Slasher Summer(45)

The animal lifted its face and regarded him with beady black eyes, nose twitching. Not a cat. An enterprising raccoon, no doubt drawn by the tantalizing smell of human food. Wearing the mask nature gave it. “Fucking masks,” Freddy said. He’d had enough of masks. There weren’t going to be any masks in his screenplay, no sir.

“Take it, my good man,” Freddy graciously told the raccoon. He wasn’t stoned enough to eat food that had been groped by a trash panda. Also, he was fairly sure the raccoon could take him in a fight.

The raccoon bumbled back across the front room and out one of the open windows with its prize. Freddy envied it. It got to stick to the shadows and feast on the scraps left behind. That was the life. Easy and fuss-free.

Watching the raccoon leave a trail of burger grease across the hardwood reminded him he was still hungry. He’d raid the kitchen and take his spoils into an upstairs closet. Patrick was sure to have packed something good. Safety and snacks, what else did one need? Like the raccoon, Freddy was happy with creature comforts.

He moved on to the kitchen. Kicking aside a ladle he’d knocked to the floor earlier, he opened the fridge. The faint moonlight from the window helped illuminate the contents. Jackpot! Patrick hadn’t let him down. A generously laden charcuterie board beckoned. Knowing Patrick, the sliced cheeses, cured meats, and fancy crackers would all be top notch. They were immaculately laid out on a long wooden plank, wrapped in plastic film and ready to serve. Pity no one was around to share. Too bad, so sad.

Had Patrick brought grapes, too? That would be an excellent addition to this feast. Freddy bent over, hanging onto the top of the door for balance, and peered into the lower recesses of the fridge.

His eyes caught on something in the fridge door. No, not in the fridge door. Below it. The toes of a pair of boots. Freddy smirked to himself. Yet another fake jumpscare. That was another slasher movie chestnut: the person skulking behind the open fridge door, who turns out to be a friend.

He straightened. “Glad you came back, Carrie, but I call dibs on the cheese. You snooze, you lose.”

He swung the door back, and was face to mask with the Slasher.

Shit!

The Slasher held an axe with gloved hands like he knew how to use it, and not on firewood. Freddy cursed himself for listening to his stomach and making a detour to the kitchen.

The Slasher raised the axe. Freddy liked his brain the way it was—that is, firmly nestled in his uncracked skull—and grabbed the only large object within reach. His soul died a little as he whacked the Slasher’s descending arm away with the charcuterie board. Cheese and crackers rattled against the plastic wrap. Freddy ducked, picking a piece of cheese off the floor that had slipped out and shoving it into his mouth. Five-second rule! Mm, smoked gouda. His favorite.

The Slasher raised his axe arm a second time. Freddy tried to smack it away again but the charcuterie board snapped in half, raining cheese and crackers all over him. He cried out as a slice of pastrami slapped him in the face, mostly out of dismay over the waste of food.

He dropped the now-useless board pieces, yanked open the freezer door, and swung it into the Slasher’s face. It made a satisfying smack on his masked forehead. While the Slasher faltered, Freddy frantically looked around for something he could defend himself with. He and his friends had already plundered the kitchen. What else was there? He threw the empty knife block, which the Slasher easily dodged. He pulled a drawer open and started to lob forks and cheap steak knives at the Slasher’s masked face. The Slasher paused, cocking his head to one side. The cutlery pinged off his mask and clattered to the floor. The Slasher inclined his head to the other side, as if to say, Why did you think that would work?

The case of bottled water still sat on the counter. Freddy struggled with the overwrap but it might as well have been made of steel. Frustrated, he hefted the entire case at the Slasher with a grunt. The case fell short and plummeted to Freddy’s feet, narrowly missing his toes, and he wished he’d spent more time at the gym. Or any time at the gym, really.

The cupboards! Surely the dishes would make more of an impact. Freddy flung a cupboard open, revealing the vintage Corelle and Corningware. His mom had a couple Corningware casserole dishes and cherished them like they were family heirlooms, so he reached for the Corelle first.

He grabbed a plate and banged it on the edge of the counter, thinking he’d create a makeshift knife. The plate only bounced off the laminate. Stupid unbreakable dishes! Freddy changed tack and started tossing them like Frisbees as the Slasher approached with slow, patient steps. The dinner plates, the side plates, all the bowls, and then the mugs. They all bounced harmlessly off the Slasher’s broad-shouldered plaid jacket and rolled all over the floor. Freddy picked out the last cup, a ceramic mug that said LIFE IS BETTER AT THE LAKE in decorative script, and hurled it in desperation. The Slasher sidestepped the missile, and the mug shattered on the ground.

The Slasher cracked his neck, as if to say, Is that all you got? leaving Freddy with no choice.

“Sorry, Umma,” he said, seizing a white and blue casserole like the one she owned and slamming it into the Slasher’s face before he could raise the axe again.

Bull’s-eye! The Slasher toppled over the dishes. (They still didn’t break.) Freddy had no time to rejoice. The casserole dish slipped out of his hands and smashed to the floor as he shot out of the kitchen—though not before grabbing another piece of gouda off the linoleum.