The Cabin in the Woods (22 page)

Holden’s hands lifted from the steering wheel as he tried to hold in his blood. They pressed to his ruined throat, finding meat and bone and gristle instead of skin, and the big wheel jerked and spun unchecked.

We’ll hit a tree,
Dana thought,
and Father will go through the windscreen and I’ll pull Holden aside and
—

But the Puppeteers would never allow that to happen.

As she wiped thick arterial blood from her eyes a shadow whipped through the air and she heard
thwack!
as Buckner buried the scythe’s point into the side of Holden’s head.

Dana gasped at what had been done to the man she had kissed and caressed just hours before. His throat was open and spewing, one eye had erupted from its socket, and his face was distorted by the metal buried deep behind it.

At least he’s free now
, she thought as he slumped forward over the steering wheel, leaning to the right and turning the van to the left.

And then Dana tried to scrabble up to see over the
dashboard and out the windscreen, because she had to know where they were going. For a second she thought,
There’s nothing out there at all... no forest, no sky, no stars... it’s all make-believe...
And then she saw that they were going for the lake, its calm expanse speckled only with the memories of long-dead stars.

She braced against the dashboard moments before the van hit the water.

If they hadn’t been moving so fast maybe they would have splashed down and floated for a while. But they hit hard and fast, and the already-fractured windscreen exploded inward. Lake water powered in, shockingly cold as it flowed down and lifted her up against her seat, pinning her there as the Rambler’s momentum drove it onward and increased the weight of the water pouring in. She kept her mouth squeezed tightly shut.
Don’t scream don’t scream hold your breath and when we stop moving it’ll be time to swim
—

Holden was thrashing in the seat beside her, and it was more than the water waving his limbs and battering his body. He was
still alive
! The zombie Buckner had gripped the scythe’s handle and was now struggling to free it from Holden’s skull.

How can he still be alive? Please let him be dead... I don’t want him to be alive if he’s like that, broken beyond mending
.

The scythe came free with a terrible grinding sound, audible even above the thunderous water. Buckner swung it again, but without Holden’s body as an anchor the water blasted him back into the Rambler, rolling
and shoving him toward the rear as the vehicle quickly began to fill. Doors broke from hinges, chairs tumbled, and the whole van shook as it came to a standstill.

Lake water still poured in and they were sinking quickly. Beside her, Holden had turned her way, hands clasped to his throat and his ruined face turned toward her.
Fight through the pain,
he’d said when they first jumped in and felt such coldness.
It’s worth it. I’m nearly convinced it’s worth it
. There was no way he could fight through this pain, because on the other side was death.

For him, blessed death.

Please die please die
, she thought, and she pushed from her seat as the water filled the cab. She scrabbled at the ceiling and took in a deep breath, and when she ducked back down the thunderous sound was muted, and the still-lit headlamps cast a ghostly glow through the cloudy water.

Holden had slipped from his seat and was pressed against the rear of the front cabin, close to the toilet door where they’d kept the keg on their journey up and where Buckner must have been hiding. And as she let go of the seat and the water pushed her that way, she saw him die. His mouth opened and bloody bubbles rose in a final breath. The water around him was clouded with blood, and it was quickly obscuring the already-poor visibility.

I’ve only got seconds,
she thought, but she held her breath. She’d always been a good, strong swimmer, but that was no comfort here. If she died in this sinking
van, it would not be from drowning.

Maybe it should,
she thought.
Maybe I should just let go. I’m the last one, and there’s no escape, and who-or whatever has been controlling all this—the puppeteers—surely can’t see me now. So I’ll cheat them their final sick victory. Grab onto Holden
—
he’ll still be warm—and open my mouth to tell him about all the times we might have lived through together
.

But Dana had never been one to give in. And she could imagine her friends’ reactions if she did.

So she kicked past Holden’s corpse, but she had no real control. The van was shifting as it sank—

—
how deep is this fucking lake
?—

—and the water inside swilled and shoved her this way and that, forcing her up eventually against the ceiling, tumbling her toward the back, toward where she’d seen Buckner swept just moments before.

She grasped onto the rim of one of the ceiling vents, thrusting her face up into a small air bubble there, thankful that it hadn’t been smashed when the tunnel caved in. She inhaled—it was stale and acrid, and she thought about stuff like battery acid, toxic fumes, and other horrible ways to die—and then she ducked back down.

Still holding on tight she looked to the rear of the Rambler. The water was almost impossible to see through, and the headlamps’ light barely reflected back this far. She knew that he was back there somewhere, though, and she wondered whether zombies needed to breathe.
Of course not. If they did, the puppeteers would have never crashed them into the lake.

Anger replaced her fear with a burning, raging intensity. If she saw Buckner then she’d have gone for him, trying to rip him apart with her bare hands instead of doing her best to escape. It would be a poor revenge, destroying something already dead and sacrificing herself in the process. But she had no idea how much free will she still had. Perhaps she’d
never
had any.

But if the murdering bastard was back there, maybe the water’s flow was still pressing him against the rear window. So she grabbed the handle that lifted the roof vent and started turning, trying not to gasp out precious air as she found sprains in her arm she didn’t know she had.

It took seconds but it felt like hours, and as she pulled herself up to punch out the propped plastic cover, she thought she saw shadowy movement below her.

Don’t think about it, get out, swim.
She pushed her arms through the small opening and propped her elbows either side of the hatch, then pulled. Above her, the surface of the lake glittered with stars and the promise of air. As her hips squeezed through and the feel of open water welcomed her, the Rambler shifted violently beneath her, dragging her sideways and shocking a gasp of precious bubbles from her mouth. She thrashed in the hole, trying to swim herself out, and a hand closed around her ankle.

Somehow she held in the rest of her air.

Dana thrashed, kicked, using her hands to move her
body from side to side, shoving down with the heel of her free foot, and she knew that if he grabbed that one too, then he would only have to hold her for a few more seconds until she drowned. Then he’d pull her back into the sunken van and carve her up.

Kicking, her anger raw and red in her eyes, the pressure building in her lungs and her head thumping, she felt her heel connect with something more solid than water, but softer than something alive.

The hand released and she pulled through the hatch, swimming for the surface. When she broke through the cold air in her lungs was soothing, the starlight on her skin welcoming her back to the land of the living.

She trod water for only a few seconds before spying the wooden dock twenty feet to her left. And then she swam for her life.

•••

Ahhh,
Sitterson thought,
time for beer.

Sometimes at this juncture he’d feel an overwhelming sense of anti-climax, as if something momentous should happen, but never did. And even though he knew that this was all about making certain something momentous
didn’t
happen, he’d feel an element of being let down. Cheated. All that effort with no visible result.

But not today. Today it had been closer than ever before. If he really let himself think about how close it had been, he’d probably collapse on the floor in a
gibbering wreck and not be able to speak coherently for weeks. That time would come, he knew. Nights when he slept alone and the darkness closed in around him like a huge, crushing hand...

So, beer. Celebratory, and also to numb the possibilities that had been avoided. He flipped the lid from the cooler beneath his console, pulled a bottle and lobbed it to Hadley. Then he took out two more, one for himself and one for Lin.

Lin. Joining them to celebrate. He grinned. She’d obviously seen how damn close they’d come, too.

At the rear of the control room, two more mahogany panels had been opened, two more levers pulled, and deep, deep down the blood would have flowed, and the etchings would be filled. Old carvings given new life with someone’s death.

Only one left. And that one...

Well, that one was optional.

“God
damn
that was close,” Hadley said.

“Photo fuckin’ finish,” Sitterson agreed. “But we are the champions... of the
world.”
He glanced at Truman and held up a beer. “Tru?”

Truman shook his head.

“I don’t understand. We’re celebrating?”

“
They’re
celebrating,” Lin said. “I’m
drinking.”
Sitterson raised his bottle and took a swig, and as he did so he glanced at Lin. Damned if she wasn’t almost smiling. He’d always wondered if she might not be the cold fish he once thought—she
couldn’t
be as cold as she projected, or she’d be as dead as the Buckners—
and perhaps it had taken something like this to warm her up a little. He wondered just how much she’d been warmed up. Whether after festivities had truly taken off, she’d be up for a walk somewhere, a shared bottle of bubbly, a liaison in one of the small admin offices down the corridor.

He chuckled and drank more beer.

“I still don’t understand,” Truman said quietly.

Sitterson pointed at the large monitor, on which a bloodied, exhausted Dana could be seen swimming toward the wooden dock.

“Yeah, but she’s still alive,” Truman said. “How can the ritual be complete?”

“The Virgin’s death is optional,” Hadley said. “As long as it’s
last.”
He watched the screen for a moment, nursing his beer in his lap. “All that really matters is that she suffers.”

Sitterson stood and leaned on the back of Hadley’s chair.

“And that, she did,” he said with genuine respect. Truman might never understand. The drink was a celebration, and an expression of relief. But it was also a toast to the swimming girl and her four dead friends.

“I’m actually rooting for her, believe it or not,” Hadley said. “The kid’s got spunk, which is more than—”

“This where the party’s at?” someone said. The door was wide open now, and several people were peering inside with huge grins on their faces.

“Hey, thank god,” Hadley called. “Tequila! Get
in here!” The people entered—lab smocks, suits, uniforms—one of them carrying a huge bottle of tequila. The new arrivals milled and shook hands, laughed and clapped each other on the back, and even Truman smiled when a cute lab tech started chatting with him, handing him a plastic cup half-filled with booze.

Sitterson watched them all and acknowledged the congratulations that came his way, smiling when a woman flirted mildly with him, laughing when someone from Story said he should go work for them. And all the time his eyes kept flashing back to the big viewing screens that continued to show what was happening down by the cabin in the woods.

I’m actually rooting for her,
Hadley had said. Sitterson was too. But he knew that her death would be slow, painful... and soon.

•••

Somehow she found the energy needed to swim. In high school she swam for her school in the state championships, helping them streak to a win in the four-by-one-hundred meter freestyle. The year before, she’d taken part in a sponsored swim in her local river, covering three miles and raising over a thousand dollars for charity. It had always been easy for her. It had always been a pleasure.

Now it was neither.

She slapped at the water instead of slicing her hands through it, her breathing was labored, and she kept
her head above the surface, afraid of what she’d see or what would see her if she turned her face beneath. The dock was close, but with every stroke she took it seemed further away than ever. The water was cold, but felt warm and slick as blood. It tasted clean and pure, but she smelled only entrails and death.

Swim
, she thought, trying to give herself a regular rhythm.
Swim... swim... swim...

She didn’t know if zombies could swim. She didn’t even think these
were
zombies, not really, not according to the pop-culture use of the word. They seemed to walk and work with intelligence, their only aim to trap and kill her and the others, and she’d seen no evidence of eating... no blood on their jaws. They wanted to kill in the most painful ways, and make them suffer, and she let out a sob as her hand struck a wooden post of the dock.

She was the last one left alive, which meant that she had suffered the most. And when they finally held her down and slashed her throat or plunged a blade into her eye, it would be the memories of her dead friends that would accompany her into death.

She hung on for a few seconds, trying to regain her strength. But her muscles were knotted and ice-cold, cramps throbbed in her calves, and the longer she hung here the less chanced she’d have of ever hauling herself out.

So she started climbing. She gasped in effort as she pulled herself from the lake, then screamed in frustration as she fell back in. She clung onto the post but it was coated in slime and moss, and her nails
scored fresh trails as she was pulled below the surface. Kicking, coughing water, she pushed back up and tried again. Every time she went back under she expected to see Father Buckner advancing on her, walking across the lake’s bed and grinning, the scythe in his hand ready to part her skin as he had done to Holden—