Slasher Summer(89)

Only for them to snap open again when a shriek pierced his eardrums. He jolted upright, every nerve aflame with terror. Carrie bore down on him with the axe, her antler crown caging her head and shoulders, blood welling from every hole it had torn open in her body. Not a martyr anymore, but a pagan goddess of vengeance.

“I’m the Final Girl!” she screamed. “Not you!”

The axe tilted back as she prepared to swing. Jason tried to get off his knees, but his legs refused to move. He threw up his good arm to shield his face, eyes clenching shut, anticipating the kiss of the axe blade through bone and flesh. The blood in his ears gave a final roar.

There was a loud, wet squelch.

Yet Jason’s arm was still joined at the elbow, and his skull uncracked. He pried open one eyelid, confused.

Carrie still loomed over him, but the axe had dropped by her side. She stared down at the blade that had sprouted from beneath her breastbone, blood gushing over her chin from her open mouth.

Jason suddenly realized the roaring in his ears had been someone’s voice, not the thunder of his pulse.

Carrie tipped to the side, her mouth in a perfect bloody O, revealing Patrick standing behind her.

“I’m the Final Girl, bitch,” Patrick said, his chest heaving.

Patrick. One side of his face was swollen and his hair a sweaty halo, but he was the most beautiful thing Jason had ever seen.

Patrick smiled sheepishly at Jason. “I found the real machete, finally.” Then his smile crumpled as he registered Jason’s state. He crouched beside Jason and put his arms around him. Tears sprung to Jason’s eyes. Patrick was so warm, and Jason was so cold. He wanted to stay in Patrick’s arms until the end of his days. Which might be sooner than later.

“Patrick,” he rasped. “Thank fuck. You’re alive.”

“So are you.”

Patrick’s arms tightened, holding Jason so close to his chest he could hear his friend’s heartbeat. Or maybe it was his own, thumping weakly.

“I told you we should’ve gone to Vegas,” Jason said, the words fading into a whisper. Patrick brought his face closer to his, and Jason stared at his split lip. He brought up his hand and gently traced the cut.

“Hey,” Patrick said, grabbing Jason’s questing hand. Patrick’s fingers burned so hotly it was almost painful. But Jason wouldn’t have let go for a million dollars. “We still can. We’re going to get you out of here. Just stay with me.”

“Sorry.” Jason wasn’t sure if he’d said the word out loud or just mouthed it. He was so cold. But he was happy. Why did Patrick look worried? Their nightmare was over, and Patrick was all right. Now Jason could let go. He didn’t have to be the hero anymore.

“Jason!”

Jason’s fingers slipped from Patrick’s and he let himself get lost in his eyes. They were very, very dark, and shining. They filled his field of vision. There were worse ways to die. Jason smiled, and let the darkness envelop him.





28



Patrick

    Nine months later

Patrick guided his Audi smoothly off the freeway and onto a narrow rural road, taking the opportunity to lower his window now that he’d reduced his driving speed. Spring was in the air, finally, after a long, gray fall and winter full of funerals and hospital visits and incessant questions from authorities and journalists. It had been months and Patrick still twitched every time an unknown number called his cell phone.

At least the media had fled Cedar Lake a week after the murders, when a mass shooting on the other side of the country hit the news cycle and there was another fresh face to point fingers at. How could this happen? people cried again, clutching their well-worn pearls.

At night, though, he slept surprisingly soundly. No more tossing and turning, imagining how Clare had felt every agonizing second before she’d died. He understood now. The mystery of her death still niggled, however. Like Carrie, was the killer someone Clare had known, who’d wanted to peg it on an outsider?

He’d never know, and that was fine. Sometimes life—and death—simply took you by surprise, and no amount of planning could prepare you. He had to remind himself of that, when the debilitating weight of survivor’s guilt occasionally delayed him from getting out of bed in the morning. It had all been a roll of the dice that he’d escaped death and others hadn’t. If Jen were here, she’d smack him upside the head and tell him if he wanted to do right by his dead friends, he should live.

Really live. His parents hadn’t been happy about him dropping out of Harvard before the start of the school year, but they knew as well as he did that life was too damned short and fickle.

Patrick breathed deeply as wind rushed through the open window, appreciating the clear blue skies and the tang of salt water on the breeze. There was nothing on the horizon but rolling hills and sandy bluffs. Some trees, but not a single cedar forest for miles around. The final knot of tension he’d been carrying since the previous year unfurled. Slasher Summer was over.

Literally over. In light of the murders, the festival had been canceled until further notice, and the plans to rebuild the Slasher cabin and open a museum had been postponed indefinitely.

Carrie had gotten her revenge on Cedar Lake in the end.

Patrick’s heart lightened as he pulled into the town and parked along the main street. The town’s business district was similar to Cedar Lake’s, lined with charming little mom-and-pop cafés and boutiques, mostly catering to tourists. A lighthouse thrust from the horizon instead of oppressive trees. Flower baskets, as well as decorative lights in the shape of Easter eggs and rabbits, hung from the wrought-iron lampposts.