The Cabin in the Woods

by Tim Lebbon

  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.

  Clean-up began.

  TWO

  Haven’t seen this one before, Gary Sitterson thought. I wonder if he has any fucking idea what to expect?

  The thick metal door had just wheezed open as he and Steve Hadley approached, a soft breath of air wafting out around them as pressures equalized. The control room was always kept slightly pressurized, though he’d never been given a believable reason as to why. Some said it was to preclude the risk of chemical or biological attack, but that idea was countered by the fact that there were no air locks for entry or exit. And besides, who could attack them when no one knew they existed?

  Others suggested that it was because people worked better and became less tired at slightly higher air pressure. Sitterson wasn’t sure about that one, either. He guessed it was just a design aspect of the facility. Maybe a fuck-up with the ventilation system.

  He held his breath until the soft gasp had passed, then smiled at the slightly nervous soldier who was standing upright in front of them.

  “Identification, please,” the soldier said stiffly, holding out a handheld card reader.

  Sitterson and Hadley plucked their ID cards from chains around their necks and passed them to the soldier, who bent slightly and swiped them over the reader. Soft beeps and a gentle green glow marked them as safe and known. Sitterson had always wondered what noise and color the reader would emit should a card not be recognized. Probably a loud siren and a blast of red.

  And then the bullets would come.

  “Mister Sitterson, Mister Hadley, thank you.” The soldier stood straight again, and for a stunned moment Sitterson thought he might actually be about to salute. But perhaps he saw the look on Sitterson’s face because, after a pause, he said simply, “Please come in.”

  They entered the control room, known generally, and unimaginatively, as Control. The soft whirr of machinery and air conditioning welcomed them, along with the occasional blip or beep from one of the many computers it housed. Where they stood, down in the room’s lower level, there were two large tables with built-in monitors and phones, several closed files placed neatly on each surface. The chairs were identical, and tucked beneath the desks.

  To their right as they entered, the upper level resembled a scaled-down version of a Houston control room, with banks of computers, flashing lights, switches and dials. Two large desks contained a riot of communication equipment and computer monitors, and two other desks housed a swathe of smaller computer screens, wires and cables snaking out of sight like a strange sea-creature’s tentacles. Two comfortable wheeled chairs sat side by side not far from the doorway, ready for Sitterson and Hadley to occupy. They, too, were of identical design, but Sitterson could already tell that the one on the left was his. He’d sat in it enough to know it by sight.

  On the far wall at the other end of the lower space, three huge screens hung side by side, with digital time displays and blank flat screens above, each empty at the moment, glowing a faint silver as they awaited the power surge and the images that would tell their story for today.

  Hadley led the way up the short curving staircase, Sitterson behind him carrying a small cooler. The soldier followed them, obeying regulations to the letter. He had to see them sat down and plugged in before he would be permitted to return to the door.

  He even walked stiffly, Sitterson noticed.

  Maybe it’s time to start fucking with him, he thought, but Hadley beat him to it.

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Daniel Truman, Sir.”

  “Well, this isn’t the army, Truman, so you can drop the ‘sir’ shit. But Sitterson likes to be called ‘ma’am.’”

  They’d reached the top of the stairs, and Sitterson slid the small cooler beneath one of the communications desks. “Or ‘Honey Toes,’” he said.

  “Yes, he will also answer to Honey Toes.” Hadley wheeled Sitterson’s chair over to him and took his own across to the other sizeable desk. He fiddled with the height lever and back regulator, as always, and returned them to the exact same position they’d been in when he first touched them. As always. “Are you clear on what’s gonna be happening here?” he continued.

  “I’ve been prepped extensively,” Truman said. Still very formal, still very military. This’ll be an easy one to crack, Sitterson thought.

  “And did they tell you that being prepped is not the same as being prepared?” Hadley asked, not looking at the soldier. He tapped a touchpad and lights flashed on his panel.

  “They told me,” Truman said. “I’ll hold my post Mister Hadley. I’ll see it through.”

  “Not much else you gotta do,” Hadley said. “Stand watch, check IDs, shouldn’t be a lot more than that. And you have to get us coffee.”

  There was a pause for a couple of seconds, and Sitterson couldn’t help but glance back at the soldier standing behind them. He was smiling uncertainly.

  “They also told me you would try and make me get you coffee,” Truman said.

  “Balls,” Hadley said. Sitterson giggled, attracting his friend’s attention. Hadley pointed at him then, speaking from one side of his mouth back over his shoulder, asked the soldier, “Can you make him get us coffee? With your gun?” “And that you would try to make me do that,” Truman said, his tone remaining unchanged.

  Well I’ll be damned, Sitterson thought. He’s not as uptight as he looks. “It wasn’t funny last time, either,” he said aloud.

  Hadley moved over to a bank of electronics, flicking switches all across the face, seemingly at random. The hum in the control room rose in volume and tone, becoming something like a soft moan, and the click and beep of electronic activity erupted around them.

  Sitterson tapped away at his computer, the familiar tingle of excitement blossoming into a vague burning sensation that coursed through his body. It was all about to beg
in, and here at his fingertips sat the heart of everything that was to come. He accessed his internal emails, and confirmed that the clean-up had already been done. That was step one complete.

  Glancing across at Hadley, he nodded once so that his companion—his friend—knew to initiate his own systems. In this room where so much was computerized, mechanized, and recorded, it was often the understanding between these two men which ensured that everything ran smoothly from beginning to end. Any monkey could press buttons, but it took someone special to understand the implications of each pressing.

  Sitterson pushed away from his desk and swung around as he went, landing perfectly against one of the rear control panels. He felt Truman’s eyes on him, and flushed with a flicker of pride. He shoved that down quickly. This is nothing to be proud of, he thought, and he frowned, not sure where that had come from.

  Screw it.

  He lifted the cover from a row of three buttons and rested his thumb against the first.

  “Let’s light this candle up, boys,” he said. “Up is go on your command.” He flicked the buttons.

  The three screens across the room came to life. Pale gray at first, and then a glaring white that lit the room to uncomfortable levels. Then they settled, each of them showing the initial image they’d been programmed to show: approach, outside, inside. This was the default setting.

  “Lovely,” Hadley said.

  Sitterson wheeled back to his desk and thought about that coffee.

  Soon, it would begin.

  •••

  She was taking things slowly, but it felt like they were moving faster than that. The air between them sizzled. She’d caught him looking at her a couple of times now, but not in the way most guys looked at her. It never hurt to be given a compliment, even though sometimes those compliments were silent and communicated through glances and smiles.

  She suspected that he’d spotted her looking at him as well. That was why the game was so thrilling.

  With Holden, though, he was looking at her with a combination of interest and... what, bemusement? It must have been that; a tiny frown, eyes open in perpetual surprise. She’d only just met him, so she couldn’t claim to read him just yet, but she hoped he was feeling the same as her. Interest, and surprise at how deep that interest already was.

  Just another ploy to fuck you, Jules would say. He’ll act interested and deep, but in the end he just wants you to hold his dick. But hey, look at him—why not?

  “It’s different,” Dana whispered, and Marty looked up from rolling a selection of elegant joints.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing, Marty,” she said, and she nodded toward the objects of his labors. “They’re nice. Anyone who didn’t know you would think you’re a dope fiend.”

  He grinned, ran his tongue along another paper and added another to the selection. They were all the same length and thickness, and she couldn’t help but be a little bit impressed.

  Curt was still driving, nodding his head lightly to the middle-of-the-road rock station they’d found on the radio. Dana had offered to bring along a handful of CDs, but Jules’s wrinkled nose had persuaded Curt to decline. Jules was still riding shotgun, her attention flicking back and forth between the GPS and an open map book on her lap. An empty plastic cup was propped between her legs, and Holden was in the bathroom filling four more cups from the keg.

  Dana found it fascinating watching him. He didn’t spill a drop, even though the Rambler was now bouncing along an old road wounded with potholes and last maintained, she guessed, just after the Civil War. When the vehicle jumped he’d follow the motion of the jog with his hand, cup of beer rising or drifting left or right, foamy head licking at the lip but never quite slipping over. It was quite a talent.

  He caught her watching him and smiled.

  “Like steering into a skid,” he said, offering her a cup.

  Dana chuckled softly and took the drink, their fingers touching briefly. The Rambler bounced, Dana grimaced, and beer splashed onto her jeans.

  “Shit.”

  “I hope this is the right road,” Jules said. “‘Cause right now it looks like the only road.”

  “What about that road-like thing we crossed back there?” Curt asked.

  “Doesn’t even show up on the GPS. It’s unworthy of global positioning.”

  “It must feel horrible,” Dana said distractedly, dabbing her jeans with a cloth.

  “That’s the whole point!” Marty shouted, startling them all. “Get off the grid! No cell phone reception, no markers, no traffic cameras... Go somewhere for the goddamn weekend where they can’t globally position my ass. This is the whole issue.”

  “Is society crumbling, Marty?” Jules asked without looking up from the map. She was teasing him and, Dana thought, mocking him a little. Marty was too kind or too obsessed to notice. “Society is binding. It’s filling in the cracks with concrete. No cracks to slip through anymore. Everything is recorded, filed, blogged, chips in our kids so they don’t get lost... What’s the use of free will when nothing you do is your own anymore? Society needs to crumble. We’re all too chicken-shit to let it.”

  “I’ve missed your rants,” Jules said. Dana was pleased to see her throw Marty a smile. He grinned back and held up a beautifully rolled joint for her perusal.

  “You will come to see things my way,” he said.

  “I can’t wait,” she said. “Is that the secret stash?” “The secret secret stash.” I haven’t told my other stash about it because it would become jealous.”

  “A sign,” Dana said, suddenly excited. “Up there!” Jules turned to look back through the windscreen, then examined the map again quickly.

  “Yes. And... okay, left. Bear left.”

  “You sure?” Curt asked.

  “Not even a little bit.”

  Holden edged forward with more beers, taking Dana’s half-cup and replacing it with a full one. She smiled her thanks, but didn’t catch his eye.

  It was Jules’s voice in her head, though: Make him work.

  •••

  Holden drank most of his cup of beer in one swig. He’d already had two when he was filling the others, and was feeling a pleasant buzz. He didn’t usually drink so quickly. It was weird. But then again, so was what he felt happening here.

  He had never, ever been so attracted to a girl whom he didn’t want to instantly fuck.

  Oh, he did want to, at some stage. Without a doubt. Dana was gorgeous—beautiful brunette hair he could get lost in, blue eyes, soft skin, and a scintillating, gentle smile that didn’t say, Look at how beautiful I am. She was nothing like the girls he usually went for, and she was suddenly everything he wanted. So there was the sex thing, yes... but there was also something else. There was a need to know her, unlike anything he had ever felt before.

  And they were off together for a weekend in the wilds.

  “So what is this place exactly?” he asked.

  “Country home my cousin bought,” Curt said. “He’s crazy for real estate, found this place in the middle of nowhere, it’s like Civil War era, really. Said it was such a good deal he couldn’t let it pass.”

  “There’s a lake, and woods everywhere,” Jules said. “We saw some beautiful pictures.” She turned in her seat and looked at Dana. “You will be doing some serious drawing. No portraits of pedophiles...”

  Holden glanced at Dana just in time to see the end of the “shut up” frown she’d given Jules. He’d heard a bit about her from Curt, about how some slimy bastard shithead had used and dumped her. He didn’t understand how someone could do that to a girl like this. Taking a chance, heart thumping, he sat down on the seat next to her, holding his breath just a little when their legs pressed against each other. A silence fell then, not intentional but awkward nonetheless.

  Across the table the guy they called Marty hummed some nameless tune as he packed his rolled joints. Curt and Jules looked ahead along the tree-lined road. Holden wondered whether he was the only one who
could feel the atmosphere thickening, though he wasn’t quite sure what it carried.

  “You’re an art major?” he asked, breaking the silence and using the question as an excuse to turn to Dana.

  “Art and political science,” she said. Those eyes...

  “Oooh, triple threat,” he muttered.

  A frown, a smile. He liked both.

  “That’s only two things,” she said quizzically.

  “Yes, a double... threat. That sounds weird. Let’s just say I find you threatening.”

  “I thought you were dropping art?” Curt asked.

  “Uh, no, never mind...” Jules said, slapping Curt’s thigh and glaring at him.

  “I’m switching a few courses,” Dana said coolly.

  “How come?” Holden asked, and then he twigged it. Oh, so slimy bastard shithead had been a lecturer?

  “For no reason!” Curt blurted. “For very good reasons that don’t exist.” Then he pointed. “Hey look, trees!”

  “We have patterns,” Marty said, and Holden felt the pressure lift. He’d only known him for a couple of hours, but he liked Marty already. A chilled dude. “Societally. The beautimous Dana fell into one of the oldest patterns and we are here to burn it away and pour ash into the grooves it has etched in her brain. Cover the tracks and set her feet on new ground.” Holden leaned sideways in his seat until his and Dana’s shoulders were touching, and he felt her hair on his cheek and neck. “Is it okay if I don’t follow that?” And she actually leaned back into him before saying, “I’d take it as a favor.”

  “Gas!” Curt shouted. Through the windscreen, Holden caught sight of a ramshackle building beside the road. “Gas,” Curt repeated, quieter, “and maybe someone who knows where we actually are.”

  The five friends fell silent as he brought them to a standstill beside two ancient fuel pumps. The red, rusting hulks stood on a crumbling concrete pedestal, a bucket of sand sitting between them, a rickety-looking tin sheet canopy above supported by weathered timber posts. It looked as if the slightest breeze would knock the whole thing over, and Holden thought vibrations from the Rambler might just do the job.