The Cabin in the Woods

by Tim Lebbon

  Hadley might well be rooting for her, and perhaps some of the others too—hell, even Sitterson thought she was cute—but his internal defense mechanism was raised again. He saw her crying and screaming, he saw the monstrous zombie trying to kill her.

  But now, it was all just a movie.

  Truman was still watching. Of course. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open as he attached import to the girl’s life. But he’d learn soon enough.

  Hadley was talking with a guy from Story and a woman from Accounts. Sitterson strolled over to hear their conversation.

  “I wish I could do what you guys do,” the Accounts woman said. “It’s masterful.”

  “It was good,” Hadley nodded. “It was solid.”

  “Are you kidding?” the Story guy gushed. “Classic denouement. When the van hit the lake?” He raised his hands as if to say, What could be better? He was reveling in the woman’s adulation.

  “Hell, I screamed!” Accounts said.

  “Right?” Story acknowledged.

  “The zombie, the water rushing in...”

  “That’s primal terror,” Story said, as if he had invented the concept. Sitterson thought he was being a dick; he hadn’t come up with the whole scenario on his own, after all. In fact Sitterson himself had created the van-in-the-lake idea years ago, during his own time in Story

  But for now, he’d let the dick have his glory.

  “Woulda been cooler with a merman,” Hadley said, sounding almost wistful. He smiled at Sitterson, who laughed softly and shook his head as he strolled away.

  Nodding to some people, shaking the hands of others, he edged his way toward one of their military liaisons, a big major with a clichéd moustache and hands the size of small dogs. He was talking with a werewolf wrangler—redundant during this show, unfortunately, but Sitterson had seen his sterling work before—and Ronald the intern.

  From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the Virgin being pummeled by the zombie. It doesn’t matter, he thought. It would be over soon. Nonetheless, he wished regulations allowed him to turn off the screens.

  “Do you know if we made the overtime bonus on this one?” the liaison asked.

  “Accounting’s right over there,” the wrangler said. “Ask them.”

  “I don’t need to ask them,” the major said, “I already know the answer.”

  “‘We’re accountants, and we’re full of hate?’” the wrangler mimicked.

  “Exactly,” the major said, and he smiled.

  His moustache’s alive, Sitterson thought, amazed. It must have a life of its own. It flexed and twitched while the soldier seemed utterly motionless.

  “I’m an intern,” Ronald said sadly. “I don’t qualify for overtime.”

  “No big deal, Ronald,” Sitterson said. The major looked at him respectfully—moustache almost saluting—and the werewolf guy nodded a greeting. “No big deal?” Ronald asked.

  “Sure. We’ve all been noticed today. You can take that to the bank.” Sitterson walked away smiling. Today had been stressful, but the outcome was good for all of them.

  As he walked past a fellow from Chem, Sitterson chuckled at the guy’s efforts to get into his pretty coworker’s pants.

  “Don’t worry about my eyes,” he was saying. “That’s why we have eye washes, right? And they say baking soda is good for your complexion. Anyway... it’s funny that you like the ballet, because I happened to get two tickets to... ”

  The pretty woman just turned and walked away. “...your favorite...”

  His voice trailed off, he looked around, embarrassed, and Sitterson made a point of pausing and smiling in his direction. The Chem guy rubbed his eyes and wandered away toward the drinks table.

  And then Sitterson saw the Demolition team standing by one of the control desks. They were laughing too loudly, the desk was scattered with empty bottles, and he saw something a little too self-congratulatory about the way they slapped each other’s backs and hugged.

  He downed the rest of his tequila, smacked his lips, and sauntered over to them.

  “You!” he called. “Yoouuuu! Knuckleheads almost gave me a heart attack with that tunnel!”

  “That wasn’t our fault,” one of them answered, and it was the guy he’d dealt with in the Demolition control room. The woman was there, too, pouting a little now as she half-hid behind her wine glass.

  “I’m just giving you a hard time,” Sitterson said. He raised an eyebrow at the woman. “C’mere you, let’s have a hug.”

  She snorted, glanced around at the others, and finished her full glass in one long swig. He could see that she was already drunk, glassy-eyed, and unsteady on her feet.

  “No,” the guy said. “Seriously. That wasn’t on us.” Something about his voice hit home a little too hard. Sitterson was enjoying ragging on them, but—

  “There was an unauthorized power re-route from upstairs,” the woman said, blinking in surprise at her empty glass.

  Sitterson frowned. Then he went cold.

  “What do you mean, upstairs?”

  And then a shrill, loud, ringing sound shattered the atmosphere of the place, all within a split second. They all knew what it was, though they had never heard it for real. Perhaps it haunted some of their dreams, and played the theme of their nightmares. Sitterson closed his eyes, trying to hold onto that air of success for just one more second, and then looked at the phone.

  It was a single telephone, sitting in an alcove at the back of Control, close to where the mahogany covers had shielded the levers and their apparatus from view. Red, an old-fashioned analogue phone with a silver metal dial, its shrill ringing came from a bell within the solid plastic casing.

  The alcove echoed its call, and between each of the rings the jaunty lilt of dance music still filled the room.

  Sitterson locked eyes with Hadley. They both saw each other’s fear. And then Hadley walked quickly across the room to answer the call.

  “Turn that fucking music off!” he snapped. As his hand rested on the receiver the music snapped off.

  He took a deep breath and picked it up.

  We could run, Sitterson thought. But of course that was an utterly stupid idea. If something they’d begun was not yet finished, it was their duty to ensure that it was put right.

  And there would be nowhere to run.

  “Hello,” Hadley said. All eyes on him. He listened for a few seconds. Then, “That’s impossible! Everything was within guidelines and the Virgin is the only—” He winced. “No, no, of course I’m not doubting you. It’s just—”

  Hadley’s face fell and he looked over the heads of the assembled observers, back at the large viewing screens.

  What are we going to see? Sitterson wondered. The drink in his hand felt warm and sickly, and he noticed others putting down their bottles and plastic cups. Maybe they all sensed the work they still had left to do.

  And then Hadley said something which Sitterson had guessed anyway, and there was no longer cause for celebration.

  “Which one?”

  He turned to follow his friend’s gaze.

  Suddenly he was rooting for the Virgin like never before.

  •••

  She jumped aside one more time as Matthew swung the broken bear trap. It was easy enough to dodge— however hard he swung it, she had at least a second to judge its passage and eventual impact point—but doing so was rapidly tiring her out. And each time she concentrated on the swinging trap, Matthew’s other hand lashed out and caught her across the shoulder, chest, cheek.

  Several times now she’d almost backed up and jumped into the lake again, but she knew if she did that she’d die for sure. If she didn’t drown from exhaustion, Father Buckner would grab her and haul her down. He was still below the surface, she knew. Still down there somewhere, stalking the lake bottom, looking up, perhaps even seeing the blurry starlit struggle on the wooden dock. He was waiting.

  She ducked to one side and felt the trap whoosh down past her ear. It snagged he
r jeans and tore them, scoring a cut on her ankle before embedding itself in the dock. She tried to jump sideways to avoid the zombie’s other hand, but it caught her across the nose this time, sending a flash of bloody hot pain through her head. Her vision swam, her whole face caught fire, and it was all she could do to retain her footing on the shattered, splintered dock.

  Dana couldn’t run past him because he was too big. She couldn’t fight him because she had no weapons— besides, the crowbar through his face proved that fighting wasn’t even an issue. And there was nowhere else to go.

  Fuck you fuck you fuck you, she thought, part of it directed at the zombie but most at the unseen puppeteers she was convinced were steering him. Whether or not they watched her now, she was determined not to give them the satisfaction.

  Perhaps if she rushed him, striking at an angle, shoving him off balance and then tripping him into the lake... maybe then she could run and hide before he managed to crawl out. She spat blood, readied herself...

  And then Matthew kicked out and struck her knee. She screamed and went down, spiking her hands and forearms on the splintered wood.

  Crying, and hating herself for doing so, she tried to crawl, direction hardly a consideration anymore. Soon he’d swing the bear trap around and bring it down on her back, or her head, and then she’d die and join the others.

  A board moved beneath her, one end shattered and sticking up from a strike from the bear trap. Maybe if she levered it up, bent it away from the nail still holding it down, stood and turned before his next strike, she could—

  He brought his foot down on her arm, and she screamed. She twisted to look up and back at him, and he shifted all his weight onto that one leg. Desperate to scream again, even more desperate not to, she bit her lip until blood started to flow.

  At least that’s a wound I made, she thought, and something about it gave her power.

  “Fuck you,” she gritted.

  He started swinging the chain around his head, picking up momentum for the final strike.

  Ching... ching... ching...

  I won’t look away, she thought. I won’t close my eyes, I won’t look away, the bastards won’t get that from me.

  Matthew grasped the chain’s handle with both hands, let it swing behind his back, tensed, and brought it up and over his head.

  This is it, Dana thought, and as she imagined kissing Holden, she smiled.

  There was a loud clunk! and Matthew jerked to a standstill. He remained motionless for a moment, staring out over the lake in surprise, instead of down at Dana. And then he stumbled backward, off balance, and fell onto the dock.

  Beyond where he lay, Dana saw Marty with his bong in his hands and Matthew’s chain wrapped around it. His clothes were torn and covered in blood, and he stood arched forward as if trying to escape a pain in his back. But his breath came thick and heavy, and she saw the hatred in his eyes.

  “Marty!”

  “Dana, get away!”

  Between them, Matthew was already getting to his feet, and Dana could see Marty’s hesitation. He tugged at the chain but it was solid. And if he let go of the bong, it would return the weapon to Matthew.

  But she wasn’t about to leave.

  She pried up the broken plank, standing and levering it from the last nail. It sprung up with a jolt, she reversed it so that the unbroken end was away from her, then she held it back over her shoulder.

  “Hey, stinking shithead fuck-face!” she called. Matthew turned slowly to face her. “Yeah, that’s right... I know your name.” She swung the board with all her might and smashed it into his face.

  The zombie fell backward from the dock and splashed into the lake.

  Dana staggered past where the thing had fallen and fell into Marty, welcoming his embrace and giving one back. They both groaned and hissed from their wounds, but the contact was essential right then, a sharing of warmth and hope that drove back some of the darkness. “Marty, I thought you were—”

  “Not yet. Not quite.”

  “Everyone else is...”

  “Yeah.” He pulled back a little and there was little of the joker left. Dana felt her friend’s blood on her hands, from open wounds in his back.

  From behind them came a splash as Matthew stood close to the edge of the lake and started striding toward them. He still dragged the chain behind him.

  “You lost your bong,” Dana said ruefully.

  “C’mon.” Marty grabbed her hand and they ran up the shore toward the cabin.

  “Where are we going?” she gasped. She didn’t want to go back in there. That was the last place they needed to go, a warren of traps and locked doors, hidden basements and stuff meant for torture.

  Anywhere but there.

  But Marty didn’t reply, and when they were twenty yards from the cabin the door thudded open. For a brief, mad moment Dana thought, Jules! She’s survived too, or maybe Curt, up from the ravine and not burnt nearly as badly as—

  But it was Mother Buckner who emerged onto the porch, her portly frame giving her gait a monstrous sway, and that terrible saw swinging by her side.

  “This way!” Marty said, steering them around toward the rear of the building. They were still holding hands. Marty squeezed tight, and she thought perhaps he needed that contact to keep going, to help him fight the pain. Because now she’d seen the hideous puncture wounds on his back, and she wasn’t sure how he was moving at all.

  •••

  Marty steered them for the treeline. Passing between the first of the trees he felt resistance from Dana, and pulled harder. There was no way they could slow down or change direction. Time was of the essence. Out here was chaos, and danger, and a plan the scope and depth of which he could barely comprehend.

  But there was one place they might yet survive. They had to make it to the hole into which Judah had dragged him earlier, or they’d be finished.

  “Marty, wait!” Dana said, pulling back harder.

  Behind them, he heard a terrible scraping sound as Mother Buckner rounded the corner of the cabin, saw dragging across the ground. It would still have wet flesh between its teeth.

  “Dana, c’mon!”

  Moments later they reached the hole, a dark wound in the land where Marty had been dragged and from which he had emerged again, rebirthed and enraged. It was darker than the shadows, foreboding, but he knew it was their only hope of survival.

  “We’re going in there?” Dana gasped.

  Marty glanced toward the sounds of the scraping saw and wet footsteps. Behind Mother Buckner, Matthew had emerged from the lake and was slogging toward them, hauling the bear trap behind him. “I need you to keep the faith right now, sister,” he said, gripping Dana’s shoulders. She frowned, and then past the hole a shape pressed through a mass of undergrowth.

  Anna Patience Buckner, her single arm swinging by her side as she walked quickly toward them. Marty saw doubt disappear from Dana’s eyes as she considered their predicament.

  She nodded and went for the hole.

  Of all of them I thought she’d be the first to die, he thought, but he instantly regretted it. Dana had surprised him with her strength and determination; he’d seen her fighting the big zombie as he’d crept up behind it. He’d never believed that he judged by appearances, and he never would do so again.

  Marty knelt by the hole and reached in, grasping around for the ring he knew was there. He found it quickly, curved his hand through and pulled, and the hatch—like a storm door, only hiding something more than just a shelter—hinged up easily. Leaves and soil slipped away from its upper surface, and the stars reflected on the smooth, clean metal underneath.

  Dana held back for only a second. Around them sang the sounds of pursuit—Mother’s saw, Matthew’s bear-trap, Anna’s inexorable footsteps. Then she nodded to Marty and slipped down through the hatch.

  He followed her and slammed it closed behind them, turning the handle and hearing the satisfying clunk of locks engaging. Moments later he heard scratchin
g from the other side. The ring on the topside flipped over and hit the lid, something scraped the metal, and then came a faint, chilling cry of zombie frustration. It was the kind of sound never meant for human ears, and Marty and Dana quickly backed away.

  The sound of their breathing echoed from the metal walls of the small, poorly lit chamber. It was barely tall enough to crouch in, but a good twelve by twelve feet square, with another metal hatch in the middle of the floor. A faint light came from a panel in the metal ceiling that had been removed to reveal several glowing cables. Hanging down from the panel was a spaghetti of wires, some stripped and spliced, others disconnected.

  “What is this place?” Dana asked.

  “You better—” Marty began, but then Dana stepped on Judah’s mewling face. She stumbled back from the pile of zombie parts, and Marty held her hand and guided her away. Each part was moving, twitching, throbbing with unnatural life.

  “Yeah, I had to dismember that guy with a trowel,” he said. “What’ve you been up to?”

  Dana stared at him in despair. Her mouth opened but nothing came out, and he saw the terrible truth in her eyes.

  “Nobody else, huh?” he asked. She shook her head, and he added, “I figured.”

  “You figured everything,” she said.

  “Not even close,” he said. “But I do know some stuff. Check this out.” He went to the hatch in the floor and slid it open. The faint whiff of antiseptic he’d caught the first time he’d done so came again, reminding him of hospitals and endless echoing corridors and places that people only ever wanted to visit when there was something wrong.

  Dana’s mouth hung open. She shook her head and looked at him, her expression saying, What?

  “It’s an elevator,” he said. “Two sides metal, but two are thick glass. You can’t tell unless you... dangle your head in there. Somebody sent these dead fucks up to get us. There’re no controls inside, but there’s maintenance overrides in there.” He nodded up at the dislodged panel. “I’ve been playing around. I think I can make it go down.”