The Cabin in the Woods (3 page)

Damn,
he thought,
eyes off, Curt. Eyes off.

As he left the bedroom Dana followed him out. He hoped he hadn’t upset her. It was set to be a momentous weekend; the great outdoors, beer, and sex. But probably not in that order, and in far from equal quantities.

•••

Jerk,
Dana thought, but it was with intense affection. Jules and Curt had been an item for over a year now, and she was really fond of her friend’s boyfriend. He was hot, too, but not really her type. A little too...
jock
for her liking. Though she’d never say that to him, or even to Jules. She wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings.

As she followed him out into the living room Jules was already opening the front door, and Dana had time to think,
Damn it, didn’t brush my hair, are my jeans done up, did I button my shirt up because dammit I’m not wearing a bra yet and
—

Holden stood framed in the doorway. Dana caught her breath.

“You laid it in my hands, I did but hold them out,” he said, smiling at Curt. He was even better looking close up than he’d seemed out in the street. Dark, strong, short hair—way shorter than any jock would
choose to wear—and he had an easy smile that was completely unforced.

“There was the small matter of almost being hit by a car,” Curt said.

“It’s never a great catch unless there’s a challenge attached.” Holden tossed the ball to Curt, and grabbed a bag from beside his feet.

“Hey, I’m Jules,” Jules said, holding out her hand.

“Hi,” Holden said, eyes widening slightly. “Man, Curt did not exaggerate.”

“That’s a first,” Jules said, but Dana could see how flattered she was. She was surprised her friend didn’t start giggling and hiding her face against her shoulder like a coy little girl. The compliment had sounded pure and honest, though—if it hadn’t been, Holden surely would have come out with something smoother.

And then.

“Dude, this is Dana,” Curt said.

“Hey,” Dana said.
Hey?
Hey?
Couldn’t she think of anything... ?
But they locked eyes then, and Holden dropped his bag and walked past Curt to where Dana stood, making a point of closing the distance between them. Nevertheless, his three steps seemed to go on forever.

He shook her hand, his grip strong but gentle.

“I’m Holden,” he said. “Really nice to meet you.” He held her hand for just a little too long, then grinned and looked around at the others. “And thank you guys for letting me crash your weekend. I’ll just put a disclaimer up front: you don’t have to explain any of
your in-jokes. I’ll probably be drunk and think they’re funny anyway.” A soft frown. “Should I have left out the part about being drunk?”

“With hindsight, yeah,” Curt quipped.

“Damn.” Holden looked past Dana at her bedroom door. “Can I help anybody carry anything?”

“Thanks, but I’d better finish packing first,” Dana said. She turned smartly and entered her bedroom again, looking at the open suitcase and the books spilled onto her bed, and the red wine-colored bikini Jules had insisted that she take. Her sketch pad still lay open on the bed beside the books, and her ex-lover’s eyes stared at her, rendered with Dana’s expert hand while they had still been together. Back then, she’d drawn him with love in his eyes. After what he’d done to her, even though she could not deny the feelings she still had for him, she didn’t think she could ever draw him again. Not that she would ever want to.

She dropped the bikini into the case. Maybe there
would
be some swimming in the lake this weekend, after all.

•••

Jules had many fond memories of Curt’s family Rambler. The recreational vehicle slept six at a push, but the three times she and Curt had used it, it had just been the two of them. And they’d made full use of all the space inside. One time, when they’d been parked up in the mountains, sun setting behind the peaks and
bleeding orange down the mountainside, she’d sat on his lap in the driver’s seat. Then, in neutral, he’d revved the engine.
Damn,
those vibrations. They’d used half a tank of fuel that night without going anywhere.

Now here it was, about to take them away again, and she was certain the memories she’d bring back from this weekend would be of somewhere else entirely.

Jules was glad to see the quiet, tentative communication going on between Holden and Dana. That scumbag lecturer had done a real job on her friend, and she hated it when Dana said,
I’m not ready to let it go yet.
It wasn’t that she was weak or feeble, it was just that... well, maybe Dana thought about things too much. And with what he’d done, it didn’t even need thinking about. He was a shithead, and she was better off without him.

You need someone to romance you, take your mind off him,
she’d said, and Dana had replied,
No, not that.

Well then, maybe you need a good screw
, she’d said, and Dana had denied she needed that, either.

Maybe Holden’s the one to give her whatever the hell it is she needs
, she thought.

Dana was inside the Rambler storing their stuff, and Jules watched as Holden passed up her own suitcase, then the polite smile that passed between them. Was that a brief touch of hands on the suitcase handle? She couldn’t tell from where she stood on the sidewalk, but—

Stop it!
she scolded herself. It was up to the two of them now. She and Curt had done their bit. It was time for nature could take its course.
“That pretty much it?” Holden asked, turning around and looking at her. He had a film of sweat on his forehead. Well, maybe three suitcases
was
a little excessive for just one weekend.

“Fuckin’ better be!” Curt said. “Jules, it’s a weekend, not an evacuation.”

Jules took a step closer to her boyfriend and prodded him in the chest.

“Trust me when I say there is
nothing
in those cases you won’t be glad I brought.”

“I’m shuttin’ right up,” Curt said. He raised one eyebrow, but Jules just smiled enigmatically and turned away. He loved it when she dressed up, and she wasn’t about to reveal any of the surprises she had in store.

“Oh my
God!”
Dana said. She was standing in the Rambler’s doorway looking along the street, and when Jules followed her gaze it took a moment for it to register.

Martin Mikalski. Marty.

•••

He’d been part of their close circle for a couple of years, and to outsiders it might have looked like a strange combination. But whereas Curt was the wildman jock, Dana the sweet young thing with a fiery centre, and Jules the opinionated blonde type—today,
literally
, Marty was the most unaffected of them all.

There were no airs and graces with Marty. He called it as he saw it, was totally comfortable with himself, and
seemed to want for nothing. He cherished his friends, Jules knew—he’d told her enough times, stoned and relaxed—and he seemed completely unselfconscious. And he was funny.

If Jules had been born a guy, she’d told herself many times, she would have wanted to be Marty.

But as soon as she saw him and what he was doing, Jules snorted in disbelief. It was almost a laugh, she supposed. But not quite.

Marty had parked his car and was still smoking a huge bong while climbing out. It was an awkward maneuver, but he concentrated hard to maintain his balance and avoid knocking the bong against the doorframe. It looked to Jules as if he’d done this many times before.

They all glanced around to see who was watching, who might see, and whether there were any cops in the area. The police often cruised by at regular intervals, and sometimes if they were bored they’d park up and watch for any students they could hassle for something. It didn’t happen much... but for them, something like this would have been pure gold.

“Marty... ” she muttered, not quite knowing what to say

“Fuck is wrong with you, bro?” Curt said, a little louder.

Marty took the bong away from his mouth and slammed the car door behind him. He blinked slowly.

“People in this town drive in a very counterintuitive manner, and that’s what I have to say.”
“Do you
want
to spend the weekend in jail?” Curt asked. “’Cause we’d all like to check out my cousin’s country home, and not get boned in the ass by a huge skinhead.”

Speak for yourself
, Jules thought of quipping, but Curt sounded serious. And pissed.

“Marty, honey, that’s not okay,” she said instead.

“Statistical fact,” Marty said. “Cops will never pull over a man with a huge bong in his car. Why?” And damn if he didn’t take one more hit before continuing. “They fear this man. They know he sees further than they and he will bind them with ancient logics.” He smiled, wide and honest, and then the faintest frown creased his forehead as he focused on Jules and asked, “Have you gone gray?”

“You’re not bringing that thing in the Rambler,” Curt said.

“A giant bong, in your father’s van?” Marty asked as if the very suggestion was mad. Jules was trying not to smile, but it was hurting her face. She glanced sidelong at Curt and saw his simmering anger, but then she heard a muffled giggle from behind her. She couldn’t tell whether it was Dana or Holden, or maybe both of them.

She was going to look down at her feet, but then Marty suddenly became more animated. He emptied the bong’s water, removed the bowl, placed it into a recess inside the tube and pushed the entire length closed. Then he plucked a lid from the bottom and fitted it neatly on top, and the bong had become a silver thermos flask.
“What are you?” he asked Curt, maneuver complete. “Stoned?”

Curt broke. His tension went and he walked forward, clapping Marty on the shoulder. As they passed her by Marty gave Jules a quick wink. She rolled her eyes.

Dana and Holden got into the Rambler, and Marty leapt in after them.

“It’s going to be a fun weekend,” she said, probing to see whether Curt was okay. He held her tight, grabbed her around the hips and planted a quick, passionate kiss on the lips.

“Damn right it is,” he said, and Jules smiled inside.

From inside the Rambler they heard Marty speak up.

“Dana, you fetching minx. Do you have any food?”

He’s got the munchies already,
Jules thought. And then she thought of the keg sitting in the RV and, notwithstanding that it was barely in the p.m., she thought that a drink might be a good way to commence their vacation.

She climbed in after Marty, Curt behind her, and when he slammed the door it felt as if their weekend had finally begun. She sat up front with him, and they grinned at each other, remembering their last weekend in this vehicle. He shook a little in his seat, and she giggled.

“Everybody ready?” Curt called, and there came a cheerful chorus of assent.

“Wagons ho!” Marty called.

“Go, dude!” Holden said.
“Let’s burn daylight!” Dana whooped.

Curt laughed.

“Then let’s get this show on the road!” He turned the key, Jules sighed as the Rambler vibrated beneath her, and then they were on their way.

•••

Free will is a precious commodity. It’s relished as much as political freedom, and most people believe it is a central part of their existence, whether this conviction is a tenet of their religious beliefs or born of a more secular outlook. All five people in the Rambler considered it to different degrees, and believed that they oversaw their own destinies. Perhaps Marty thought about it more than most, but then he always had been a thinker rather than a doer.

In his early teens it had been conspiracy theories and fear of the Big Brother society, but his thinking now usually went deeper. Most people didn’t see that in him at all—even the friends he had around him now— because for them, the drugs dulled his personality as much as they believe they dulled his senses.

But for all of them, belief in free will stemmed largely from not being aware of what was occurring all around them. Senses and perception only stretch so far, even if fueled—perhaps augmented—by a gentle drug intake, and a willingness to believe.

Further than those senses, and that awareness, was the
real
world.

•••

On the rooftop of the townhouse that had just been vacated, six figures watched the Rambler drive along the street and disappear into the distance. They observed for a couple more minutes after the vehicle had vanished, in case of a sudden return for something one of the kids had forgotten.

The six figures were made androgynous by their apparel: they wore clean-suits, full body outfits of an opaque material that hooded their heads, stretched down to gloved hands, then all the way down their legs to enclose their booted feet. The material around their boots was triple thickness and heavily bound by elastic around their ankles, and their gloves were similarly reinforced. Only their faces were exposed, though their mouths were covered with soft white masks, and the exposed skin of their cheeks and chins glistened with a gel that prevented the shedding of any dead skin cells or hair.

One of the figures—there was no way of telling whether he or she was the leader, because they were all identically dressed, and no body language at all distinguished one from another—pressed a hand to its ear, then spoke into a microphone. All had similar devices poking from the necks of their suits.

“Nest is empty, we are right on time.” There was no telling from the voice whether it was a man or woman; flat, monotonous. The shape then tilted its head— as did all the others—listening to a voice from even
further away, issuing orders that no one else could hear, of which no one else would ever be aware.

For the first time, a small element of superiority distinguished this shape from the rest of the group. Its hand rose and circled its index finger in the air, three times precisely. Every movement the shape performed was precise. There was no energy wasted.

“Go for clean-up,” it said. “Go, go, go.”

The six shapes walked to the rooftop door, opened it, and disappeared inside.