Entry One-Hundred and Four

I've been hit with writing fever. No joke.

I was suddenly and recently struck with this need to finish something. SOMETHING. Even if it meant slogging through all the frustrating details of who dies how and when, time-lines, and character development. Well, I haven't finished anything yet. That goal is a long way down the road. But I am making progress.

"The Bear Brook Massacre" is no longer sitting in a binder collecting dust. The only problem is, in my sudden need to WRITE, I have found myself going back to the old pen and notebook paper. There is something fulfilling about writing it out on paper first. Like a typewriter might (if those were still in use) it gives you a sense of progression. You can see page after page adding length and depth to your pile. Typing just doesn't capture that. BECAUSE I am writing in the pen and paper method, I find that I don't want to spend time transcribing. So here I am, getting page after page written. But the more I write the deeper I dig myself into the transcribing hole. So, I have not transcribed much that is new.

This entry is going to be filled with many parts of the story you have already read. There are some new things and some edits. I changed an intro here and the method of my dialogue and tense there. Overall I even though some of it is what I have posted here before, I think it's all better than those first drafts.

And so what I am offering you to read now is what I am calling my "first transcription draft". This rather lengthy section of the story is now in chronological order and has headings to make things a little more clear. Some tense and plot inconsistencies have been fixed, some details have been added. But I have not gone through it with a fine tooth comb yet. This means that there are probably still many spelling and grammatical errors.

I have PAGES of new stuff and I am still writing more. That will be posted as soon as I find time in my currently busy schedule to edit and transcribe it. As it is, I am already planning on losing an hour of sleep to get this posted.

So I hope you enjoy.

"The Bear Brook Massacre"-Transcription Draft 1

First, An Introduction

All stories have a beginning. This one is no different. In fact, I'd say it's pretty typical. This beginning starts in the past tense. A good old flashback style tale. But first you should know that I am presently sitting at a metal rectangle table under the florescent lighting of an interrogation room. That's right. I, Sarah Lambson, am a suspect for the most heinous of crimes-murder.

Now, a journey to the past.

We lived in the woods, all 30 of us, for 10 months. That's enough to make any stable person crazy, I guess. There was a lot of tension that year, especially at the start. Clashing personalities, rumors, and sex prevailed. What else was one to do when the closest form of entertainment was a 30 minute drive away? I'd like to think that we did better than most would in our place. We signed up for it gladly, after all. After those first few months, however, we learned how to live with one another. The bands of tension finally began to slacken. We looked past each others flaws and ground our teeth against the most biting remarks. But we were honest and, on rare occasions, gracious. We were all Bear Brookians and we were there to stay. Time passed swiftly some weeks and slowly others. It was the months that melted away. First May, June, and July snuck past punctured by various Independence Day celebrations. August came in all it's overly warm glory, then passed in wavy heat lines like a mirage. When September hit, we could all feel the inevitable end creeping on us. I began to think of my time in terms of weeks and got really scared of the future. But over the years I have become really good at ignoring endings until they are so close that I could punch them in the face. So there was September, leaving suddenly like an uncomfortable dinner guest, making all the usual excuses ("I can’t stay, I think I left the oven on." "I don't want my wife to worry." You know, that kind of thing) when all September really meant was "I heard October was coming over and we used to date. It ended on bad terms and it would be really awkward if I were here." October blew in with a kind of graceful beauty that we all learned to appreciate and love. And for me this included a never ending battle with my old friends Patience and Wait-And-See. But that is all neither here nor there really. You came here for the truth. The real story. Because something happened here. Something not very nice. And there are only two people who lived to tell the tale: Me, and the person behind it all. So stay if you wish. Hear my story, dark as it is. For here is the most truth you will ever hear on the topic of the Bear Brook Massacre.

The Storm

October 11th, 2010-1:00am

There had been a sudden October storm. The calm morning after told no tale of the havoc wreaked the night before. Not until one stopped looking at the mottled sky and focused on the branch strewn road before them could they see the damage. Trees had been felled by the brutal winds which raged through the late night hours. Limbs littered the path like so many severed appendages. If you were to travel a quarter of a mile down the road, you’d meet little else but debris 1 inch thick in diameter or less. If you went a bit further, you might find a branch or two of a larger caliber. But it wasn't until just before the exit gate you came upon the first impassable obstacle. A behemoth of a beech tree, her core weakened by rot (she had caught a nasty case of beech blight 5 years previous) had finally met her tragic end. Relentless gusts of southeasterly wind had pushed and pulled with apathetic intensity until our beech could take no more. She submitted herself to the way of all things and with a thunderous crash (which wakened all the creatures in the area surrounding) fell miserably across the road (which incidentally had not been there when she was first a sapling thank you very much). Thus with this end, and by a sharp twist of fate, the unexpected fall of the 2010 SCA NH Conservation Corps began. The first morning started as most do: With the rising of the sun and a sense of promise.

October 11, 2010-7:00am

Slowly but surely, bodies began to stir within their nailed-to-the-wall-for-structural-support bunk-beds. Minds blearily thought not of the winds the night before, but of hot breakfast, showers, excremental relief, and the coming weekend. Each stream of consciousness continued thus as each sleepy-eyed individual trudged along the water-logged and stick-littered path back to the main lodge. All were blissfully unaware of the bit of disconcerting news that awaited them there. Scrawled across the dry erase board in bold black letters was the following: "The power is out for several days! Please do not use running water. Use water and dishes sparingly. Use the outhouse instead of the bathrooms. A large tree across the road is blocking us from leaving for the moment. Park authorities have been notified. 229,000 people are W/O power and we are a low priority right now."

Thoughts of the weekend fled like a flock of frightened starlings. The Power is out? What does that mean? This means that we can’t charge our phones or anything! Don’t use the water? How are we supposed to shower? What are we going to do about cooking and dishes? We’re blocked? For how long? How are we going to get anything done? Great, I already smell. How long before I can shower? I can’t watch my movie now, can I? How long? How long? How long?? The outhouse? Ew. How LONG?!? The unspoken questions flew about searching for purchase upon the illusive tree of knowledge. They manifest themselves in the form of scattered murmurs among the crowd that had gathered at the board. They of course found nowhere to perch and so were accompanied by several shrugs and a few creased frowns. After a number of minutes, realizing their questions would be met with no immediate answers, each individual murmur soon collectively morphed into one bear of an inquiry. Where are the leaders? Eyes roamed the immediate vicinity but saw nothing of Mike, Marlee, Sue, or Jeremy. Seemingly drawn by the beam of concentrated thought, the front doors opened and one by one the leaders entered the room, stomping mud off their boots. Every eye focused on the older, more experienced individuals. Before an overpowering din of voices could ensue, Mike held up his hands. Quiet Coyote Style. Automatically, as if pulled by invisible marionette strings, hands shot up mimicking the gesture.

Mike: I know you must all have questions...

No Kidding was the communal bit of sarcasm reflected in each interns eyes.

Mike: ...so if you will all gather at the couches and grab the others on your way, all will be answered.

Invisible rubber bands of tension released among the group as they scattered, searching for their un-present fellows. They rounded them up like they were border collies and the others were sheep in the movie Babe. Or would that make them pigs?

Five minutes later the scene at the fireplace resembled a trial with 28 jury members seated in half-circle and 4 witnesses sitting in a row at the front awaiting questioning. The room was as silent as a grave until Mike murdered that silence, taking a deep breath.

Mike: We are without power. We do not know for how long. There are several large trees preventing us from leaving Bear Brook. Our pumps are electric, so there is no running water. This means do NOT use the bathrooms. Use the outhouse.

He took another breath before questions could start.

Mike: We are pretty low on the totem pole of problems so we could be without power and stuck in the park for a while. A week at the most I would say. Our gas stove works and we have enough food that we won’t starve. It’s chilly enough that the food in the fridge will keep for a little while. The stuff in the freezer, however, needs to be eaten within the next couple days. Do not ask us when the power will be back, we have no idea.

Here surveyed everyone with grim consideration. He seemed to be steeling himself for a wave of questions that would inevitably crash over him. None came. There were several worried faces but most were looking set. Determined, if not a little phased. The majority of the interns were nodding in understanding.

Marlee: Are there any questions?

There was silence. Then one voice came through.

Unidentified Voice: How are we going to get work done?

Marlee: Ah. Well anything on the Internet is going to have to wait, obviously. Conservation crews don't have too much to do still, though interpreters are out of luck if you have loose ends to tie up. We will not expect you to get your time sheets done, of course. I know it’s going to be tough but there is plenty of cleaning up we can start doing in prep for the end of the season. Each leader has a list of things that need to be done. See us after breakfast and we will give you as task.

She looked around the room.

Marlee: Anything else?

More silence. This time it lasted longer.

Marlee: Okay then. So, let’s disperse, get some work done, and try keep up morale.

There was a moment of hesitation, as if the lack of power extended to the electrical synapses of the brain that channeled movement. All at once, synapses fired and people got up, going their separate ways. The mood which permeated the lodge was subdued. Everyone knew it was going to be a long day. And an even longer weekend.

The Beginning

November 2nd, 6:25pm

They found me early in the morning a day ago, lying next to a freshly dug grave. There was a mix of blood and dirt covering most of the front of me. I was indescribably filthy and barely cognizant-barely alive, truth be told.

So I'd been taken to the hospital first thing. I was cleaned up and pumped full of liquids. My wounds, which were only superficial, were treated. I think I slept for years, bobbing up only once or twice for air in the world of consciousness. When I come out of it for real, my parents are snoozing in chairs by my bedside. There is also this man in a crisp, dark suite, chatting it up with the doctor. The man in the suite is antsy. Anxious. Stony faced as a gargoyle though. Only his constant fidgeting with his wedding band gives him away. It takes them all a while to realize that I am awake. Once they do everything gets very busy.

Mom worries, dad consoles, the doctor speaks in crisp concise phrases and I wonder: what am I doing here?

You can't blame me. YOU experience the deaths of 31 companions and see how much YOUR brain decides to remember right off the bat.

Before I can wonder much more, they are speaking to me.

Dr: Sarah, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Is that alright?

I nod.

Suite: I'd like to talk to her alone for a few moments if that's possible.

Everyone just stares at him.

Mom: Who are you?

Suite: Detective wood with the Concord Police Department.

He shows his badge.

That stirs things up.

Dad: Are you serious? She just woke up and you already want to start questioning her?

There is an edge to the voice of my usually soft spoken father. That usually means he is pretty upset. Before the suite can reply, the doctor steps in to exercise his authority.

Dr: I'm afraid I can't allow you to question her here. You are welcome to stay while I speak to her but interrogation is quite out of the question.

I suddenly feel a rush of gratitude for this stranger of a doctor.

The suite frowns a little but nods his head in compliance. He fades into the corner, becoming a silent but watchful shadow. The doctor turns to me and takes up his clip board.

Dr: Now, miss Lambson. How are you feeling?

The first words I try to speak come out as a pathetic squeak. A result of my somewhat extended lack of speech. I clear my throat.

Me: Fine I guess. A little sore. Tired. Hungry.

The doctor scribbles things down.

Dr: No significant pain?

Me: No, not really.

Dr: Good.

More scribbling.

Dr: That's good.

He goes through a series of typical questions about my general health. My answers must be satisfactory because he keeps nodding his head and saying "good". After a bit he closes the chart and looks directly at me.

Dr: Now, lets get a little more specific. Do you know where you are?

Well, that seems a little obvious.

Me: The hospital?

The doctor smiles kindly.

Dr: A hospital where?

Me: Sorry. New Hampshire. Probably Concord.

Dr: That's right. Do you know how you came to be here?

I frown and think for a moment. Nothing concrete comes to my memory. This causes a small bubble of panic form in my stomach. I can here the heart monitor pick up my increased pulse rate. They are expecting an answer. I give the first one that comes to mind.

Me: I had an accident?

I know I don't sound very sure of my answer.

The doctor looks at my parents whose eyes now reflect the same panic that has become a balloon filling me. Out of the corner of my eye I see the suite shift in the shadows. The doctor looks like he is choosing his next words very carefully.

Dr: Not exactly.

I frown and look from worried face to worried face. Why can't I remember? Why were they all so suddenly afraid? What could have happened?

Dr: Do you remember where you were before this?

Me: The woods. Bear Brook State Park. I've been working with the Student Conservation Corps there.

Dr: What's the last thing you remember?

I think, but not too hard. The survival mode of my brain has set up a barrier. When I press against it I get this "don't go there" feeling. So instead, I skirt around the barrier and begin to explore my most recent, "safe" memories.

Me: The storm. That big storm that knocked out the power.

Unfortunatly this doesn't appear to satisfy the doctor. It doesn’t satisfy me either. I suddenly feel this strong urge to know. To understand. And so, even though I am sure I will regret it, my curiosity leads me to take a peek around the barrier in my mind. I am instantly faced with hazy, dark, bloody memories. I close my eyes and push them back.

Dr: Nothing after that? Not how you were injured or any of the events of the past three weeks?

3 weeks. It had been three weeks. That was it? It felt like years.

Me: No. Nothing.

This is not entirely true. Because the second I peered into that place I had barricaded off it was all over. Memories were already starting to penetrate every wall I was throwing up against them. Coming at me in sharp, stabbing advances. Assailing.

Me: Nope. Nothing. Nothing happened.

By now the tears have started to come.

Me: Nothing happened because they are all there waiting. Waiting for me with their smiles and our jokes. NOTHING HAPPENED…

But no matter how insistent I am, I can’t stop what is happening in my brain. The wall collapses and I am overwhelmed with every gruesome memory throwing itself at me in some kind of terrifying collage. And just like that I have no idea what I am saying. But words are coming out through sobs as the room is now dripping and hazy. My face is wet, my throat raw.

Mom says words of comfort that I can't really here and moves to my side to embrace me. She is crying also. After a while and some forced deep breathing on my part, the room comes back into focus and I face reality.

Me: They're all dead.

It's all over now. No amount of will power is going to keep the memories of the last three weeks at bay. The horror hits me with new ferocity and I become reserved and retreat into myself. I speak only when spoken to, and even then sometimes decide to keep my silence. The suite tries again to request a private session with me. He is prodded out of the room by the doctor and my parents. I spend the rest of the night at the hospital where I now get little sleep.

The Following day I am released from the hospital and into police custody.

Begin Interrogation

November 3rd, 8:00am

I am in an episode of Law and Order.

I am the tragic and sole witness to over two dozen murders, sitting anxiously at a steel table, feeling naked and exposed in an empty interrogation room with a two way mirror. Somewhere beyond that two way mirror is the star of this operation. The stalwart, often stoic, but always passionate detective. He's just landed the case of his life and I bet he's standing there-a little nervous because he has never dealt with something of this magnitude before.

That's pretty key to this particular plot. Southern New Hampshire has never even dreamed of murder of this caliber. And here they are, faced with a 50 foot high brick wall they are suddenly being asked to scale. I'm sure they've not even an ounce of a clue how to proceed.

Here they have 31 deceased individual, no clear evidence how they lost their lives, and me: the only survivor of a crew of 32 residing in the woods of a state park. The only person who can account for what happened. Their only suspect (though they aren't saying this aloud). A 24 year-old college graduate with no police record. Not even a speeding ticket. And lets face it-I don't have the look of a mass murderer. Although, if movies and television have taught us anything, it's always the person you most suspect or the person you least suspect.

I, unfortunately, fit into both categories.

Mother and father had been furious and indignant when Detective Wood insisted that I be taken to the station in Concord rather than to their hotel after I was released from the hospital. His reasoning was that if this was a murder case (which they highly suspected) there was still a murderer out there. I would be safe at the station and I could be immediately questioned about what I knew so they could find the person responsible. Of course, he didn't tell them that I was a suspect. That would send them over the edge. So they complied. Worried for my health and sanity, but even MORE worried for my safety.

So here I sit, waiting for our hero, Detective Wood, to come out and question me. I feel as though I'm not really here. As if I'm floating near the ceiling, looking down at this frail and emotionally dead being below me who is picking at the bread of the tuna sandwich her parents made her take with her from the hospital.

For now I am past grief. I have no emotion left to spare anyone or anything. The last of it trickled out of me at the hospital when everything escaped at once. I suppose that this is a good thing. I am, after all, about to be asked to recount every detail of the past few weeks. Give it time, my mind says, you'll feel again soon. Then you'll wish you were dead.

Though I cannot see or hear anyone, I can feel them behind the two-way glass. What are they discussing in hushed tones behind my reflection? I wonder if detective Wood is already there and is watching me. Seeing what I will do all by myself in the room.

As if my thought of him called him forward, the door to the right of the mirror opens and in he walks. He is wearing a severely dark suite and blindingly polished shoes.

***

[Detective Morris Wood]

It was supposed to be the case of a lifetime. One that would jettison him into the crime fighting stratosphere. Maybe even get him a better job if all went well. But Detective Wood could not be less excited.

How in the world did they expect him to proceed?

He stood on the opposite side of the two-way mirror, looking out at the woman. He face was drawn and her eyes dead. He held a thin envelope that contained her file-if you could even call it a file. There was nothing in it. Here she was, a 24-year-old service oriented college graduate with a spotless record. The only witness to whatever horrendous things happened in the woods of Southern New Hampshire. And on top of that, they expected him to treat her as a suspect.

What a mess.

He studied her through the mirror, trying to find something about her that screamed "psychopathic killer!". Her straight brown hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, flyaway strands of it dangling around her eyes and face. She wore a non-descript jeans and t-shirt combination. She had a round face that might have once been fond of laughing, small eyes with smile creases at their corners. As she sat their waiting, she absently twirled a ring on her finger. As he watched her do it, he felt himself twirling his wedding band in a similar manner. The second he was aware of it he forced himself to stop. All he could tell of her from this series of observations was that she was someone who USED to be happy but was now completely unfamiliar with the emotion.

This woman had been through hell and he was supposed to walk in there and start drilling her on the deaths of 31 of her friends.

"I don't think this is a good idea," he said addressing his supervisor who was standing next to him. He did not take his eyes from the girl. The other man shifted his stance.

"Don't be soft, Wood. We need this girl to talk to us. 31 people are dead, several with obvious signs of murder. We need answers."

"You don't honestly think she had anything to do with it, do you?"

"It's our job to take every suspect into account. You would do well to remember that."

"There IS the whole innocent until proven guilty part, you know."

"And she IS innocent until we prove her guilty if she is. But that doesn't mean we should give her hugs, offer her lollipops, and send her on her merry way."

Wood frowned. Tried his hardest to shelve his sympathy. He needed to be detached. Aloof. She needed to know that they meant business.

She looked so fragile sitting there. Like she might shatter if he breathed in her general direction. And from what he saw in the hospital, she MIGHT shatter.

He took a deep breath and put his hand on the door handle.

This was not going to be pleasant.

***

I notice his shoes the most because once he enters the room I refuse to look at anything but the floor. Everything seems suddenly and shatteringly silent. The sound of his footfalls could be the clack of a Clydesdale's hooves on cobblestone.

Detective Wood: Good morning, Miss Lambson. I am Detective Wood. We met yesterday.

His voice is a soft and stunning contrast to the sound of his shoes. He takes a seat and sets a thin stack of papers down. Before I can stop myself, I say the first thing that comes into my mind.

Me: Could we put some music on?

I know it's a silly question. But if the whole afternoon is going to be filled with terrible silences I might go mad.

Detective Wood: I, uh…

Me: It's too quiet. The silence is so loud, it's kind of driving me crazy.

I still kept my eyes on the floor, not wanting to see the look he was probably giving me.

He clears his throat.

Detective Wood: I'm afraid not.

There is a pause.

Detective Wood: Miss Lambson, do you know why you are here?

I clench my teeth and for a second I imagine myself punching him and his soft, calm voice. I look up at him for the first time so that he may see me roll my eyes. But my eyes never GET to the rolling part. They stop once they meet his, which are a dark grey color. Within them are things I didn't expect to see. Compassion being one of them, though I can tell he is trying to stem back the tide of that THAT particular emotion. I study the rest of him. His dark hair is trimmed but curly so that it has a constantly disheveled look. He has a long face and prominent eyebrows. Though his suite is crisp and the color of a black hole, though his shoes are impeccably shined, his posture suggests that he's not as severe as he appears. I admit myself slightly baffled by him and then go back to the resentful feelings I had moments before.

Me: Detective, I went through this at the hospital. Let’s just get to the REAL questions, shall we?

He tilts his head a little to the side, considering me. Looking more than a little like a curious puppy. He raises his eyebrows in a look that says "Alright then, you ASKED for it."

Detective Wood: I am obligated to suggest that you procure a lawyer during these proceedings. While we are not officially charging you with anything you can still be held liable for every word you say.

Me: I fee like I'm in an episode of Law and Order. Do we get commercial breaks?

He doesn't honor my sarcastic comment with a response.

Me: I don't want a lawyer. I didn't do anything.

Which is the point really. I did nothing to stop what happened and they all died. Isn't that kind of like murder? Maybe I am guilty.

Wood pulls out a small digital recorder from his jacket pocket and presses the record button. The first thought I have is this:

Me: Someone is going to have a heck of a time transcribing all of this.

Then…

Me: Can I do it? I love to transcribe things.

Wood looks at me as if unsure whether I am joking or not. He clears his throat and looks down at the small stack of papers in front of him.

Detective Wood: This is the testimony of Sarah Bethany Lambson, age 23, concerning the events that took place at Bear Brook state Park, Allenstown, New Hampshire from October 11th-October 31st, 2010. Detective Morris Wood of the Concord Police Department questioning.

It was all so official. I was suddenly nervous. What if I said all the wrong things?

Detective Wood: Could you please tell me what your occupation has been for the past 10 months?

Good, an easy question.

Me: I was an AmeriCorps volunteer. And Environmental Educator with the Student Conservation Association New Hampshire Corps.

Detective Wood: You were found in Bear Brook State park at approximately 5:15 am on November 1st beside a freshly dug grave containing the body of Jessica Sanchez. There was blood on your hands and clothes which was determined to be your own and that of Miss Sanchez.

He pauses. I have suddenly become very interested in my fingernails. I can still see dirt underneath them from the digging.

Detective Wood: In a nearby cabin, the bodies of 27 individuals who have now all been identified as your fellow volunteers and supervisors working at Bear Brook were found. Miss Lambson, could you tell me, to the best of your knowledge, how these people came to die?

I do not hesitate. I've been waiting for him to ask this question.

Me: They were all murdered.

If this were some kind of dark comedy, the audience would hear a record scratch. If it were an episode of Law and Order, the music would get suddenly dramatic. Since this is real life, there is silence. Detective wood does not look surprised.

Detective Wood: Injuries on several of the bodies show evidence to support your claim. Did you witness any of these murders?

Me: No.

Detective Wood: Then what is your evidence that they were murdered?

I don't answer because I can't think of a good enough response.

Wood moves on.

Detective Wood: The killer left you alive. Do you have any thoughts to why?

My throat closes up and my eyes begin to sting. Yep, there's the feeling I thought I didn't have in me.

Me: You know, I would really like to ask him that.

Detective wood doesn't respond. He only looks at me. The true penetrating look of a detective trying to figure me out. Trying to determine if there is an ounce of murderer in me.

Me: Maybe it was me. That's what your thinking isn't it? Maybe I went crazy after 10 months in the woods and I couldn't take it anymore. I flipped my lid and killed everyone.

Detective Wood: We're not saying anything like that at this point.

Me: But you're thinking it, aren't you

Detective Wood: We aren't excluding any possibility.

Me: Who is "we" anyway?

Detective Wood: That's not relevant to this discussion.

Me: Fine, hide behind your "we". It makes you less accountable everything, referring to yourself in the plural.

Detective Wood: "We" is myself and those I work for.

Me: You speak for all of them, do you?

Detective Wood: Miss Lambson, can we get back to the matter at hand, please?

I shrug.

Me: You're calling the shots, right?

Wood clears his throat again. He has started to fidget with his wedding band. As I watch him do it, I notice that I too am fiddling with the ring I wear on my right hand. I immediately stop.

Detective Wood: Why don't we just start from the beginning again. You were an AmeriCorps volunteer stationed at Bear Brook State Park. According to your parents, you were just finishing up your term of service. Is that correct?

Me: Yes.

Detective Wood: And there was a storm?

Me: A terrible storm. Damaging.

Detective Wood: And it knocked the power out?

Me: And blocked the road on both sides with huge fallen trees.

Wood added a few more notes to his pad. I wait. Soon he will ask me about the deaths.

Detective Wood: Tell me about the first death.

Something clenches around my heart. And just like that I don't want to do this. To say anything. To THINK anything about ANY of it. I just want to shut down.

But I know that's not an option. I take a deep breath.

If this were a movie, the screen would go all wavy and hazy as I flash back to that day…

One Down

The first was awful. Made worse simply because it WAS the first. Most of us had never felt the loss of a friend let alone SEEN death.

The day after the storm had been chilly and gray. We'd all done our best to stay occupied. Our efforts were hindered by that fact that we couldn't leave. Usually, a power outage would have meant a fleet of gray 12 passenger vans could be seen driving out of the park and towards Manchester, or the movie theater in Hooksett. Not this time. We played cards, read books, cooked over the gas stove, and generally felt bored.

When night crept in, things got infinitely worse. Not being able to see anything in front of you can put a damper on things. Most of us went to bed early.

Not Steven, as we discovered the following morning.

October 12th, 8am

The dawn brought new sunlight and the promise of a new day. Maybe the power would come back. Or at least someone could come to remove the fallen tree. A few of us volunteered to walk to the campground and survey the damage-see if there was anything we could do to speed up the process of cleaning things up. Lulu, Max, and I ate a quick, cold breakfast, hitched up our boot laces, and trekked up the road. We picked up the smaller fallen limbs and tossed them to the side of the road as we went. It felt good to breathe the air, to walk about. The three of us chatted about our plans after Bear Brook and were pretty cheery by the time we made it to the start of the campground.

There it was. The giant behemoth tree. It was just past the gate that kept the campers out of the SCA camp. Sharp branches jutted every which way. I know it sounds crazy, but I remember thinking that the tree looked like it died an agonizing death. We were so busy marveling at the size of the thing that none of immediately saw the form slumped against the horizontal trunk. But there he was: his blonde hair matted with dark crimson, a gray sweater we all recognized as AmeriCorps issued, and blue jogging shorts. The exposed part of his legs glistened with dew in the bright fall morning.

And protruding through his chest, surrounded by a ring of red, was a branch. As if the beech had stretched forth her hand to rip his heart out. Even then, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom flashed involuntarily in my mind.

I was the first to speak.

Me: Steven?

It was a tentative call. Questioning. As if I wasn't sure if it was him or not.

Lulu: Oh my God…

We all rushed forward, propelled by invisible pinball flippers.

Me: Steven!!

It was a scream that time. Why wasn't he answering?

We crowded around his form. Max stretched forth his hand to take a pulse at his neck.

Me: Don't…

The other words caught in my throat. His eyes were open. Dead and staring. Glimmering with a final laugh. His mouth was slack. A stream of blood had dried at the corner of it.

I wish I could say that I fell to my knees and bellowed a cry of grief. Or that I sobbed and called Steven's name as if he could hear me. But death is not as dramatic as it looks in he movies. It's cold, merciless, rank, and filed with bile. And so my breakfast found it's way out of my stomach and back up the way it came. My legs crumpled and I was sick on the ground at the dead Steven's feet.

Max swore. He came over to where I sat, vomit on one of my legs. He touched my shoulder. I could feel his hand trembling. Lulu just stared at the body.

Max: We have to tell someone. Get some help…

Lulu nodded blankly. I said nothing.

Max: Sarah, can you get up?

I hesitate, shake my head, no.

Max: Lulu, you stay here with Sarah. I'll go and get some help.

Lulu nodded blankly. I said nothing.

I could hear the gravel crunch as he bolted away. I listened until everything was silent again. A breeze blew through the trees. I looked up. They were on fire, the trees. Blazing in red, gold, orange…

My HEAD was on fire. The wind became a roaring in my ears. I could hear Lulu's breath catching in her throat. She came to sit next to me.

I did not look at the body, but I could feel his weight. A dead hand clutched my shoulder, begging me to turn and look.

I was shaking.

A mantra marched through my head. It went something like this: Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead…

It was like a blinking light at some terrible small town intersection. And all the roads were blocked. There would be no more life with Steven. I was stuck at this flashing light. I tried to comprehend what all this meant, but my mind kept coming up as a static TV screen with that one flashing word.

DEAD.

Who knew how long we were there. After a time, Max returned. By now, both Lulu and I were weeping. No sobs, only silent tears we couldn't seem to stop. With Max were the 4 leaders. All looking ashen faced. Marlee and Sue wore identical stunned faces, complete with open mouths sagging with all the words they couldn't bring themselves to say. Jeremy had turned away from the scene and was covering his mouth with his hand. Mike could only stare.

I looked at all of them imploringly. Willing them to say something that would make it alright. They offered nothing. After a time, Marlee and Sue came to me and Lulu. I felt a hand on my shoulder and another grip my arm. Someone was hoisting me up. I heard something which could have been words but I didn't understand them. I found that I was able to stand and the hands touching me became embracing arms. There were more soft words and then I was being led carefully away from that place. My legs moved, my eyes cleared a little, and I could hear again.

Somehow, there were birds singing.

Sue, Marlee, Lulu, and I all took the road back to the lodge. It was amazing to me that the sun was still shining and that light it cast was a beautiful silver and gold color.

How was it that things were not crashing down around us?

Then Sue broke the silence and voiced what we were all thinking.

Sue: I can't believe that he's gone. How did this happen??

***

This first death could have easily been an accident. Someone goes for a walk at night and, not paying attention, walks into a jutting branch of a fallen tree. That or they decide to attempt to climb over the fallen tree, slip, and fall onto a jutting branch. It was the latter that the leaders decided happened. At least that's what they told the community.

They moved the body to one of the empty summer cabins.

The news was received with silence and shock. I watched with dull eyes as the others began to weep and comfort each other.

To make sure something like this did not happen again, the leaders imposed a sunset curfew. We were all to return to our cabins before dark. The power was still out so no call could be made from the land lines. Those who had cell phones with remaining battery life were having no success at getting a signal. So not only did we have a dead body, we had nothing to do with it.

***