"Camp Trash" (chapter 1; adults only, horror/gore, femslash)

Title: "Camp Trash"

Author: Brian Flynn ( hansomealvin @ yahoo.com or flynnparadox @ gmail.com)

Rating: Adults Only

Feedback: Please. Either send it to me direct or postit to the group.

Parts: ? (1/?)

Summary: Some backwoods idiots release Trash from an abandoned cannister and all hell breaks loose.

Continuity: This story takes place about a yearafter the original "Return of the Living Dead"

Warnings: This story contains graphic descriptions ofsex, gore and violence.

Disclaimer: Characters from "Return of the LivingDead" are the property of Hemdale/Fox Films/MGM. Noownership is implied nor profit recieved by the use ofthem in this context.


Camp Trash
By Brian Flynn

Chapter One: The Lodge

Sunday, 2nd June, 1985

It was true that no one knew how long the lodge had stood in the little clearing in the woods near the lake. It seemed as if the lodge had always been there; as if it had simply pushed itself out of the earth like a tooth emerging from a jawbone.

It was also true that no one could remember how long it had been since anyone – anyone living, that is – had occupied the lodge. In the dying memories of the old folks, the lodge had always been empty. The wild had grown up around it; weeds and vines encircling it, making it one of their own.

It was summer and the light pouring through the trees seemed to weigh heavier on the ground and the trees. A large family of finches twittered in the trees around the lodge. They were in the middle of building a nest when the loud sound frightened them and they scattered.

The sound was an old, battered truck back-firing as it made its way down the barely-traveled, weed-ridden path that led to the lodge. The truck had, at one time, been blue but wear and tear and the simple passage of time had dulled it; entropy in action. The truck came to a stop in front of the lodge.

Inside the truck were three men, all of considerable size. Jim, the driver, exited first. He was a large man, at least four hundred pounds, and wore jeans and a light flannel shirt. He reached into the cab and grabbed a flashlight.

“We got nothin’ to worry about,” he said, closed the door behind him. “No one comes out here.”

Wilson and Bob, the passengers, got out of the truck and joined Jim.

“Where did you find it?” Bob asked. He was the shortest among them and the slightest, weighing in at a relatively trim one hundred and ninety.

“What, the lodge?” Jim asked.

“No,” Bob said. “You know.”

“Oh, that,” Jim said, a smile on his face. “Fell off the back of an army truck outside of Louisville. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. Part o’ me wanted to return it right away but it was just too dang wild. I had to hang onto it. Glad I did, too.”

“Yeah, you keep talking about it,” Wilson said. “When are we going to see it?” Wilson was bearded. He was the tallest of the three and his weight was istributed pretty well about his person. He looked, in fact, like a lumberjack.

“Step into the parlor, gentlemen,” Jim said, gesturing to the lodge.

“Since when have you owned the lodge?” Wilson asked but approached the door all the same.

“You know as well as I that no one comes out here but the summer camp kids,” Jim explained, “and the camp ain’t open yet.”

“Won’t be long, though,” Wilson said. “What, a week?”

He looked at Bob.

“Somethin’ like that,” Bob said.

“Yeah,” Wilson said, “and I’ll bet the counselors are already setting the place up. And you know these counselors, always getting away to find some place to fuck. Suppose a couple of ‘em come down here?”

“Well, then we’ll send ‘em packing,” Jim said. “Now do you want to see this thing or not?”

Wilson and Bob nodded and Jim led the way into the lodge. The building was modest, five rooms
and a cellar. The wild had overtaken the inside of the lodge just like it had the outside. It was obvious that coyotes and other animals had made the lodge a temporary residence in the past. Weeds and dust and droppings covered everything. Light drifted in through the boarded-up windows and gave everything a strange glow.

There was a crash of lightning from outside and Bob jumped slightly. The two other men laughed.

“I didn’t see no storm coming,” Bob said, trying to explain himself. “Didn’t see a cloud in the sky when we were driving out.”

Jim only laughed.

“He’s got a point,” Wilson said. “Also, it ain’t the storm season.”

Outside, the hard patter of rain was audible. The storm was winding up, drawing power from the atmosphere. It was going to be quite a spectacle.

“Cellar door’s this way in the kitchen,” Jim said, still laughing slightly.

The others followed him. The kitchen seemed to be in more disarray than the rest of the lodge. There was an ancient ice box that had fallen over at some point, the doors hanging open, a nest of some kind occupying the innards. Jim led them to a door and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. Wilson saw that Jim had installed a strong metal bar across the door and now he used the keys to unlock this bar and push it to one side. Turning on his flashlight, Jim headed down the cellar stairs into darkness. Bob and Wilson followed.

“Hey, you know Old Coot says he seen the thing that lives in the woods while he was out huntin’,” Wilson said as the three of them descended the stairs.

“No shit?” Bob said.

“No shit. Says he seen somethin’ massive with great black hooves stomping through the woods.”

“Yeah,” Jim piped up ahead of them. “And let me guess: it crawled out of a bottle, right?”
Bob chuckled.

“Old Coot’s never been known to lie before,” Wilson said.

“Yeah,” Jim said, “he also ain’t never been sober a day in his life. And he’s got some damn strange ideas.”

“You tellin’ me that what you’ve got down here is the real deal – a genuine mystery – but anything Old Coot comes up with is some kind of drunken hallucination?”

Jim was silent until they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“I don’t know,” he said.

He swept the flashlight across the cellar until the beam hit a green metal canister the size of a barrel. It looked like it had come off of a military assembly line. Writing had been stenciled across it and the olive green color of it reeked of the army. The three men approached the canister slowly. The lid was open, revealing a second lid, this one with a window imbedded in it to view whatever was inside.

“This is it, is it?” Wilson asked.

“Yep,” Jim said. “Fell off the back of an army truck, just like I said.”

They circled the canister and soon the flashlight beam illuminated a word that had been clumsily spray-painted diagonally across the barrel in large, red letters: TRASH.

“Trash,” Bob read.

“Yeah,” Jim said. “That’s what I’ve been calling her.”

“You mean…” Wilson began. “You mean you opened it?”

Jim nodded.

“You said you were going to wait,” Wilson said.

“Couldn’t,” Jim said. “There was something…something making me open it.” It seemed as if the man didn’t quite know how to articulate what he meant. He shrugged.

“Was she…?” Wilson said.

“See for yourself,” Jim said.

He turned around, shined the flashlight beam into the far corner of the cellar.

“Jesus,” Wilson said.

“Yep,” Jim said.

Bob remained silent.

Huddled in the far corner was a person. It was a woman; a nude woman huddled in the fetal position, arms around her head. As the flashlight beam found her, she raised her head up to look into it.

“She…” Wilson said. “She’s alive.”

Jim nodded.

“How…how can she be alive?”

Jim just shook his head. Bob continued to stare at the woman in the corner. She had short hair that was dark red. Her skin was extremely pale like a corpse. She was skinny but voluptuous. And there was something about her eyes. Something penetrating.

“When I got her out of the canister, she grabbed my hand,” Jim said. “Just about scared the piss out of me.” He paused, looking into the woman’s eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t know what to do with her, so I kept her down here.”

“Locked away in the dark?” Bob said.

“She don’t mind,” Jim said. “Do you, Trash?”

Trash didn’t answer, only stared into the flashlight beam. Bob was the first one of them to approach her.

“Watcha’ doing, Bob?” Jim asked.

Bob didn’t answer. He kneeled down beside Trash, touched the woman on the cheek.

“Ah, gettin’ fresh, huh?” Jim said.

Trash took hold of Bob’s hand, looked into his eyes. She didn’t pull away as Bob began to touch her.

“Hey, can you dig that?!” Wilson said. “She seems to like it fine.”

“Yeah,” Jim said. He sounded a little weary.

“Let’s leave ‘em alone,” Wilson said. “Give ‘em ten minutes or so.”

Jim nodded reluctantly and the two men headed upstairs, leaving Bob and Trash in darkness.


Wilson and Jim sat at the ancient table in the kitchen as the storm raged outside and their friend got lucky downstairs. Wilson had brought along a little metal flask which he now produced, took a swig and passed it on to Jim.

“He sure is taking his time,” Jim said, took a swig of his own.

Wilson nodded.

“What do you think’s wrong with her?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Jim said. “Never really thought about it, actually.” He seemed surprised by this.

“It’s strange to say but ever since I got her out of the canister, I haven’t thought about how she came to be in it at all.”

The two men stood up at the same moment, looked at each other. There was something wrong here; something wrong with the way they had reacted down in the cellar, the way they all reacted. There was something about Trash; something about her eyes. Something wrong.
They bolted towards the cellar door, Jim swinging it open wide. Running down the stairs into darkness, he flicked on his flashlight.

The beam found the canister first. Jim swept the beam towards the far corner and found
nothing. Behind him, Wilson was on his guard, scanning the darkness. Jim’s flashlight swept the cellar and soon came across a pair of feet. They were Bob’s hiking boots. The beam traveled up the length of Bob’s body, revealing the rest of him.

“Christ,” Jim said.

Hunched over him was Trash. She was on her hands and knees over the man. And she was eating.

“Oh God,” Wilson said.

Bob’s throat had been torn out to prevent him from screaming and there was a large, jagged hole in his head. Jim could see inside the man’s skull and could tell that it was empty. His flashlight beam came to rest on Trash’s face just as she swallowed the last chunk of his friend’s brain. Her bloody mouth twisted into a smile as she saw them.

Wilson ran first, heading up the stairs. Jim was right behind him but it was too late. Trash bounded across the cellar floor and grabbed the big man’s ankles. Jim fell into the stairwell, his head cracking on the hard wooden stairs. Trash was on him in an instant, opening her mouth wide and sinking her teeth into the back of the man’s head. Her teeth were unnaturally strong and Jim screamed as his skull cracked open. The cellar was filled with disgusting smacking sounds as Trash ate the grey matter out of his head.

Wilson burst out of the door of the lodge and ran as fast as he could towards the truck. As he approached it, he was struck with an odd thought. She waited, he thought. She didn’t kill Jim when she had the chance. She knew he would bring more people to see her. She wanted to eat a few brains at the same time; regain her strength.

He had no idea where this thought came from so he put it aside as he reached the truck. He opened the driver’s door and got inside. After fumbling with the ignition for a moment, he stopped.

The keys were, of course, in Jim’s pocket. Down in the cellar.

He started to open the door, preparing to run for it. Trash was standing just outside the truck, staring at him through the window. She was a grim, beautiful, terrifying vision. The rain had drenched her naked body, her red hair completely soaked and clinging to her head like a skin cap. A hideous smile graced her face. There was something else there as well: hunger. Wilson held her gaze for a moment longer then made a dive for the passenger side.

Trash smashed through the driver’s side window, sending shards of glass everywhere, and bounded through it. She fell upon him and buried her teeth in the back of his neck. As Wilson began to scream in intense pain, Trash began to eat.


The storm gave no indication that it would be dying down anytime soon. As Trash emerged from the cab of the truck, she was covered in blood and the rain pattered against her flesh, creating little holes in the unbroken red of the blood.

Trash dropped to her knees and onto her hands in the mud. Rolling onto her back, she covered herself in the mud, thrashing back and forth, her body digesting the brains. The way that her digestive system worked – after death – was scary. The only things she could eat were human brains. These brains were completely digested by her body. Almost nothing went to waste. She had no need to pass solids, only had to urinate occasionally. This strange tantrum, this bizarre dance, was her body digesting the brains; giving her strength.

Soon she was completely covered in mud and she stood up, satisfied. The rain made the mud run down her nude form in brown rivulets. It was attractive in a perverse way.

She raised her face to the sky. The rain pelting her skin was a small, simple pleasure, almost as satisfying as eating the brains. She had a dim memory of her life before all this and remembered sex, which was why she knew that she could use the promise of it against the men. She remembered that it, too, was pleasurable.

Before she could dwell on these feelings she was distracted by a sense; almost a smell. She could sense flesh. She could smell brains. Slowly, with a purpose, Trash headed deeper into the woods, towards Lilith Lake.


To Be Continued...