The Wildman by Rick Hautala

very appealing.
    If they were still kids, it might be an exciting adventure, but at their age?
    No way.
    The other guys—especially Evan—scoffed at him via e-mail for sounding like a pussy and for lacking imagination. The problem was, Jeff could imagine all too easily how things could go wrong. If—and if was still a big if —he even went to the reunion—he would be sure to bring plenty of rum to keep him warm and pleasantly buzzed for the entire weekend. Hell, maybe he’d even see if he could score some weed. That would certainly make for a fun weekend.
    The month of September was rainy and much colder than usual. Jeff hoped Evan would finally see reason and call the whole thing off until next spring. But Evan insisted that, as soon as the ice was out of the lake come spring, his construction company was going to bring in bulldozers and other machinery to start tearing apart the old campgrounds. By June of next year, the island would be unrecognizable. If they wanted one last chance to see where they had spent a short but significant time of their lives … if they wanted to recapture some childhood memories, this was their one and only chance.
    Do I really need this? J eff wondered, but—somehow—in the end, he wasn’t really sure why—he made the decision to go.
    Jeff offered to meet Tyler at the Portland Jetport when his flight from LA arrived. It might be a good idea not to face this entirely on his own. Besides, it would be nice to drive out to camp with one of his friends and catch up, one on one.
    Tyler nixed all that, telling Jeff he planned to come to Maine a few days earlier and spend some time driving around coastal Maine before heading over to the camp. Jeff couldn’t afford to take any extra time off work—not if he wanted any vacation time when Matt was home from college on Christmas break—so that Thursday night he got packed. He made sure he took Matt’s down-filled sleeping bag along with plenty of warm clothing.
    As it was, on the Friday of the reunion, Jeff had to go into the office in the morning to take care of some last-minute paperwork, so he was late getting started. The drive out of Portland was pleasant enough, even though the foliage was a few weeks past peak and the “blue-crested leaf peepers” had gone back south to their retirement homes in Florida. When he got to Gorham, he stopped at the loca l Shop ‘n Save where he picked up his share of the groceries for the weekend. They had all agreed who would bring what, but as he wandered up and down the aisles, Jeff kept picking up impulse items it wasn’t his responsibility to bring.
    Just in case, he kept telling himself.
    He also bought a few more bottles of rum at the agency liquor store next door to the supermarket. He had already packed three bottles of Myers, but he wanted to have a few more just in case the other guys wanted to partake. He was looking forward to this weekend with a curious mixture of anticipation and dread, and he definitely didn’t want to run out alcohol.
    From Gorham, he drove west on Route 25 to Limington and then headed north along winding back roads toward Alden and Lake Onwego. The posted speed limit was never above 35 MPH, but there were long stretches of open road where he nudged it up closer to sixty. Late in the day, he finally reached the turn for Shore Road, which led down to the boat landing where—just like when he was a kid—he would meet the boat that would take him over to Camp Tapiola.
    This far away from civilization, Arden being the nearest town, cell phone service was spotty at best, but earlier in the week, Jeff had arranged for Evan to meet him at the landing at four o’clock. Surprisingly, even though he’d gotten such a late start, he was only fifteen minutes late.
    As his car bumped and rattled along the rutted dirt road leading down to the lake, a cold rush of tension started building up inside him. He was concerned that he might not recognize Evan or anyone else after all