Slasher Summer(63)
On the bright side, the tree stopped his descent. Another time he might have laughed. His muddied knees splayed around a great cedar with his forehead against the trunk, like he was pleading with it for mercy. Or getting very up close and personal. If Jen were here, she would’ve said something rude and made a reference to Evil Dead.
With whatever dignity he had left, Patrick climbed to his feet, brushing the dirt and leaves off his clothing. “I do like them tall and handsome,” he said to the tree, “but you should’ve bought me a drink first.”
The fall had torn a flap in the left knee of his khakis and thankfully not his skin. His Oxford shirt was also a write-off, streaked with mud and sticking uncomfortably to his sweaty skin. “Jason?” he rasped, making the effort to smooth down his ruined shirt and tuck the tails into his waistband. The simple act gave him some semblance of control over his situation. “Carrie? Tiffany?”
Patrick peered around but could barely see a thing, let alone three other people. The imposing trees blotted out the sky. He patted in his pockets for the flashlight and slumped with relief when he discovered he still had it, along with the compass and his keys. He took it out and swept the beam around. The illumination only reinforced he was surrounded by the woods, and no friends.
He checked his phone, his breathing growing shallow. Another news headline had slipped through. The phone was just trolling him now. No signal, but it felt it was important to inform him that the man found in the Fairvale alley had been killed with a meat cleaver. The hairs on Patrick’s arms stood on end. “Read the room, phone,” he muttered.
Wait. What had Jason said about Russ Meachum? Feathery needles spread across Patrick’s scalp as he dredged up the memory.
Russ had been in detention for showing up to school with a knife.
With a meat cleaver.
No, it had to be a coincidence. Yet it didn’t sit well in Patrick’s gut. Something doesn’t feel right, Carrie had said after they’d gotten that crank call. Patrick added another should have to his long list of regrets. He should’ve listened to her worries. They all should have. But he hadn’t wanted to stop the party, after all the effort he’d put into organizing the weekend.
No one ever took the Final Girl seriously. The solemn and sedate girl, who has reservations about everything. Had there been a girl like that at Clare’s sorority, who’d felt the vibes were off? Or maybe Clare herself had been unsettled. Maybe there’d been an unlocked window, or a piece of furniture out of place. Or the lingering scent of a stranger’s aftershave. Nothing that could be put into words at the time, and that lack of eloquence had cost Clare’s life. The thought filled Patrick with sorrow.
He noted the time before tucking the phone back in his pocket. It was much later in the night than he would’ve liked. There was no point in trying to find out where his friends had landed. The cycle of splitting up and reuniting was raising his anxiety levels. Herding cats again. Why hadn’t they listened to him and stayed at the cabin? Then they wouldn’t be in this mess. Patrick ran his hands through his hair in frustration, nearly screaming when he dislodged something that fell to the ground and crawled away on too many legs.
Patrick bent over, his pounding heart threatening to jump right out of his mouth, and drew air into his lungs to calm himself. A plan. He needed a plan. Without one he was cast adrift on a turbulent sea.
Jason had accused him of not living in the present. But what good was living in the now if your future included a blade lodged in your belly?
The cabin. He’d return to the cabin. He had to trust that everyone would head back as well. At least Jason would. The prospect of seeing Jason again was enough to start his feet moving. Because there’d be safety in numbers, he told himself. Not because he wanted Jason to hold his hands again. Not really.
Patrick studied the compass and headed west. After a few minutes the woods began to thin, and his spirits lifted a little. The peaked roof of the cabin rose in the distance. He was closer than he’d thought. The sight filled him with a giddy hope. He prayed that Russ had given up, taken his car and left.
The woods spat him out onto the road. Russ could run him down in his car, so Patrick kept to the shoulder, turning off his flashlight and listening for the telltale rumble of an engine. No one came roaring out of the dark to meet him. The Park Services SUV sat in front of the cabin, alongside their abandoned cars. Shit. Ranger Russ was still at large. On foot, but at large.
“Jason?” Patrick whispered. “Carrie? Tiffany? Anyone?”
No one answered. He was alone.
The cabin’s windows were dark. Patrick crept forward and listened carefully near one of the open panes. He didn’t hear any stirring inside. It was probably safe to go in. He climbed up the porch steps, wincing as the screen door’s hinges shrieked in the silence.
Inside, the pine-scented air freshener tickled his sensitive nose, but there were other scents mixed in. Something coppery yet organic, and slightly fetid, like spoiled meat. It was a feral smell that had no rules. A buzz hummed faintly in his ears, and Patrick hoped the power had come back on.
No such luck. Nothing happened as he flicked a light switch. He turned on his flashlight instead, figuring it was safe. If Russ was lurking, he would’ve shown himself by now.
The flashlight’s weak beam picked up a familiar shiny shape lying next to the staircase. “What the hell?” Patrick said, forgetting he was trying to keep quiet.