Slasher Summer(70)
Jason’s mouth was grim. “I don’t know. Russ Meachum, probably.”
“I thought I knocked him out!”
Jason gave him a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The good news is that he got up again. The bad news is that he disappeared, along with a knife. We think he’s pretending to be the Slasher. Patrick said a man in a mask chased him around the woods with an axe.”
Michael’s scalp prickled. “Shit. When I was in the woods, I found a Slasher costume and an axe. I thought a fan had left them.” He shook his head. “That fucking movie.”
Michael had wanted to say that out loud for years. Because of that movie, he’d died onstage at the Rialto night after night as the audience yelled, Nerd! Every performance reinforced that was how everyone saw him. Weak, cowardly Ralph, who takes off in the canoe to sulk after all the girls reject him. No wonder Carrie had never thought of him as a romantic prospect. “You wanna know something?”
“What?”
“I don’t even like horror movies. I only joined the club because of you.” It was either stick with Jason and get a ride home in his cousin’s car, or take the school bus, where he’d get wedgied for sure. And then he kept coming because of Carrie. He’d been so happy when she’d joined. Ever since he’d moved in with Jason’s family, he’d hardly had a chance to see her.
Jason barked a laugh. The mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m beginning to not like horror movies either.”
They continued their trek, clinging to the edge of the woods, pace as solemn as a death march. The peaked roof of the Slasher cabin appeared in the distance, and moonlight illuminated the empty back deck. A loon cried from the lake, emphasizing the isolation and loneliness. Michael was certain this exact same tableau was in the movie. Two-thirds of the way through the film, after most of the cast is dead, setting the scene for the last act.
Jason must have noticed it, too. “Do you see anyone?” he whispered.
Michael shook his head, a thread of despair worming its way through his heart. What if Carrie hadn’t made it back? He didn’t know what he was going to do.
“Okay. Let’s check the toolshed first,” said Jason. “There might be something we can use against Russ. The two of us could probably break down the door together.”
Michael hoped Jason would let him hold any makeshift weapons they found. Carrie would be so impressed. But Jason would probably never think of arming Michael, because Jason had always been the protector and Michael the victim. Michael pushed aside his resentment. Now wasn’t the time. Soon, though. Soon Jason—and Carrie—would see that Michael could take care of himself.
They crept to the side of the cabin, past the stacked firewood to the faded shed where the yard tools were stored. Michael let Jason go first, taking up the rear, keeping watch for a masked killer while his heart pummeled his rib cage.
“Shit,” Jason muttered.
Michael whipped his attention forward. “What is it?”
“It’s unlocked.” Jason opened the gaping door wider, wincing as the rusty old padlock creaked. He took a small flashlight out of his jeans pocket and shone it around the inside of the shed. Michael took note of the meager contents. A lawn mower and a bin of road salt. Nothing else. The pegboard on one wall was empty.
“Where’s the axe?” Jason said.
Michael sucked in a breath. “I knew the axe I found in the woods looked familiar.”
“I swear I put it back. I locked the door and gave the keys back to Patrick.” Jason shone the flashlight around again, and then turned it off. He bowed his head, and Michael was both alarmed and thrilled by the defeat on his cousin’s face.
“Shit. Tiff asked about the axe. She was suspicious and I didn’t take her seriously.” Jason’s voice broke, for once utterly helpless and vulnerable. “I don’t know what to do, Mikey. I don’t know. I’m trying so hard. But Tiff’s dead, and God only knows if the others are, too.”
Michael seized the opportunity to take charge. “Let’s go in the cabin. They could be hiding in there. And there must be something in the kitchen we can use to fight that fucker.”
“We already picked it over, after you went for help. All the knives are gone.”
“There’s gotta be some pots and pans.” Michael doubted a frying pan would be much protection against an axe. But he needed to give Jason some hope. Keep the golden boy going. There was plenty of time for him to fall apart afterward.
The clouds had shifted in front of the full moon, and they climbed up the path to the back patio in shadow. Michael took the lead. The rain had washed away the scent of hamburgers, and all he could smell was his own acrid sweat and something coppery that he feared was Tiffany’s blood. Keep it together, he told himself. He could do this. For Carrie. She was going to be so grateful to him for keeping an eye on Jason.
Michael opened the screen door. Jason stepped over the threshold first, motioning for Michael to stay behind him. The cabin was still and deserted, heavily silent once Michael shut the door, muffling the sounds of the night. No masked killer. Yet. Michael’s pulse jittered with dread. If any of their friends had returned, they were doing a good job of staying hidden.
Michael crossed the kitchen floor and something tender gave way under his boot. For a horrifying moment he was afraid he’d stepped on human remains. He was relieved when he pried a round of salami off his heel—and also confused.