Sheep and Wolves by Jeremy C. Shipp Page B

to.”
    All I can think to say is, “You’re going to get in trouble.”
    So I do.
    *
    Kent dragged me across the camp by the arm, and that’s why I’m wet and muddy. He also told me, “Hamilton was like a brother to me. He helped me kill my parents. Do you know what kind of bond that sort of thing creates?” That’s why I pissed and shit my pajama pants.
    He’s standing over me with a bloody machete, breathing hard. I notice his trophies on the nearby shelf. Scalps and dried ears mostly.
    “Did you do it?” Kent says.
    I shake my head.
    He kneels on top of my legs and presses the blade against my forehead. “Mike says she saw you sneaking outside her cabin, heading right towards Hamilton’s place.”
    “That’s not true,” I say, shitting my pants even more. “Mike’s a liar. Everyone knows that.”
    “Yeah, and that’s why I haven’t sliced your fucking neck open already.” He stands. “Then again, she might be telling the truth this time. How do I know?”
    “I didn’t do it,” I say.
    “Not just anyone could take out Hamilton. He was a monster. But you. You’re better than most of the others here. You could have done it.”
    I can’t help but smile.
    He stares down at me and shakes his head. “Go back to your room. I need to think.”
    On my way out I hear muffled cries coming from his closet. Probably two children, a boy and a girl. I know how Kent thinks.
    *
    There’s no denying it. That’s Hamilton’s keycard in Nigel’s hand.
    “You killed him,” I say.
    “I’m not like that anymore,” Nigel says. “I found this in the mud.”
    “You killed Hamilton so you could free those stupid sheep.”
    “I am going to free them, but I didn’t kill anyone.”
    “Kent’s going to kill me because of you!” I race forward and trip on the mud before I can touch Nigel.
    “I didn’t do it,” Nigel says, and heads for the Barn.
    “Help!” I say, louder than I’ve ever been in my whole life. No one leaves their cabins. Not even England. As far as they know, Kent’s murdering me, and they don’t want any part of that. I don’t blame them.
    I do, however, blame Nigel.
    So I follow him into the Barn.
    Nigel’s already in the cage, snipping cable ties with a wire cutter.
    “If they hear you crying, they’ll come in and kill us,” Nigel says.
    The children only cry harder.
    “Fuck,” Nigel says.
    I stand there, watching him for a while. He looks so full of himself. So happy. But he’s not the great guy that he thinks he is. He’s going to get everyone killed. All the campers, Kent, our parents. Me.
    And for what? A few stupid sheep who’re already too traumatized to be worth anything to society.
    I pick up a finishing gun from a nearby table and make sure it’s loaded. It is. I cock it.
    “You have to run away as fast as you can,” Nigel says. “Keep running until you can’t run anymore. Then hide. The people who find you will take you to your moms and dads.” Nigel’s looking right at me and the gun as he’s saying all this.
    I lift the gun.
    Would I really kill one of my best friends?
    Well, maybe I’m possessed by the spirit of the ghost kid. Maybe Nigel’s the one who killed him years ago and this is his final revenge.
    What I know for sure is that I don’t want to kill Nigel.
    I need to.
    Reasons are good enough.
    I aim and fire.
    I fire again at one of the sheep who’s running right at me, or the door, I’m not sure which. I hit him in the neck. I must have hit the carotid artery because he’s gushing.
    Most of the sheep run away. Some don’t.
    I walk over to Nigel.
    He’s saying, “Hello kitty. Hello kitty. Hello kitty,” with a bullet hole in his head.
    I don’t think he’s ever even owned a cat.
    My muscles tighten. My teeth clench. I feel like shitting and pissing and throwing up, but there’s nothing left inside me.
    I’m no good at being strapped down on a cold metal table, waiting for the inevitable.
    “We have to get out of here,” I say.