*Part 5 of The Safest Summer Camp in the World. If you haven’t caught up, click HERE.
It’s been half a week now. We went to the Zoo in Helsinki yesterday, so no one died. After dinner every night, the kids all gather while K tallies the number of deaths each person has and gives out rewards for creativity. It seems everyone is at four deaths except two. Ivan, a boy who was in the bathroom while everyone was poisoned on the first night, and Dasha who, after seeing me get electrocuted by the fence, ran into it herself, making her the first to five deaths. K gives her a sticker.
K and I sit by the river while the kids get ready for the next event; a disco.
“Why don’t you just shoot them all five times on the first day?” I ask.
He looks out over the lake, scratching his neck. “We tried that, but kids didn’t want to come back. It’s no fun just to die. So, we started making games and events and, well–as you can see, the kids love it.”
I light a cigarette, not able to have many throughout the day.
“Tomorrow, you can decide how to kill them, American style!”
I laugh. “You’ve already shot them enough.”
He chuckles, “You’re a funny g–” he looks past me. I turn. There is something between the trees. K stands and starts walking, I follow. He gets to the edge of the woods and frowns.
I stand next to him. After a few seconds he smiles. “Just Russian superstition.”
“Uh, okay,” I say.
He waits for me to finish my cigarette and we walk up to the disco.
The disco hall is up the road a bit. The windows are dark. There are strobe lights inside, a few kids outside. It is small, cottage-like. K stops at the door, looking around.
“If you could describe this building in one word, what would it be?” he asks me.
I look up at it. The building is small, more of a cottage.
“Cottage?” I ask.
He looks at it too.
I take a second look. “Sure,” I decide.
“Hm, it is new,” he says, and walks in,
C is outside, talking with some kids.
“How’s the disco,” I ask.
She shrugs, “We have to be inside in ten for when K blows it up.
One of the kids groans, whining about something in Russian.
C tells him to get inside.
“What was that about?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “He says he died in the fire the other day so he doesn’t want to get blown up.”
I nod, it seems fair to me, but I leave it at a nod.
K comes out and calls us all in. The bomb is in the middle of the dance floor. S is the DJ. He is playing English songs from my school days;
To the window! To the wall! Till sweat drips…
I can’t help laughing. The kids are dancing like wildfire. I join in.
The countdown starts at ten minutes. Everyone dances, then, the whole place blows to bits.
Being blown up is quite different from dying in a fire, as it turns out.
TO BE CONTINUED…