Slasher Summer(33)
“I don’t need you. I can take care of myself.” She could take care of herself, she realized. She was in good shape. Cheerleading was more than looking pretty in a short skirt. It took strength, agility and balance to do those complex routines. And she had a flashlight and her new BFF, Paring Knife. She didn’t need this Neanderthal hulking over her. An ungrateful Neanderthal who’d rejected her advances. He was never going to get that chance again, unless he crawled to her on his hands and knees. Over broken glass. And nails. She’d see to that.
As Tiffany stomped into the woods, she took one last defiant glance over her shoulder to check if Jason was following. He stood by the tree stump, flashlight lowered, his stance neutral. She couldn’t believe he was just going to let her go. Well, she would make him sorry he did.
She stumbled farther into the trees, and that nagging feeling at the back of her mind finally hooked her attention. It dawned on her what had been off with the scene she’d just left, besides Jason’s stony face.
The tree stump had been clear.
The axe Jason had been splitting wood with was gone.
11
Jen
Jen was starting to reconsider volunteering as Patrick’s search party partner. She’d picked him because he was the most level-headed. She was fond of Tiffany and Freddy, but their hysterics would drive her batty. Ten minutes with them and she’d probably beg Ranger Russ to put her out of her misery.
Carrie, on the other hand, would be too serious. She might have been their Final Girl, but if they were attacked by a killer she’d do something insufferably noble, like sacrifice herself so Jen could get away. Jen would appreciate that, but the thought made her cringe. She’d be expected to live her life indebted to Carrie’s selflessness and become a better person, yada yada yada. No fucking thanks. She enjoyed being a dirtbag.
Jason, too, would sacrifice himself for Jen, but he’d probably try to talk to her about Tiffany and she didn’t want to play go-between. She’d had enough of that when her parents had divorced. Let Ken and Barbie figure out their own shit.
So Patrick was the best choice of the bunch. He was the perfect search party buddy because he didn’t believe they were in serious danger. He’d be sensible.
Plus, while he was dumbfounded at being proven wrong, Jen could easily push him in their stalker’s path and make her escape.
She hadn’t counted on his incessant complaining, however.
“Why do I have to be Velma?” Patrick said as their flashlights carved a path through the woods. Jen’s boots crushed twigs and cedar needles into the rain-damp soil, releasing a rich, earthy fragrance. “Is it because I’m nerdy? In that case, if anyone’s Velma, it’s Mikey.”
“Because you, my friend, are a little bitch. I say that with love. Take it as a compliment from a big bitch.”
“If I’m Velma, does that make you Scooby?”
“No way. I’m Scrappy-Doo.”
Patrick laughed. “Agreed.”
Jen took the compass out of her back pocket to check they were headed in the right direction. “Come along, Velma.”
“I liked it better when you called me Carlton,” Patrick grumbled.
Washed out by their flashlights, the woods took on a flat, surreal quality, as if they were inside a smudged charcoal drawing on cheap paper. All the trees looked the same, and no matter how much they walked, it appeared as if they hadn’t moved at all. They were in a world where the rules of time and space didn’t apply.
Yet in this environment, the kitchen knife felt right in Jen’s hand. An extension of her body, like a paintbrush. Ideas tumbled through her artist’s mind, one after the other. She had a new appreciation for slashers now. Maybe serial killers saw what they did as art. It was art, in a way. A performance for an audience. The best art evoked a visceral, emotional response, and was in conversation with others.
Is this how horror movie slashers felt with a knife in their hand? The comforting weight, the seductive shine of the blade? The urge to part skin, to slip it into flesh, to feel that delicious resistance? Jen shivered with gruesome delight.
“I figure if Russ is hell-bent on reenacting Slasher, we’ll be safe,” Jen said. “Like that guy says in Scream 4. You have to be gay to survive a horror remake. You and me, we’re sacred cows. Untouchable. Thank you, inclusive casting.”
“Didn’t that guy get killed anyway?”
The delightful shiver froze into ice. “Spoilsport,” she muttered.
“Let’s just hurry up and find Mikey. Mikey?” Patrick called out.
Jen hit him in the arm. “Shush! Russ will find us!”
“If he’s roaming the woods, he’s going to find us anyway with all the noise we’re making. And the flashlights.”
Jen hurriedly turned off her flashlight. “Seriously?” Patrick said.
“The clouds have lifted and there’s a full moon. Our eyes will adjust.”
Patrick grunted, but he turned off his flashlight, too. “Mikey?” he called again, this time in a hiss.
Fucking Mikey. He just had to run off. He was still so awkward, despite his buff new body. Still that puppy tagging along after Jason and drooling over Carrie. And running from responsibility. Everyone knew he’d been the one to set off those smoke bombs in the boys’ locker room, after some guys on the basketball team had been giving him a tough time about his parents. Jen actually admired his fiendish revenge plot. The kid had hair on his balls, after all. But then he’d kept his mouth shut and let Jason take the fall. Too bad MIT didn’t offer courses in accountability, because Mikey needed them.