I woke up at 5:30 AM to the smell of failure. It was a thick, unmistakable scent—a mix of industrial-grade slime, swamp water, and my brother George's unwashed gym socks. I sat up in my bunk, rubbing the crust from my eyes, and looked over at George's bed.
It was empty. Not "I'm-at-the-gym-early" empty, but "I've-been-left-for-dead-on-a-cliffside" empty. The sheets were still tucked in, exactly the way Dwight demanded they be, but my brother was nowhere to be found.
"George?" I whispered, hoping he was just hiding in the closet or trying to fit inside a laundry basket for a TikTok prank. No answer.
Panic started to bubble in my gut. I threw on my hoodie and stepped out into the hallway, where I immediately ran into Cindy. She looked beautiful even at dawn, though she had a look of pure terror on her face. Behind her stood Theo, looking completely unbothered, sharpening a small tactical knife on the sole of her boot.
"Tom! George never came back!" Cindy gasped, clutching my arm. "I stayed up all night waiting for a text, but all I got was a notification that his phone battery died while he was Googling 'how to breathe backwards'!"
"I know, Cindy. I'm going to find him," I said, trying to sound like a leader.
"We're going too," Theo stated, her voice like ice. "Mainly because Cindy was crying so loud I couldn't finish my yoga, and partly because I want to see if the slime actually turned him into a vegetable. I'm curious about the biology."
We sprinted toward the Stevenson County cliffs, the morning fog clinging to our clothes like a cold, wet blanket. My mind was racing. I knew Dwight was a tyrant, but leaving George out there after Brenda had finished with him? That was a death sentence.
We reached the edge of the cliff just as the sun began to peek over the horizon. I stopped so fast that Cindy crashed into my back.
"Oh... my... god," Cindy whimpered.
The scene before us was something out of a twisted, low-budget nature documentary. George was lying face-down in a puddle of neon-green sludge, his body twisted at an angle that looked physically impossible. But he wasn't alone.
A dozen massive vultures were gathered around him. But these weren't ordinary scavengers. They were standing in a semi-circle, and I kid you not, three of them had somehow found discarded napkins and tied them around their scrawny necks like bibs. One particularly large bird, which I immediately named 'Head Waiter', was holding a small, plastic white fork in its beak.
The 'Head Waiter' leaned down and gently poked George in the ribs with the fork, tilted its head, and let out a series of clicking noises as if to say.
"Is it tender yet, or does the C-grade meat need more time to marinate in the toxic sludge?"
Another vulture was using its wing to push a stray bottle of discarded hot sauce toward George's legs. They weren't just eating; they were having a three-course gourmet gala.
"Are they... are they setting the table?" Cindy whispered, her eyes widening.
"They're waiting for the slime to break down his connective tissue," Theo noted, leaning forward with clinical interest. "Look at the way the green goop reacts with his blood. It's creating a chemical pheromone that smells like a five-star steakhouse to birds of prey. Fascinating."
The 'Head Waiter' raised the plastic fork again, preparing to take a sample of George's shoulder.
"NO!" I screamed, charging forward.
Cindy took one look at a vulture trying to use George's gas mask as a finger-bowl and let out a soft "eeep" sound. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed. I caught her just before she hit the ground, throwing her over my left shoulder while trying to kick a vulture away with my right foot.
"GET AWAY FROM HIM, YOU FEATHERED CREEPS!" I yelled.
Theo stepped in, swinging her tactical knife and hissing like a feral cat. The vultures, realizing that their breakfast was now defended by a crazy girl and a guy carrying a blonde cheerleader, let out indignant squawks and retreated to the nearby rocks, looking at us with profound disappointment. One of them actually dropped the plastic fork in protest.
George was a mess. He was covered in slime, bird droppings, and the unmistakable mark of a stiletto heel in the center of his forehead.
"George! Wake up!" I shook him, but his head just lolled to the side. "Theo, help me get him up!"
"He's bonded to the dirt, Tom," Theo said, poking at the slime. "We have to lift him like a piece of sod."
With a grunt of pure brotherly desperation, I performed what I can only describe as a 'garbage-truck-hoist'. I reached down, grabbed George by his belt and his collar, and heaved. There was a sickening suction sound as the slime released its grip on the earth, and I flipped George over my other shoulder.
So, there I was: Cindy passed out on my left shoulder, and George's sticky, unconscious body on my right. I felt like a very confused pack mule.
"Let's move before Dwight wakes up and decides to turn us all into statues," I grunted.
We started the long trek back to the dorms. But about halfway there, George started to stir. I thought he was coming back to his senses. I was wrong.
A hawk flew overhead, letting out a sharp cry.
George's eyes snapped open—wide, glazed, and completely devoid of human intelligence. He didn't look at me. He looked at the sky.
"Caw?" George whispered.
"George? It's me, Tom. We're going home," I said, struggling under his weight.
Another bird chirped in the trees. George suddenly arched his back, his mouth hanging wide open like a baby bird in a nest. He started fluttering his arms—or at least the one arm that wasn't stuck to my hoodie.
"CAW! FEED ME! MAMA!" George shrieked, his voice cracking. He started pecking at my ear with his nose, trying to find "regurgitated worms."
"George, stop it! I am not your mother! I am your brother!"
"THE BRAIN DAMAGE IS ENTERING PHASE TWO," Theo announced, walking calmly beside us, taking photos with her phone for 'scientific documentation'. "He thinks he's an avian fledgling. The magassarkú hit to the frontal lobe has completely rewritten his identity. If he tries to fly, let me know. I want to see the terminal velocity."
Every time a bird flew by, George would start flapping violently, nearly knocking me and the still-unconscious Cindy into the bushes.
"CAW! THE SKY CALLS TO ME, THOMAS! GIVE ME THE SEED!" George yelled. He was vibrating with a weird, primal energy. I had to grip his legs tighter to keep him from "launching" himself off my back.
"I'm going to kill Dwight and ypolly," I muttered, sweat pouring down my face. "I'm going to kill Brenda, then I'm going to kill the vultures, then I'm going to kill myself for ever letting him join this class."
By the time we reached the dormitory, my legs felt like they were made of overcooked noodles. Cindy was starting to moan, her consciousness returning, but she was still draped over my shoulder like a beautiful, confused rug.
"Almost there... just... the door..." I panted.
We reached George's room. I was so exhausted and blinded by sweat that my depth perception was shot. As I pivoted to swing George through the doorway, I miscalculated the width of the frame.
CRACK.
George's head—specifically the part with the heel bruise—slammed directly into the heavy oak corner of the doorframe.
"Oh, crap!" I yelled, dropping both of them onto the floor in shock.
Cindy finally woke up, sitting up and blinking. "Tom? Why are we on the floor? Why is George green? And why does it smell like a petting zoo?"
I didn't answer. I was staring at George. He had frozen. He wasn't "cawing" anymore. He sat up slowly, his back straight, his eyes suddenly sharp and intense. He touched the new lump on his head, and then he looked at me.
Then, he opened his mouth. But no bird sounds came out.
"Yo, look at the trauma, the drama, the mama who left me, the vultures who met me, they tried to dissect me, but Tom had to fetch me!"
My jaw dropped. George wasn't just talking. He was rapping. And not his usual "I'm-a-cool-guy" rapping. This was fast. This was technical. This was... actually good.
"Slime on my hoodie, the wood in my chest, stuck to an oak tree, I failed the test! Brenda's a monster, a heel to the dome, now I'm a bird-brain just tryna get home! Dwight is a tyrant, his chair is a throne, leave me in peace or I'll stay here alone! UNH!"
George continued for another thirty seconds, his words flowing like liquid fire, his hands gesturing with the precision of a legend. He hit every rhyme, every beat, and even did his own vocal percussion.
"Did... did the doorframe just fix his brain?" Cindy asked, her mouth hanging open.
Theo stepped closer, her eyes glittering with genuine appreciation for the first time since I'd met her. She leaned against the wall, watching George spit fire.
"Actually," Theo whispered, "that was incredibly impressive. The double-trauma to his cranium must have unlocked a dormant linguistic center. He went from 'Vulture Baby' to 'Slim Shady' in one hit. I might actually have to start respecting him."
George finished his verse with a flourish, then immediately fell over sideways and started snoring loudly.
"Well," I sighed, collapsing onto the floor next to my sleeping, rapping, slime-covered brother. "At least he's not trying to eat worms anymore."
Cindy crawled over and rested her head on my shoulder. "You're a good brother, Tom. Even if you accidentally did use him as a battering ram against the door."
"Yeah, sure," I grumbled, feeling like I was about to faint from exhaustion. "Just be thankful I didn't leave you there for breakfast. Because next time I'll bring the fork to the birds myself."