Enthralled - 26. Chapter 26

26

 

The afternoon sun hung high and merciless over the sprawling, ten-acre expanse of the regional Jamboree. The air was thick with humidity, the scent of crushed grass, and the chaotic, overlapping shouts of three hundred hyperactive pre-teens. It was an environment designed to foster teamwork, outdoor survival skills, and wholesome camaraderie.

To Andy Tyrell, it was a brightly lit, inescapable purgatory.

The ancient vampire stood at the edge of the designated playing field, his posture rigidly perfect despite the suffocating indignity of his mandated khaki scoutmaster uniform. His wide-brimmed campaign hat was pulled low over his pale, aristocratic features, casting his eyes in deep shadow as he stared out at the assembled masses. He was flanked by the members of Troop 442, who were currently vibrating with a mixture of suppressed supernatural energy and intense boredom.

Today was the final, camp-wide event of the Jamboree: the ultimate, high-stakes game of Capture the Flag. Or, as the mortals insisted on calling this specific variant, "Steal the Bacon."

Scoutmaster Chuck, a man constructed entirely of sunburned muscle, excessive protein powder, and relentless suburban enthusiasm, stood in the center of the field with a bright yellow megaphone. He wore his mirrored wrap-around Oakleys and blew his silver whistle sharply, silencing the crowd.

"Alright, listen up, gentlemen!" Chuck’s voice boomed over the megaphone, echoing off the distant pine trees. "This is the big one! The grand finale! We are dividing the camp into two massive factions. The objective is simple: survival. Every scout has been issued a brightly colored handkerchief. You will tuck this handkerchief securely into your back pocket, ensuring at least four inches of fabric remains visible. Do not tie it. Do not staple it. Do not glue it. Gerald, I am looking directly at you. Put the bedazzler down."

In the back row, Gerald let out a disappointed sigh and lowered his plastic bedazzling gun.

"If an opposing player snatches the handkerchief from your pocket, you are immediately out!" Chuck continued, pacing aggressively. "You will raise your hand, exit the field, and report to the casualty benches. There is no tackling. There is no tripping. There is no physical combat of any kind. This is a game of speed, agility, and tactical snatching. The team with the last man standing wins the glory, the grand trophy, and the first pass at the dessert buffet tonight!"

A cheer erupted from the normal scouts of Troop 12, Troop 50, and the half-dozen other mainstream troops assembled on the right side of the field. They were tying neon-orange bandanas into their pockets, stretching their hamstrings, and looking fiercely competitive.

On the left side of the field stood Team Weirdo.

The organizers, in an attempt to balance the numbers, had consolidated the three smallest, strangest troops into a single, cohesive unit wearing neon-green handkerchiefs.

Andy looked at the team he had been ordered to command. It was a tactical disaster of mythic proportions.

First, there was his own Troop 442. The werewolf pups were currently grouped in a tight circle, trying desperately to suppress their predatory instincts. Alvin, Simon, and Theodore Sanchez were mathematically calculating the optimal degree of fabric exposure required by the rules to minimize friction drag.

Second, there was Troop 121. The amateur hunters. Kyle and his heavily armed squad of twelve-year-old zealots were huddled together, whispering frantically, checking their plastic squirt bottles of tap water, and staring at Andy with open, unabashed suspicion. They clearly believed this game was a cover for a demonic ritual.

And finally, there was Troop 86. The zombies. A dozen Gen Alpha children who were currently standing in completely silent, shambling clusters, their faces buried in their smartphones, their thumbs moving with mindless, mechanical rhythm. One of them was chewing on the corner of his own shirt.

"We are a team," Andy said, his cold, flat baritone slicing through the ambient noise, commanding the attention of the assembled weirdos. "We are a team because the universe has a profoundly dark sense of humor. We will work together. We will not eat each other. We will not stab each other with sharpened sticks. We will not engage in psychological warfare against the normies. We will simply survive this ordeal so that I may return to a dark room."

"Scoutmaster Andy, sir," Kyle from Troop 121 interrupted, his eyes narrowed, his hand resting on a pouch of crushed garlic. "My troop is prepared to cleanse the field of the unholy. We will not fall to the dark forces."

"The only dark force on this field is the humidity, Kyle," Andy replied dryly. "Conserve your tap water."

"Assistant Scoutmaster Lucas!" Chuck’s voice suddenly boomed through the megaphone, directed at the sidelines. "Are you ready to represent the adult leadership on the field?"

Lucas Cooper stepped forward, stretching his arms over his head, entirely in his element. He wore his khaki shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, his neon-green handkerchief tucked rakishly into his back pocket. "I was born ready, Chucky-boy. I am the wind. I am the shadow. I am going to snatch so many flags these kids won't even know what hit them."

"That is exactly the kind of energy I like to see!" Chuck cheered. He raised his whistle to his lips. He looked at the line of Eagle Scout referees positioned around the perimeter—including Ronan Draven, who stood with a clipboard, adjusting his glasses and looking profoundly unbothered by the impending chaos.

Chuck blew the whistle. A long, shrill blast that signaled the start of the war.

"The game has begun," Andy murmured, closing his eyes.

Chaos erupted instantly. A wave of neon-orange normal scouts charged across the center line, screaming battle cries.

Within the first forty-five seconds, Troop 442 suffered catastrophic casualties. It wasn't because the werewolf pups were slow. It was because they were fundamentally incapable of playing a simple game without overcomplicating it.

An athletic kid from Troop 12 lunged for Alvin’s flag. Alvin effortlessly sidestepped the boy, moving with fluid, suppressed grace. But as he did, Simon attempted to execute a highly complex, theoretical pincer movement to trap the attacker. Theodore, misinterpreting Simon’s trajectory, collided directly with both of his brothers.

The three pups tumbled into a pile of khaki and limbs. Three normal scouts immediately ran by and snatched their green flags.

"Foul!" Alvin shouted from the grass, sitting up and pointing an accusing finger at a passing referee. "The opposing players utilized an illegal slipstream generated by our own collision! That violates the aerodynamic fairness clause of the rulebook!"

"You're out, Sanchez," the referee called back. "Go to the bench."

"This game is statistically rigged!" Simon muttered, allowing himself to be led off the field.

Across the grass, Lucas Cooper was having the time of his life. He was just a chaotic teenager fueled by an endless reserve of unearned confidence. He dodged a grasping hand, spun around a bewildered twelve-year-old, and snatched an orange flag from a boy’s pocket with a triumphant whoop.

"Too slow!" Lucas taunted, dancing backward. "You cannot catch the Mac-Daddy! I am greased lightning! I am—"

Lucas stepped backward. His sneaker caught the thick, exposed root of an ancient oak tree.

It was a classic, unavoidable Lucas maneuver. He went down hard, arms flailing, landing face-first in a massive pile of dry, crunchy autumn leaves at the edge of the dense woods bordering the playing field.

Before he could even groan, before he could push himself up from the dirt and spit out a mouthful of dead foliage, a swarm of small, determined figures descended upon him from the shadows of the tree line.

They were Cub Scouts. A pack of them. They wore the standard blue uniforms, but they had been heavily modified. Their faces were streaked with thick, dark mud and the bright, staining purple of crushed berries. Their eyes were wide, dilated, and bright with an unholy, primitive glee.

"Get him!" one of them shrieked, a high-pitched battle cry that sounded less like a child and more like a feral predatory bird.

Lucas scrambled to his knees, but it was too late. The Cub Scouts were everywhere. They grabbed his arms, his legs, his shirt collar. They were small, averaging perhaps eight years old, but there were at least ten of them, and they moved with the terrifying, hive-mind coordination of a pack of feral Ewoks.

"Hey! No! Wait!" Lucas yelled, thrashing wildly, trying to shake off the small hands gripping his limbs. "This is not part of the game! You're supposed to take the flag, not the whole person!"

They didn't listen. They had him pinned to the dirt. His neon-green handkerchief was snatched by a tiny, mud-covered hand that immediately vanished into the chaos.

Thick, surprisingly sturdy vines were suddenly whipped around his wrists, lashing his hands together behind his back with alarming speed and proficiency.

"What are you doing?" Lucas demanded, his voice cracking in genuine panic as he was hoisted upward by the sheer number of small bodies. "Where are you taking me?"

The Cub Scouts didn't answer. They just began dragging him deeper into the dark, tangled thicket of the woods, away from the bright sunlight of the playing field. Their voices rose in a low, rhythmic, chanting hum that sounded disturbingly like a tribal victory song.

“WOO-WOO-WOO! WOO-WOO-WOO!”

"We got the big one!" a boy with a crown of woven twigs yelled from the front of the pack.

"He's our dinner!" another agreed enthusiastically, poking Lucas in the ribs with a sharpened stick.

Lucas's eyes went wide. His heart hammered in his chest. "Dinner? I'm not dinner! I'm the Assistant Scoutmaster! I have administrative authority over you! You cannot eat the leadership!"

The Cub Scouts ignored him. They dragged him through a narrow, winding tunnel of bent branches and thorny bushes, emerging into a hidden clearing deep in the woods. It was a civilization built entirely by children left unsupervised for forty-eight hours. In the center of the clearing was a large depression dug into the earth, ringed by heavy stones.

"Behold the Feast Pit!" the boy with the twig crown announced, raising his sharpened stick.

They hauled Lucas over to a large, sturdy oak tree at the edge of the pit. Using a complicated system of pulleys made from nylon tent cords and vines, they hoisted Lucas up until he was suspended by his bound wrists, his feet dangling pathetically a few inches off the ground.

"This is so unfair," Lucas muttered, glaring at the circle of feral children staring up at him. His credibility as a wilderness survivor was in absolute tatters. "You're supposed to take the flag, not the person. This violates the Geneva Convention."

They ignored him. They began to debate, in highly serious, high-pitched voices, the best way to prepare their captive.

"I think we should roast him over the open flame," a boy with a mud streak across his nose suggested.

"He's too skinny," another argued, poking Lucas’s thigh with a stick. "There's no marbling. We should stew him. Boil him with the wild onions."

"I have a highly sensitive digestive system," Lucas interjected weakly, twisting in his bindings. "I would make a terrible stew. I am mostly made of energy drinks and anxiety. I am not a feast."

"Quiet, dinner," the boy in the twig crown said, slapping Lucas’s knee with his stick. "The King will decide your fate."

Lucas’s eye twitched. He was being held hostage. By children. He closed his eyes, desperately hoping that someone, anyone, would notice he was missing from the field.

---

Out on the playing field, Andy Tyrell was leading a highly reluctant tactical flanking maneuver.

He was walking smoothly along the southern tree line, easily avoiding the grasping hands of normal scouts with microscopic shifts of his weight. He was utterly bored, entirely checked out of the proceedings, when his preternatural hearing picked up a sound echoing from deep within the forest.

It was a familiar, high-pitched wail of pure indignation.

"This is not how you treat your elders! I demand a phone call!"

Andy froze. He recognized that chaotic pitch anywhere.

"Lucas," Andy hissed to himself.

Abandoning the game entirely, Andy slipped silently past the boundary markers and vanished into the dense foliage. He moved without disturbing a single leaf, tracking the scent of mud, crushed berries, and sheer panic.

He moved silently through the narrow tunnel of bent branches, stepping out into the hidden clearing.

Andy stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the scene before him, his ancient brain struggling to process the absolute absurdity of the visual data.

Lucas was suspended from a thick tree branch by his wrists, his feet dangling over a dirt pit, his face flushed with profound outrage. Surrounding him was a circle of at least a dozen Cub Scouts, all of them painted with mud, holding sharpened sticks, their eyes bright with primitive, Lord of the Flies triumph.

"Scoutmaster Andy!" one of the smaller Cub Scouts squeaked, pointing a tiny finger at the vampire. "It's the Tall Pale One! He has breached the perimeter!"

Andy pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a long, slow breath, letting a heavy, weary sigh escape his lips. He lowered his hand and fixed the boy in the twig crown with an utterly flat, deadpan stare.

"Scoutmaster Andy, help!" Lucas wailed, twisting on his rope. "They've gone feral! They're going to eat me! They debated making a stew out of my thighs!"

"We are not going to eat him," the boy in the twig crown—the apparent King—said, looking deeply offended by the accusation. He stood taller, puffing out his small chest. "We were just... preparing him for the feast. It is a ceremonial position of honor."

"That's eating!" Lucas shrieked, kicking his legs helplessly. "That is the literal definition of eating!"

"Release him," Andy commanded, his voice dropping an octave, slipping effortlessly into the dark, resonant, aristocratic register that usually sent heavily armed mercenaries fleeing in terror. "He is not dinner. He is the troop mascot. He belongs to me."

The Cub Scouts did not flee. They tightened their grip on their sticks. The Alpha, Kevin, stepped forward, his mud-streaked face set in a mask of defiance.

"You are not the King here, Tall Pale One," Kevin declared, pointing his stick directly at Andy’s chest. "I am the King of the Wood. The Annoying One belongs to us by right of capture. If you want him back, you must trade."

Andy stared down at the nine-year-old child. He had negotiated treaties with blood-drinking covens. He had bargained with European monarchs. He was currently being extorted by a fourth-grader holding a twig.

"Trade what?" Andy asked, his voice dangerously soft.

Kevin’s eyes gleamed with cunning. "Your flag."

Andy blinked. "You want my neon-green handkerchief."

"The Tall Pale One's flag is the most valuable flag on the field," Kevin explained, nodding sagely, his feral followers humming in agreement. "It is the symbol of your power. Without it, your tribe is nothing. Give us the flag, and the Annoying One goes free."

Andy’s jaw tightened. He could feel the Cub Scouts watching him, their eyes filled with primitive triumph. He looked at Lucas, trussed up like a turkey, watching him with desperate, pleading eyes.

Andy slowly reached into his back pocket. He pulled out the bright green handkerchief.

The Cub Scouts gasped collectively. Kevin's eyes went wide with greed.

Andy held the handkerchief up, letting the breeze catch the cheap fabric.

"This flag," Andy said, his voice carrying the immense, crushing weight of three centuries of survival, "is the symbol of Troop 442. Without it, the game is lost. Without it, I forfeit."

He looked at Kevin. The shadows in the clearing seemed to lengthen unnaturally, stretching toward the children. The temperature dropped by ten degrees, our breath pluming in the sudden cold.

"But," Andy continued, his eyes darkening to a terrifying, bottomless black, "if you take this flag from my hand... you will be making a very, very powerful enemy. I do not forget. My pack does not forget. And if you take this, you will never, ever be safe in these woods again."

Kevin's eyes widened in sheer, primal terror. The sharpened stick trembled in his hand, then slowly lowered to the dirt. The primitive confidence of the tribe shattered instantly beneath the weight of an actual, ancient predator.

"Release him," Andy whispered. "Now."

The Cub Scouts scrambled. They moved with the frantic speed of terrified prey. They hacked at the vines with plastic safety scissors, untying the complex knots in seconds.

Lucas dropped to the ground with a heavy, undignified thud, gasping for air and rubbing his chafed wrists. He scrambled to his feet, hiding quickly behind Andy’s tall frame. He looked at the vampire, his eyes filled with genuine awe.

"You were going to give them your flag for me," Lucas said, his voice soft, touched by the depth of the sacrifice.

"I was going to intimidate them into releasing you using psychological warfare," Andy corrected smoothly, tucking the flag back into his pocket. "That counts I guess."

"It doesn’t."

"There is a huge, tactical counting of something."

Lucas grinned, his chaotic spirit instantly recovering. "You were totally going to give them your flag for me."

Andy sighed. "Shut up."

As Andy turned to guide his idiot boyfriend out of the feral encampment, a muffled, desperate sound drifted from the thicket of thorny bushes at the edge of the clearing.

“Pssst. Over here. Please. Help me.”

Andy paused. He and Lucas exchanged a confused look, then walked slowly toward the bushes, parting the heavy, thorny branches.

Hidden behind the foliage was a cage.

It was a remarkably well-constructed cage, made of thick, sturdy branches and heavy vines, lashed together with complex, professional-grade knots.

Inside the cage sat a grown man. He was wearing the official adult uniform of a Cub Scout pack leader, complete with a neckerchief and a wide-brimmed hat. His face was smudged with dirt. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and filled with the hollow despair of a broken man.

"Please," the man whimpered, clutching the wooden bars of his cage. "They've had me since the Jamboree started yesterday. They took my whistle. They took my official badge book. They said I was 'too controlling' and needed to 'let the tribe flourish organically.'"

Lucas stared at him in absolute shock. "You're the Cub Scout master."

"I was the Cub Scout master," the man corrected, a single tear cutting through the dirt on his cheek. "Now I'm the political prisoner. They built this cage with the knots I taught them. They used the taut-line hitch and the square lashing techniques I showed them for the bridge-building badge. They told me it was 'practical application.'"

"And you didn't stop them?" Lucas asked incredulously.

"There were twelve of them!" the man sobbed. "They swarmed me! They took my shoes!"

Lucas looked down. The man was, indeed, sitting in his argyle socks.

Andy stared at the man in the cage. He looked back over his shoulder at the clearing, where the feral children were currently hiding in the trees, watching them with glowing eyes.

"They are feral," Andy said, his voice completely hollow. "They have gone entirely feral."

"They built a civilization," Lucas whispered, his voice filled with something approaching genuine reverence. "A primitive, terrifying civilization. And they locked up their own government."

"Can you get me out?" the Cub Scout master pleaded, reaching through the bars. "Please. I'll do anything. I'll give you my whistle. I just want to go home to my wife."

Andy sighed. He reached out with one pale hand, grabbed the thick wooden bars of the cage, and pulled.

The heavy branches snapped like dry twigs. The complex, professional-grade lashings tore apart with a loud crack. Andy dismantled the entire front of the cage with a single, effortless, preternatural motion.

The Cub Scout master scrambled out of the wreckage, falling to his knees and gasping for air. "Thank you! Oh my god, thank you! I thought I was going to die in there! I thought they were going to eat me!"

"They would have released you eventually," Lucas offered helpfully. "Probably. After the feast."

The Cub Scout master's face went completely pale. "Feast?"

"Don't worry about it," Andy said, grabbing Lucas by the back of his shirt collar and dragging him away. "We are leaving. We are returning to civilization before they decide to build a guillotine."

But as Andy turned back toward the clearing, he froze.

The Cub Scouts had returned.

They were no longer hiding. They had formed a tight, semi-circle around a structure they had hastily built while Andy was dismantling the cage. It was a throne. A rickety, precarious structure of woven branches and soft green moss, situated perfectly in the center of the Feast Pit.

Kevin, the King, stepped forward, his eyes wide with a new, profound religious awe. He had witnessed the Tall Pale One effortlessly shatter the unbreakable cage. He had felt the crushing weight of the shadows.

"We have a new King!" Kevin declared, raising his sharpened stick toward the sky, pointing directly at Andy. "The Tall Pale One has proven his absolute strength! He has shattered the wooden prison! He commands the dark cold! He is the true king of the wood!"

The Cub Scouts erupted into cheers, dropping to their knees in the dirt. "WOO-WOO-WOO! WOO-WOO-WOO!"

Before Andy could react, before his ancient reflexes could trigger an escape, the children swarmed him. They didn't attack. They worshipped. They grabbed his hands, pulling him forward with frantic, reverent energy, forcing him down until he was sitting on the moss-covered throne.

A small boy with berry juice smeared across his cheeks gently placed a newly woven crown of fresh oak leaves and twigs upon Andy’s dark, slicked-back hair. Another boy draped a heavy, slightly damp robe of woven moss over his stiff khaki shoulders.

"I am not your leader," Andy said, his voice perfectly flat, staring straight ahead as the children painted streaks of purple berry juice across his pale cheekbones. "I am a Scoutmaster. I do not lead feral children."

"The Tall Pale One is humble," Kevin announced to the tribe, nodding sagely. "That is why he is worthy to rule us."

"I am not humble. I am deeply, profoundly confused."

"The Tall Pale One is wise. He speaks in riddles of the old world."

"These are not riddles. These are literal statements of fact."

The Cub Scouts nodded in fierce agreement, chanting louder.

Andy closed his eyes, a long, weary sigh escaping his lips. He was sitting on a wooden chair, being worshipped by primitive forest creatures. He was a prisoner of his own terrifying dignity. He looked over at Lucas, hoping for a rescue, only to find his boyfriend doubled over, laughing so hard he was silently weeping.

A sudden, sharp crunch of leaves announced a new arrival in the clearing.

Ronan Draven wandered into the Feast Pit.

He held his clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. His expression was one of mild, professional interest. He had been assigned to patrol this section of the woods as a referee, and he was executing his duties with the same exhausted, bureaucratic competence he applied to everything else in his life.

Ronan surveyed the scene before him. He saw the weeping, shoeless Cub Scout master. He saw Lucas hyperventilating with laughter. He saw the feral children performing a ritual dance.

And he saw Andy, sitting on a mossy throne, his face streaked with purple juice, a twig crown on his head, looking like a man who had completely given up on his immortal existence.

“You are all out of bounds, and I am issuing you all with a penalty,” He announced as he blinked slowly behind his glasses. He clicked his pen and made a neat, precise note on his clipboard.

"Cub Scouts have gone feral," Ronan murmured to himself, writing the words down. "Have elected Scoutmaster Andy Tyrell as their new tribal deity. He appears to be... accepting his fate."

He looked up. Andy caught his eye. The ancient vampire’s gaze contained a desperate, silent plea for salvation.

Help me, Andy mouthed silently over the chanting.

Ronan considered this. He looked at the Cub Scouts. He looked back at Andy.

"I'm a referee," Ronan said, his voice carrying clearly across the clearing, entirely devoid of sympathy. "I'm not allowed to interfere with the natural, organic flow of the game."

Andy's face went through several shades of pale beneath the berry juice. "I am not part of the game! This is a hostage situation!"

"You started with the game, you still have your flag," Ronan said, making another checkmark on his clipboard. "The Cub Scouts have claimed you as their spiritual leader. That is a legitimate, if highly unusual, strategic move on the board."

"This is not strategic! This is deeply absurd!"

Ronan shrugged his shoulders casually. "I'll make sure you're comfortable. Do you need anything? A water bottle? Perhaps some additional moss for your mantle?"

"I need you to get me out of here before they decide to sacrifice a squirrel in my honor!"

"That would be interfering," Ronan stated firmly. "I can't interfere. I have an oath of neutrality. And I literally cannot interact with Squirrels… it would breach the treaty with the Squirrel-Prime!"

He turned on his heel and walked away, his footsteps crunching loudly on the dry leaves as he vanished back into the woods.

Andy watched him go, his jaw hanging open in pure betrayal. He had been abandoned. By his own pack's Omega.

"I hate this," Andy murmured to the empty air. "I hate all of this."

The Cub Scouts chanted louder, bowing before his throne. Andy closed his eyes, accepting his fate as the god of the forest.

---

While Andy ruled his new, terrifying kingdom in the woods, the actual game of Capture the Flag was reaching its chaotic, impossible climax out on the main playing field.

The hordes of normal scouts had systematically eliminated almost everyone. Lucas was out. The werewolves were disqualified. The majority of the hunters and zombies had lost their flags in the sheer, overwhelming rush of athletic normies.

The game came down to exactly four players remaining on the field.

Representing Troop 12 was Brad. Brad was the star quarterback of the local middle school. He was fast, he was sweating, and he was taking this game more seriously than the Super Bowl.

Representing Team Weirdo were three profoundly unlikely survivors:

A single Zombie from Troop 86.

Jim, a wide-eyed, over-enthusiastic amateur hunter from Troop 121.

Barty Junior, the baby gargoyle, who was sitting motionless on a large rock near the center line.

Brad locked his eyes on his first target. He saw the Zombie standing alone in the middle of the grass, staring blankly down at a mobile game, his thumbs tapping mindlessly.

"Easy pickings," Brad sneered, dropping into a sprinter’s stance.

He charged. Brad moved with explosive athletic speed, closing the distance in seconds, his hand reaching out to snatch the neon-green flag hanging from the Zombie’s back pocket.

The Zombie didn't even look up from his screen.

A split second before Brad’s fingers made contact, the Zombie simply dropped. He didn't dive. He didn't roll. He just allowed his legs to collapse, falling forward like a felled tree, his face planting directly into the soft dirt. He didn't stop playing his game, holding the phone an inch from his nose in the grass.

Brad, moving at top speed and completely unprepared for the target to vanish beneath him, tripped hard over the prone body. He went airborne, pinwheeling his arms wildly before crashing headfirst into a massive, thorny blackberry bush on the sideline.

"Stay in bounds!" a referee yelled.

The Zombie remained face-down in the dirt, a thin line of drool connecting his mouth to the grass as he completed level forty-two.

Standing behind a nearby oak tree, Jim the Hunter watched this exchange with wide, awestruck eyes.

Jim was wearing a bandolier of garlic cloves across his chest. He clutched a plastic spray bottle of tap water in his trembling hands. His twelve-year-old brain processed what he had just seen not as a clumsy accident, but as a masterful, terrifying display of necrotic evasion magic. The undead scout had phased through the attack!

Jim looked at the Zombie. He looked over at Barty Junior, who was sitting motionless on the rock, holding a pebble.

Jim’s mind raced. He wasn't scared. He was thrilled. The lore was real. The monsters were real. And right now, in this game, they were on his team. He had formed a tactical, unholy alliance with the undead and a magical stone golem to defeat the normies.

"This is the most awesome thing ever," Jim whispered to himself, a manic grin spreading across his face.

Brad, scratched and furious, untangled himself from the blackberry bush. He realized he was the last normal scout left. He ignored the Zombie and locked his eyes on the final, stationary target: Barty Junior.

"I'm ending this," Brad growled, charging toward the rock.

Jim leapt out from behind the oak tree, determined to protect his magical allies.

"Covering fire!" Jim screamed at the top of his lungs, charging across the grass. He raised his plastic spray bottle and began wildly, frantically spraying tap water into the air, creating a fine mist of 'holy water' to blind the enemy.

Brad ran right through the mist, completely ignoring the screaming child, and slid into the rock where Barty Junior sat.

Brad reached out and grabbed the neon-green handkerchief tucked into Barty Junior’s tiny khaki shorts.

He pulled.

The handkerchief did not move.

Barty Junior weighed roughly eighty pounds of solid, magically dense basalt. He was sitting directly on top of the fabric, effectively pinning it between his granite posterior and the heavy boulder beneath him.

Brad frowned. He grabbed the fabric with both hands, braced his cleats against the side of the boulder, and heaved backward with all of his athletic might.

Barty Junior did not budge a single millimeter. He simply tilted his heavy stone head, looked down at the sweating, straining boy, and let out a soft, grinding burble. He reached out with a tiny stone claw and offered Brad a small, smooth pebble.

Brad gritted his teeth, his face turning red as he yanked on the flag, the fabric stretching taut but refusing to slip free.

The sharp blast of a whistle cut through the air.

Scoutmaster Chuck and Ronan Draven marched over to the boulder to adjudicate the final play.

"Foul!" Chuck yelled, pointing a meaty finger at the gargoyle. "Illegal play! That kid is using an illegal anchoring technique! He’s glued himself to the rock! That’s cheating!"

Ronan stood over the boulder. He adjusted his glasses, looked at Barty Junior, looked at the red-faced quarterback, and then looked down at his clipboard.

"There is no foul on the play," Ronan stated, his voice perfectly monotone, echoing with the absolute, unyielding authority of an Eagle Scout referee.

"Are you blind, Draven?" Chuck demanded, throwing his arms up. "He’s physically preventing the flag from being captured by refusing to move!"

"I have reviewed the official Jamboree rulebook," Ronan replied calmly, tapping his pen against the clipboard. "There is no rule, clause, or addendum prohibiting a scout from possessing a naturally high-density center of gravity. The flag remains securely on his person. The attempt to capture has failed."

Jim picked this precise moment to strike, executing a tactical roly-poly, grabbing Brad’s flag and pulling it free triumphantly.

Chuck stared at Ronan, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. He looked at Barty Junior, who was now attempting to eat his own green handkerchief.

"You can't be serious," Chuck whispered.

Jim was bouncing up and down, to the cheers of his teammates, trying to get the referee’s attention.

"I am entirely serious," Ronan said. He raised his hand and pointed sharply at the weirdos. "Team Weirdo retains a flag on the field. The opposing team has exhausted all viable players. The game is over."

Ronan blew his whistle three times.

"Team Weirdo wins the grand trophy and the dessert buffet," Ronan announced to the stunned silence of the playing field.

Jim the Hunter dropped his spray bottle, throwing his hands into the air with a victorious scream dancing around with Brad’s flag. The Zombie in the dirt finally rolled over, sitting up to plug his dying phone into a portable battery pack.

And from the dense tree line at the edge of the field, a strange procession emerged.

A dozen mud-streaked, feral Cub Scouts marched out of the woods in perfect, ceremonial formation. They were carrying a heavy, makeshift palanquin woven from thick branches and vines.

Sitting atop the palanquin, looking utterly defeated, covered in berry juice, and wearing a crown of twigs, was Andy Tyrell.

Lucas Cooper walked alongside the procession, cheering loudly and tossing crushed leaves into the air like confetti.

Andy did not look at the stunned normal scouts. He did not look at Chuck. He simply closed his eyes, rested his chin in his hand, and allowed his new, feral worshippers to carry him toward the mess hall to claim their rightful dessert.