THE BLOOD WE SPILL

[CW: LANGUAGE, GORE]

The cool breeze in the air of the late afternoon rustled the trees above as three men walked together to their childhood camping ground, arms full of folding chairs and cheap beer. Their voices carried through the woods as they followed the carved out path made from years of footsteps stamping down any foliage daring to grow in the most direct route to the grounds. The night was supposed to be a simple get together, old friends having the opportunity to reconvene after years of being apart. It was supposed to be a simple night of fun and relaxation.

[SAM]

“Was the walk always this long? I feel like we used to get there in half the time back then.” Sam rolled his shoulders as he grumbled out his displeasure, back and feet already sore from the miles the three men have already trekked through. He could have sworn they should have been there by now with chairs set up and fire blazing.

“Come on man, don’t sound so old. It won’t be much longer now.” Asher replied, sounding just as annoyed and doing a poor job of hiding it.

“It should be around the next bend.”

“You already said that at the last turn Mitch, are we sure this is even the right trail?” Sam was doing his best to keep from whining, really he was, but his best was not quite enough to hold back just how childish he sounded in that moment. A twinge of embarrassment ran through him as he tried to cover it up with a cough. He was not as prepared as the others were for the hike, and it was beginning to show.

“It’s fine ya’ll don’t worry bout a thing, we're almost there,” Mitch replied in the calm tone he usually used when he was feigning confidence. Sam hated that fucking tone. He did not need to be reassured like a child, nor treated like one.

“I’m just not sure we’re even on the right trail,” Sam snapped back, shutting the other two up in a tense silence save for their heavy breaths and the crunching of leaves beneath their feet. He could not understand why they decided this would be a good idea, returning to their old camp grounds and reminiscing on the good old days. Half the group could not even get the time off to make the trip happen anyway, so it was pointless to even bother showing up at all.

The camp ground was not just beyond the next bend, nor the one after that, and night was already upon them. Sam was beyond annoyance and discomfort, he was justifiably miserable. It had been hours of walking with no camp grounds in sight. Mitch had gotten them lost on the wrong trail. Sam knew they were supposed to turn right at the fork early on but Mitch insisted it was left. Now look where that had gotten them, in the middle of God knows where.

With the full force of his drunken rage, as he had gotten into the beers not long into the trip, Sam picked up a jagged rock and hurled it down the side of the hill. It had taken only a moment before a crunching noise resounded through the woods as the rock collided with a tree branch.

“Could you not fucking do that!” Asher was quick to his anger but this felt much more intense than what Sam deserved. All he did was throw a rock, what was the big deal? He was pissed off too. They should have been at the camp site by now. Mitch got them lost, not him.

“Don’t take your piss attitude out on me! I am not the one who got us turned the fuck around in the middle of the fucking woods. So PISS. OFF.” Sam's shrill voice carried through the trees as he shoved Asher hard in the chest. If the camp ground was, in fact, nearby, then they sure as shit would have heard him.

The punch came faster than Sam could react, landing hard on his back against a sharp twisted root. There was pain shooting through him for a long moment, his back, his jaw, behind his eyes. Pain everywhere. Radiating through his body from the rough impact with a fist and the ground. Sam groaned low, trying to get his bearings again in case another blow was coming. He heard shouting. Mitch? But he never got upset about anything, almost to a fault. Why was he yelling?

Making his way back to his feet proved to be too difficult, opting instead to just sit upright against the closest tree trunk, groaning as he dragged himself toward it and leaning back in a huff. Shit, there was blood on his face and it was dripping down his chin and into the soil.

“You know what, you know what? FUCK this. And fuck you. I’m leaving. I don’t give a shit about either of you anyways.” Asher picked up his folding chair and pack as his voice rose higher. Discarding the box of now empty beer bottles scattered on the ground he set out in the direction he thought the three men came from. “We all said we would never come back here. Not after what happened to Josh. Who’s dumbfuck idea was this anyway? YOURS. Not mine. Not Sams. Not Chandlers who ain’t even her but in Costa Fucking Rica. YOURS. It’s all your fault we’re lost.”

“Look, hey! Ash wait don’t go off on your own it ain’t safe out in the dark!” Mitch ran after him, leaving Sam forgotten at the tree trunk. Whatever they needed to figure out was not his business anyway, he was a bit too preoccupied with the way the trees swirled in and out of focus in the view of his flash light.

It was pretty, the leaves growing and shrinking in size. There was a soft hum coming from just ahead, beckoning him to come forward. The breeze stilled as the trees continued to sway their branches in gentle swirling patterns. It was a calming moment, even peaceful, as Sam sat starting into the woods, blood soaking into the soil below him. Roots were creeping up from below the ground, reaching out towards him. The quiet hum rose to a higher and higher pitch as the forest closed in. He closed his eyes as the first root gingerly wrapped itself around his ankle and squeezed…

[ASHER]

Asher was drunk. He knew he should not have been, especially given his tendency to become the most rowdy of the bunch when alcohol was involved, but fuck it. Tonight was a special occasion. He was lost in the woods with two men he never really liked, only agreeing to the trip in the hopes Chandler would be able to end his work retreat early to join in on the fun. This, though, was some next level bull shit. He knew Mitch would not be able to remember the way to their old hang out spot but he followed along anyway. Bull. Shit. He was getting back to the damn car on his own.

“Ash, hey man wait!” Mitch called from behind him, stumbling over the ground without his flashlight. At least Asher was smart enough to bring his light. He was always the smartest. Always the most reasonable. How could they not see that?

“Piss off, I don't give a damn what you have to say. You got us in this mess, and I’m gettin’ myself out on my own.” He would not listen to any more excuses or fake reassurances from that guy. Mitch was a dumbass. A loser. A damn snake of a man for acting so high and mighty, needing to always be the leader of the group. Always fucking up. How dare he act like he was any voice of reason? Asher knew reason. He knew what was right, and the right call was to turn tail and hike back to the car. Alone.

“Seriously man these woods ain’t safe just wait and we’ll go back with you kay?” Mitch was begging now, it was almost laughable. Asher was not going to budge though, he had just about enough for the night and was not going to cave now. He was not going to dignify Mitch with any more responses.

As he marched through thick foliage stumbling only a little, surely that proved he was sober enough to drive by the time he made it back, he kept his light trained at his feet so Mitch would struggle to keep pace in the dark. It had only taken a few more minutes before he realized Mitch had given up his efforts of reaching him. Good, let him find his own way back. It pissed him off, everything about this trip did.

In a fit of rage, Asher balled his fist and punched the nearest tree to his right. He knew right away it was a mistake, the sharp crack of bone in his middle finger and the catching of skin tearing away on the jagged bark had him reeling back in pain. Curling in on himself and cradling his broken finger was all he could do for a few moments as he breathed heavily waiting for the waves of sharp agony to recede. He was grateful to be alone in the dark where nobody could see how foolish he was, drunkenly swaying and screaming profanity as he quickly sobered. There was a small smear of blood on the tree and a tiny puddle pooling around a group of small mushrooms on the ground.

Asher stood there for longer than he should have before he came back to his surroundings again, first noticing how still everything had become. There was no breeze rustling his hair, no movement of branches arching back and forth, dropping leaves and tiny twigs. There was only a multitude of soft, muffled crunching sounds coming from all around him. He held his breath as he listened. It was coming from below, in the ground.

Something was moving below the soil.

It was getting louder now, as if it knew he was paying attention.

Closer now.

Crunch…

Creak…

Snap…

And then again.

Crunch…

Creak…

Snap…

And again. Louder. Closer.

All around him the ground was moving, coming to life in every direction. It was nauseating, the stillness of the sky and the movement from below. Everything was backwards. He wanted to run but could barely keep on his feet as it was. In a split second, everything erupted, enormous roots shot out from the soil, lashing the air and slicing through Asher's exposed skin. He let out a cry as he collapsed, clawing his way in any direction that did not have vines and roots whipping around violently. There was a ringing in his ears and a throbbing pain from each new gash, flicking blood into the air and spattering the dirt.

Asher felt as though the ground was trying to consume him, trying to eat him alive. Was any of this real? He could barely see as it was with a single light source but in an instant a thick vine lashed out towards his left hand, snaking around his wrist and crunching his bones to nothing, making him drop the flashlight and surrendering himself to total darkness as the ground swallowed it in a rolling wave of rock and soil. The last breath he took was wasted on a desperate scream for help before it was cut off. A lightning fast root pierced its way through his stomach and dragged him into a chasm of soil in one violent motion, silencing him for good.

[MITCH]

Screams echoed through the woods as Mitch fumbled around to find his way back to Sam. Sweat was beading on his forehead as his hands were shakily stretched out before him searching desperately for anything to grasp onto. Branches scratched his palms and exposed shins as he did his best to keep from falling forward. If only he did not leave his phone behind when he ran after Ash. Mitch was scared for him. What if that was him screaming? There was nothing he could do for him at this point, blinded by the darkness of the haunted forest and stumbling like a child first learning to walk.

He was worried for his friends, of course they did not mean the harsh words they threw his way, they were just stressed from getting turned around in these woods. They did not mean it. Mitch hoped they were safe. Whatever was screaming bloody murder out there could not possibly be either of them.

They all heard the horror stories as kids, even making up their own. How creatures lurked behind trees and followed foolish hikers who took the wrong path. How they all knew their friend was taken by one of the beasts. They swore to never return to these woods after Josh went missing. The last they saw of him, he was running away, bruised and bloody screaming about the trees.

None of it was real, surely. However, hesitation creeps in when the sun sets and isolation churns panic in the gut and has fear clawing at his throat. Mitch was scared for his friends, sure, but for himself most of all. That made him feel like a coward.

“SAMMY,” Mitch screamed at the top of his lungs, “ASH,” his voice fried from the strain of it all. Maybe he should be calling for help instead. Or maybe he should just be quiet. Something could be following him, it has certainly felt like he was being hunted since the light from Asher's flashlight faded in the distance. Maybe that was just his fear talking again. Or maybe not. He was not certain of anything anymore. Any small creak he heard shook him to the core, and the screaming abruptly stopped, which terrified him even more than hearing it.

Mitch lost his footing over something smooth and soft, stumbling and landing on his hands and knees, scratching them on the rough ground. There was a buzzing noise in the air and a ringing in his ears as he breathed through the pain of the fall. Taking a moment to regain his bearings and calm his ragged breath, he leaned over to feel for whatever he tripped on.

Soft fur brushed his fingertips as he slid his hand lower.

Matted and wet fur. He felt lower.

Wet meat, gnarled and mangled together.

Lower…

His hand gave way to a caved in piece of flesh, wet and squelching between his fingers. He yanked his hand back, instantly nauseous and dizzy as he scrambled backwards. It took a moment before he realized the buzzing sound in the air must have been flies. Mitch wanted more than anything to curl up and cry. It was embarrassing to react in such a way but he let himself have this feeling, only for a moment.

Mitch knew his hands were bleeding. God only knows what diseases he could get from mingling his own blood with that of the rotting creatures. Thinking about that sent a new wave of panic through him. His hand burned. It felt like holding a flame to his palm and letting it sizzle the flesh there, growing more and more intense by the second.

“Shit shit shit…” Mitch was getting dizzier. The soft breeze in the air stilled, not that he paid any mind to it, he was preoccupied with the fire in his hand and the vomit in his mouth. Dirt cracked and rolled around him, roots breaching through the surface and flicking around in the stagnant air. Mitch could barely breathe anymore, his entire arm felt ablaze. Not enough oxygen could get into his lungs, blocked by his involuntary need to scream. Melting skin and white hot pain now shooting up his chest. The ground rumbled violently, as if it were growing more and more hostile from being ignored. He could not tell what was going on around him, blinded by the dark and the sheer pain of burning. Everything burning.

Something latched onto his knee and squeezed tight, cutting off his circulation and pinching his skin enough to tear. Mitch began thrashing about, losing all reasoning and understanding of the dire situation he was in. He was terrified. Was this his fault? Was all of this his fault? He cried out for anyone to help him, voice cracking and throat strained. His knee gave way with a volatile twist, snapping in several places. Terror could not even begin to describe what he was feeling at that moment. For the first time in close to twenty years, Mitch cried out for his mother. It was a primal sort of terror that gripped him by his very soul and bit with sharp teeth and tore apart pieces with jagged claws.

Something in him broke. Any fight he had left in him faded as he flailed in futile desperation to escape the roots wrapping themselves around his burning limbs. All he could do was cry as he was restrained to the ground. Dirt rolled in waves over his body, beginning to bury him alive. Small rocks filled his throat and lungs. God, it was all enveloping him too quickly, there was no way to fight it off. Half his body was covered by roots and earth as he flailed and clawed at himself. The only relief he felt was when his leg finally gave way to a dull numbing sensation, circulation fully restricted from being wrapped around too tight.

After what felt like an eternity of struggling for air and freedom, Mitch’s body stilled. Roots receded back into the soft earth. A gentle breeze began to fill the air again. A bird began chirping off in the distance, a peaceful scene in a dark forest. All was calm again, the trees now satisfied.