Steven’s rifle and took the envelope of cash they kept in the credenza drawer for hurricanes and power outages — nearly fifteen thousand in twenties and tens. A precaution from a lifetime in storm country.

The white Lexus was loaded, the kids fighting over what they needed. The boat key was in her purse on the front passenger seat. There was just one more thing she had to do.

She turned away from the garage, leaving the kids frightened expressions.

Looking back she said, “get this stuff in the car, quick.”

They didn’t ask where she was going. They already knew.

She climbed the stairs slowly; carefully. Her chest felt tight, her thoughts trying to outrun themselves. Maybe the fever had broken. Maybe he was awake, maybe himself again. Maybe he was sitting up, ready to tell her it had all been a nightmare. She needed to believe it. She needed something good.

She pushed open the bedroom door.

It was dark — curtains still drawn — and quiet. Then a shift.

Movement.

Steven was on his feet.

He stood near the window, hunched, his back to her, his feet tangled in soaked sheets.. His shoulders heaved with ragged breaths. The room smelled like sweat, copper, and something worse — something feral. His head turned slowly, too slowly.

“Steven?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

He turned fully.

Her breath caught.

His face was smeared with blood — matted in his beard and hair, running from his eyes, nose, and mouth. His skin was pale and clammy. His pupils were blown wide, rimmed in a raw, wet red. His jaw clenched and unhinged like something trying to remember how to be human.

Then he growled.

A low, guttural sound tore through his throat — and then he launched at her.

Sarah screamed as he barreled forward. She twisted just in time, and his full weight crashed past her. She hit the floor hard, rolled, and scrambled to her feet. Steven spun, blood flying from his face, teeth bared, eyes wild and unrecognizable.

She slammed the door just as he hit it from the other side. The impact shook the frame. The doorknob rattled under his grip.

Then came the sound.

Not a word. Not a cry. A scream — raw, inhuman, all rage and madness. It wasn’t Steven anymore. Not really.

Sarah ran.

Down the stairs. Through the foyer. The kids were still in the garage.

“Get in the car!” she shouted.

The kids looked up, frozen. “Now!”

Sarah closed and locked the door to the house, and sprinted to the driver’s side as the kids dove into the backseat. No time for mirrors. No seatbelts. She pushed the starter and threw the Lexus into reverse plowing into the trash cans.

Behind her, the door to the house buckled and broke free.

Steven came crashing through, barefoot in blood-soaked pajama pants, roaring, arms swinging, face unrecognizable — smeared with sweat, blood, and something broken inside him.

The kids screamed.

Sarah threw the Lexus into forward and floored it.

The Lexus roared across the lawn and onto the street, weaving around the mailbox. Steven chased after them, moving fast — faster than he should have. His legs pumped like a machine, his body twitching with every step. He didn’t look real. He didn’t look human.

Tim sobbed in the back seat. Stacy was pale, silent, hand clamped over her mouth.

Sarah flew down the street, leaving Steven behind. She didn’t look back.

A few minutes later she turned onto the marina road, tires shrieking. She nearly clipped a street sign. The lot was empty. Gulls scattered as she braked hard and came to a sliding stop near the dock.

“Grab the bags — fast!” she barked.

They moved quickly, frantically, heaving the duffels, bins and garbage bags of supplies into the 28 foot Chaparral that they had bought just three years ago. An elderly woman walking her small dog looked at them with obvious contempt and shook her head. Sarah was dumbfounded but did not bother to even try to explain. She made sure the kids were aboard, threw off the lines and started the motor with shaking hands. One glance behind her — no sign of him.

The engine roared to life, and she throttled up, pulling them into the open water. Out of habit, she glanced at the fuel gauge, full. It always was since they Steven made a habit of refueling upon return from a day on the water.

The marina and shoreline slid behind them. Leaving behind the Lexus, the dock, the life that had ended in a scream.

Ahead, the black ribbon of the river twisted between the trees and stately homes, leading them south towards the lake and then west to Bayou des Chênes and the camp home Steven had bought just a year ago. Along the banks the beautiful estate homes drifted by — flags motionless in the still air, windows shut. A world asleep or already lost.

As they passed the last few docks, Sarah heard it — barely over the engines. Shouts.

Screams. A single, sharp gunshot.

She pushed her hair from her face and gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles white.

“What in God’s name is happening,” she whispered, not expecting an answer.

Below deck, the kids huddled in the cabin. Stacy held Tim. He was still crying.

Sarah didn’t look back.

She followed the water, the sky pressing down as the cypress and live oaks slipped past, dark silhouettes against the bruised afternoon light.

---

The boat thrummed beneath her hands as Sarah guided it out of the river and into the open lake, the bow lifting slightly with each chop of wind-driven water. The kids had emerged from the cabin and sat close behind her, huddled together and silent, their faces pale and wind-swept. Stacy kept an arm around Tim, still sobbing. Sarah glanced back just once, giving them a small, brave smile. “It’ll be okay, I promise.” She said half believing it.

She pulled the boat in a wide arc to the right — starboard, Steven would’ve reminded her, always the patient teacher — and adjusted course to follow a westerly heading. Her eyes flicked between the sinking sun and the GPS screen, watching the minutes tick by. Forty-nine minutes of open lake, each one drifting into numbness with the roar of the motor and the weight of unspoken thoughts.

---

Finally, she saw it — the dark slash of the bayou mouth, flanked by ancient cypress and moss-draped Tupelo trees. The air shifted as they crossed into the shelter of the wide bayou, calmer and heavy with the smell of damp earth and vegetation. She eased the throttle back and let the hull glide along the still waters and the sentinels of the swamp.

Camps lined the chenier. Small, attractive and well built homes among the trees most raised on stilts, each with an outbuilding or two, porches facing the bayou, docks reaching into the calm, dark water like fingers stretching for connection. A figures appeared — watching. No one waved.

Sarah pulled up to their dock and cut the engine. The boat bumped once, twice against the weathered wood, and the kids jumped to secure the lines like they’d practiced last summer. Stacy helped unload supplies while Tim carried lighter bags, dragging his feet a little more than usual.

Inside, the camp felt exactly the same and entirely different. A small, comfortable living room off the porch at the top of the stairs with an adjoining kitchen and a hall leading to three bedrooms and a bathroom. The power was still on, so was the cable. But something had shifted — like the air itself knew the world outside was no longer the same.

After dumping the supplies, Sarah warmed a skillet and made grilled cheese for the kids. It was only early evening, but it felt like night.

They turned on the TV to some cartoons, not wanting any further news. Sarah set about unpacking. No one said a word.

---

The knock at the door was firm. Sarah opened it to find two of her neighbors — men she vaguely recognized from holiday weekends and crab boils, now holding shotguns instead of fishing rods. Their faces were taut, cautious.

“Anyone sick?” one of them asked.

“No,” Sarah replied. “Come in. I’ll get some iced tea.”

Over cold glasses and the low hum of a window fan, she told them everything — Steven’s return, his fever, the news reports, his final plea to bring the kids here. She spoke with calm precision, but her voice trembled when she said his name.

They listened and nodded. Then one of them spoke. “We’re setting a round-the-clock watch at the mouth. Nobody gets in without a good reason. The only way in or out’s by water, and that’s to our advantage now.”

“And we’re setting up a quarantine spot,” said the other. “Old Baker’s camp. It’s vacant — first house at the mouth. If anyone shows signs, that’s where they’ll go. We don’t know what were dealing with.”

“If anyone,” he paused, “anyone, gets a fever we will have to move them to quarantine, okay?”

Sarah understood.

That night, the lights flickered once, then went out for good.

The silence of the swamp was thick, broken only by the song of tree frogs and crickets. Sarah lit candles and tucked the kids in. They said they were not tired but fell asleep almost instantly.

This was not wine time, she grabbed a bottle of Bourbon and drank from the bottle. Sitting by the window with the pistol on her lap Sarah watched the last light fade over the bayou and began to cry.

---

Thanks for reading!

Let me know your thoughts about this story in the comment box below.

~ Eric