Slasher Summer(81)
Patrick couldn’t believe she was saying that. “You’re a monster!”
“And who made me? Nightmare on Elm Street, Candyman, even Frankenstein—the killers weren’t monsters, they were made into monsters.”
“Freddy Krueger was a child murderer! He was already a monster!”
Carrie ignored him. “All these monsters want is revenge on a world that was cruel to them. It’s too bad Jen’s dead. She would’ve understood, being the expert on all things dark and gothic.”
Jen had never made it to the motel. Patrick’s legs threatened to crumple and he blinked back hot tears. “Carrie,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Maybe she would listen to reason. Maybe the fragile, angelic Care Bear was still in there.
Or maybe he and everyone else had only seen what they’d wanted to see, what they’d wanted her to be. Like yelling Virgin! at Jordan Knox whenever she appeared on screen. Maybe, like Freddy Krueger, Carrie had already been a monster.
He had to try, nonetheless, to right the old wrongs. “I get it. We hurt you, and you’re lashing out.”
Behind him, Jason made a strangled noise deep in his throat. Lashing out was the understatement of the century. But Patrick continued. He held out his hands, palms up, like he was approaching a skittish animal.
“And I’m really sorry. You’ve endured a lot of pain, I can see that. But this Wes has confused you. You need real help. You’re very ill.”
“I’m not ill.” Carrie’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. “I’m self-actualizing.”
The axe whirled.
Patrick jolted out of the way, nearly slipping on a button. Jason sent more props flying, but they were quickly running out of shelving. At least that meant they were almost at the stairs. Mikey cowered at the foot of the staircase, still paralyzed. “Mikey, help us! Do something!” Patrick shouted.
Mikey grabbed the closest objects from a shelf and began whipping them in Carrie’s direction. Only he didn’t throw them far enough. A ceramic mask hit Patrick on the back of the head, and then Jason. “Ow! Not that!” Patrick yelled through jarred teeth. The masks shattered as they hit the ground, adding to the already uncertain terrain.
“Sorry!” Mikey squealed, retreating to the staircase.
Carrie kept coming, kicking aside everything they hurled in her path. Patrick swore. The shelves had emptied and there was nothing left to throw, except for the flashlight in his hand. Suddenly inspired, he aimed the light at Carrie’s eyes. It only stopped her for a few seconds. She growled, lunging forward and blindly swinging the axe.
Patrick yelped and dropped the flashlight as Jason hauled him backward. Patrick stumbled. The soles of his loafers skidded on a sea of buttons and broken ceramics, and suddenly his arms and legs were sailing in the air. He dropped to the ground with a whoomph, his breath and all his hope of survival knocking out of him.
Patrick had never felt so low. The cellar floor was concrete and there were pins in his ass and ceramic shards slicing his arms. The worst was watching the flashlight roll away out of reach. It came to rest against the base of the shelving unit to his right.
Illuminating the broad blade of a machete.
Elated, Patrick grabbed the handle as Jason helped him scrabble to his feet. Carrie advanced. The axe swung again. Patrick swerved out of the way, then returned the volley. The machete flashed. Carrie screamed in anger and fear. Patrick braced himself for the impact of metal through flesh, his heart jackhammering in anticipation. It would be like cleaving a roast, he told himself, for butchery class.
The machete bounced off Carrie’s forearm.
And quivered.
Shit.
Both he and Carrie stared at the fake machete for a deafening heartbeat, and then she began to laugh. The girlish, tinkling laugh he’d once found so delightful. “Oh, that’s going to leave a bruise,” she said mockingly.
She charged. Patrick put his arms up, expecting the axe to come down—but something large and spherical hit her square in the face with an audible crunch. Patrick had heard that sound of snapping cartilage many times while breaking apart raw chickens.
Carrie stumbled, clutching her nose, shrieking as blood ran between her fingers. A garish head with shiny blond hair and bright pink lipstick rolled at her feet, like it was acting out its scene from the movie.
“Run!” Jason yelled, and Patrick was grateful he’d found his voice at last. And Cindy’s head. Unlike Mikey, Jason’s aim was true. All those years of throwing a football had finally paid off.
“Go, go!” Patrick said, pushing Mikey toward the stairs.
He ran back and grabbed for Jason’s hand, but Jason yelled, “You go ahead! I’ll hold her off!”
Patrick’s heart squeezed. Why did Jason always have to be so noble? “Jason! Don’t be a hero!”
“Just go! I’m right behind you!” Jason grunted as he pulled down one of the shelving units. The unit crashed into its neighbor, sending the others falling like heavy dominoes.
And then true to his word, he was right behind Patrick. Patrick let him go ahead, knowing he’d want to stay close to Mikey.
Above the crashing Patrick heard a scream, very different from the wail Carrie had uttered when she’d supposedly found Tiffany’s body. It had a different timbre. A different pitch. A scream in the key of rage that followed him all the way up to the landing and sliced through his eardrums as keenly as one of his carbon steel chef’s knives.