The sign read "Welcome to Camp Creekside". A long, dusty road led off the main highway deep into the woods, where the sign is. The sign itself had been fashioned from an old dugout canoe and the words were painted on in red, yellow, and blue. Primary colors. Lovely.
As the bus pulled into camp, a great cloud of dust flew up behind it, and it finally came to a stop in the middle of a ring of several cabins that looked suspiciously like they'd been built by the same people who build cabins for the sort of horror films that involve overly sexed 20-something inexplicably alone in the woods. One was even facing the wrong way.
The one facing the wrong way is the cabin you'll be staying in, by the way. Who are you? Well, you're a camper. You're aged 13 to 17, and your parents have, for whatever reason, sent you off to Camp Creekside for the next two weeks, where you'll enjoy boating, making lanyards, fishing, archery, capture the flag, campfires, ghost stories, hiking, and all sorts of fun fun fun camp type activities.
But not everything at Camp Creekside is as it seems, you know.
Also, near the middle of the ring of cabins but not exactly in the middle (as that's where the bus is), there's a bathroom and shower facilities. The time is around noonish, and a line of tables has been set up near the picnic tables that are also in that central area. The tables are serving as a buffet-thing, although the only thing they seem to be offering at the moment is water, sandwiches, chips, and yellow gatorade.
