Slasher Summer(47)

He crouched beneath Patrick’s clothes, the knife gripped in both sweating hands, and peered through the horizontal wooden slats. If Russ opened the closet door, he was going to get his ankles butterflied.

Freddy didn’t see a thing. He held his breath, anticipating those heavy footfalls coming down the hallway. He heard nothing. Maybe his ruse had worked after all, and the Slasher had decided Freddy wasn’t stupid enough to go upstairs. Hopefully Freddy’s friends would arrive soon and provide the Slasher with more interesting prey. Freddy sat back, trying to make himself comfortable. He’d stay in this closet until dawn, safe as houses.

And then someone in the bedroom sneezed.

Freddy dared to peek through the closet door again, just in time to see two legs standing before him like tree trunks. Freddy raised the knife, ready to slice, but the axe burst through the slats above his head and churned about like someone trying to spoon the last of the peanut butter out of a jar.

Freddy yelped, ducking under the shower of splinters. It was too late to pretend the closet was empty. He had to move or risk getting a wedge of iron in his gut. Or throat. Or eye socket. Maybe all three. Every possibility played out in Freddy’s head. If this were a movie, the gruesomeness of his death would depend on how many of his friends had already died.

Fuck, he hoped he was the first.

No! He couldn’t die yet. He had a screenplay to finish! Freddy channeled his inner Jason Statham and yelled a wordless battle cry, stabbing the knife through the hole in the door the Slasher had made.

The Slasher retreated, pulling the axe with him. Freddy burst out of the closet with the knife outstretched, fueled by a new fire. Ranger Russ was a loner. He wouldn’t expect Freddy to fight back. He probably thought Freddy was a lazy slacker, like everyone else did.

Freddy uttered another cry, this time imitating the classic kung fu movies they occasionally showed at the Rialto. He sounded more Kung Fu Panda than Enter the Dragon, but it seemed to do the trick. Freddy waved the knife around in a figure-eight pattern, hoping Russ was dumb and racist enough to believe he actually knew martial arts.

The Slasher took another step back, seemingly surprised. That was when Freddy darted for the open bedroom door. This kung fu panda was about to run like hell into the woods.

Freddy suddenly found himself sprawled on his belly, inches from the threshold. Shit! He’d tripped on a ripple of plush carpet. Terror shot through his body as acutely as the jolt of the floor meeting his bones. He spat out carpet fibers and rolled on his back, just in time to dodge the axe slamming down to where the back of his skull had been moments ago.

Freddy scrabbled to his feet and brandished—

The knife! He’d dropped the knife! It lay in the bedroom doorway, pointing to the hallway as if giving directions. The Slasher noticed it, too, and for a chilling moment they both froze, eyes locked on the gleaming steel.

The Slasher moved first, lunging for the knife. Freddy grabbed Patrick’s empty suitcase and hurled it at him. The Slasher batted it away with the axe but succeeded only in spearing the fabric shell. He tried to shake the suitcase off, but it was stuck. Freddy laughed and scrabbled for the knife. The Slasher cocked his head, like I can work with this, and began swinging the axe like a club, this time with Patrick’s suitcase on the end.

Oh shit. The swiveling wheels hit Freddy right in the jaw. The impact sent him hurtling back against the open bedroom door. His head struck the wood panelling, rattling his teeth. He hadn’t seen so many stars since he’d tried molly at that rave last fall.

The Slasher picked up the knife, and time slowed to a crawl.

Freddy watched, helpless, as the Slasher threw the axe and suitcase aside, too far for Freddy to dive for it. A gloved hand shot out and pinned him by the throat against the door. Freddy could almost hear Russ gloating over the clamor of his own heart.

Teeth still rattling, Freddy groped desperately for something, anything that might get him out of the Slasher’s choke hold.

Only the pockets of his shorts were in reach. He pulled out the vape pen. The vape gave a sad hiss as he pointed it at the Slasher’s eyes. This seemed only to enrage the Slasher more. The gloved hand closed tighter around Freddy’s windpipe. He gasped for air and the stars in his vision began to fade. The vape pen dropped to the floor and rolled away.

This was it. Freddy knew it, and so did the Slasher. The other gloved hand, clutched as tightly around the knife as around Freddy’s throat, descended slowly. The Slasher had him exactly where he wanted him. Every nerve in Freddy’s body lit up with a primal terror more pure than any high he’d experienced.

Freddy’s hands floundered one more time, but he was growing weak from the lack of oxygen. His arms drooped by his side.

Where his right hand collided with a lump in his shorts pocket.

The corkscrew.

This was what was missing from his screenplay’s finale. Just when you thought the hero’s days were numbered, he’d pull out a last-minute reprieve. A callback to something innocuous that most viewers had forgotten about.

Freddy seized the corkscrew, wheezing triumphantly. “Breathe, motherfucker!” he rasped, thrusting the corkscrew’s business end at the Slasher’s neck.

The point bounced off the thick collar of the wool jacket. Freddy stabbed again and again, eyes staring with disbelief as the corkscrew’s dull tip met only resistance. He had the feeling that the Slasher was laughing behind his mask.