The Campground
Copyright© 2024 by Adam.F
Chapter 6
Matthew hurried over, clipboard in hand, pointing out the hookups and boundaries. Chloe immediately started unloading folding chairs while Emily inspected the electrical panel. Their RV, a compact vintage Airstream, gleamed under the fading light. Amelia wandered over, introducing herself with a warm handshake, already feeling the camaraderie of fellow travelers. The scent of pine needles and damp earth hung heavy in the cool evening air.
The next morning, Matthew hammered a laminated sign onto the gate office door before sunrise. “HELP WANTED” stood out in bold black letters above smaller print: “Office Workers Needed. Guest Check-In/Payment Processing. Apply Within.” He stepped back, wiping sawdust from his jeans, eyeing the crooked alignment critically. The plastic sheet caught the first weak rays of dawn, reflecting them onto the gravel driveway.
By noon, the first applicant arrived—a woman with salt-and-pepper hair driving a dented pickup. Matthew watched her pause at the sign, fingers tracing the words like braille before she squared her shoulders and walked inside. Through the office window, Chloe saw Matthew gesture toward the tornado shelter map pinned beside the coffee maker, his knuckles whitening as he tapped the laminated evacuation route. “Priority access,” he murmured to the applicant, “especially during storm season.”
The woman Lena nodded sharply when Matthew asked about handling cash. “Ran a bait shop near Toledo for twelve years,” she said, pulling a worn ledger from her bag. Her thumbnail traced columns of faded ink. “Thieves tried twice. Second time, I broke a man’s nose with a catfish.” Matthew’s eyebrows lifted. Outside, Emily tested the gate arm’s motor, its metallic sound punctuating the silence. Lena didn’t flinch.
The next morning, campers arrived. Lena took payments with brisk efficiency, fingers dancing over the calculator. She slid laminated maps across the counter, her knuckles brushing the tornado shelter routes printed in red. “Site 14’s got the best shade,” she told a family with sunburnt children, circling their spot near the creek. Coins clinked into the register drawer. Her eyes flicked to the horizon where distant clouds gathered like bruised fruit.
Matthew leaned against the office doorframe, scrolling through listings on his phone. Boats. He needed rentals for the lake paddle boats, maybe a couple of pontoons. His thumb hovered over a local marina’s number. He dialed, turning his back to the chatter inside. “Yeah, the aluminum ones,” he murmured, squinting at prices. “Deliver by Friday? Done.” He tapped his card details into the phone, the transaction swift and decisive.
Outside, Emily wrestled with a hose near the water spigot. The pipe groaned, then erupted in a sudden spray that drenched her jeans. She cursed, twisting the valve shut. Water pooled around her boots, reflecting the bruised sky. “Lena!” she yelled toward the office, wiping her face. “Got a wrench handy?” Lena appeared instantly, tossing a rusted tool through the open window. It landed with a thud in the mud. Emily snatched it up, knuckles white on the handle.
Inside the storeroom, Matthew hauled plastic bins from beneath the bed. He pried off lids, revealing stacks of coloring books, soccer balls still in shrink-wrap, and binoculars sealed in plastic. Frisbees slid out like bright, flat pancakes. He arranged them near the door: a rainbow arsenal against boredom. One bin held field guides—birds, trees, local wildlife. He thumbed through the birding book, pausing at a page showing a red-tailed hawk. Outside, a real one circled high above the pines.
Friday dawned humid and still. The marina truck arrived early, backing down the gravel slope toward the lake. Men in waterproof overalls unloaded paddles for the inflatable paddle boards, kayaks bright as candy, and sleek aluminum boats with small 20 hp engines. They slid them into the water with practiced ease, securing each to the jetty with thick nylon ropes. The aluminum pontoons bobbed gently, their hulls knocking against the wooden pilings in a hollow, metallic rhythm. Matthew signed the invoice, the pen slick in his sweaty palm.
By mid-afternoon, families clustered at the water’s edge. Kids shrieked as they wobbled on paddle boards near the reeds, their laughter echoing across the lake. A father struggled to untangle kayak paddles, cursing under his breath. Lena watched from the office window, her gaze sharp. She noted the teenage boy drifting too far out in a canoe, the dark clouds thickening westward. Her knuckles tightened on the counter’s edge.
Matthew knelt by the newly stocked rental shed, fishing rods clattering as he organized them. He’d found them online—cheap fiberglass ones with rusted reels, plus a bundle of hand lines coiled like sleepy snakes. Weeks ago, he’d called the state game department. Now, beneath the surface, stocked trout and bass darted through sunken logs. He tested a reel; it whined like a tired bee.
The old reels went into a dented metal bucket their gears gritty, handles loose. Matthew pried them off one by one, tossing them aside with a hollow clang. Fresh replacements slid onto the rods: smooth, silver-spooled reels with crisp drag systems. He threaded each line through the guides, tying quick-release knots. The new handles felt cool and solid in his palm. Outside, a kid’s excited shout carried from the lake. Matthew smiled. The fish wouldn’t know what hit them.