by C. T. Phipps
“I have no idea. This is my first resurrection,” I admitted.
I went to the kitchen, utterly unusable, and checked for matches. I lucked out and found an entire drawer full, so I began preparing a fire. The place felt like a haunted house and, while that was just normal for me, I hoped to make Nancy comfortable. Funny how important impressing a girl had become for me in such a short amount of time.
“Yeah, but I was dead for an entire night,” Nancy said. “I died right before sunrise and woke up after sunset. You were alive in like seconds.”
“My father usually took at least a week between resurrections,” I said, not sure what to tell her. “Most slashers don’t come back at all, they’re just very hard to kill. A guy on the battlefield can take seven rounds to the chest, keep going, and then die on his eighth without ever knowing he was a slasher.”
“So, it’s genetic not magical,” Nancy said, showing a surprising curiosity about my condition. Or perhaps not so surprising since we didn’t have anything else to talk about right now. I hadn’t yet come up with a plan on how to assault her compound and we only had until tomorrow evening before the Fraternity started murdering their prisoners. There were also no guarantees the young women weren’t already being tortured, but going in right now would just get us killed. I didn’t like it either way, putting off my hunt felt instinctively wrong now that I’d aroused my inner beast, but rationality prevailed for now.
They are being kept untouched and unspoiled for now, the Spirit of the Hunt said. This is a blood sacrifice as well as an outlet for their members’ sadistic sides.
Oh, you’re still there, I said.
Yes, the Spirit of the Hunt said. Always. I just have other people to help. Mike Miner just came back from the dead in Illinois. The Shapeless One is headed here.
Good for him, I said. I bet he’s a wonderful minion.
Just a guy in a mask with a knife, the Spirit of the Hunt said. I expect better from you.
I found that surprisingly ominous.
“I think the ghost disproves that we’re just a mutated race of humans,” I said to Nancy. “Mind you, I don’t think the two are unrelated. There’s a slasher gene and it channels magic. The supernatural world isn’t unnatural, it’s just a part we pretend doesn’t exist.”
Nancy pulled off one of the white sheets and revealed a moldy couch underneath it. She plopped herself down on it without a second’s hesitation. Her clothes were still stained in blood in places, something I’d missed because they were black, but she must have been acutely aware of the fact. Unfortunately, there was no way any of my sister’s clothes would fit. I thought about offering one of my own but that just conjured other images.
Besides, she had other things on her mind. “So, how do you kill a slasher, permanently? No ghosts, no zombies, but dead-dead. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred more victims.”
“You can understand why I hesitate to answer that question,” I replied, putting the logs in the fireplace. At least we wouldn’t freeze to death tonight. That would be an ironic end to events.
“Just in case I encounter a bad one,” Nancy said. “Hell, maybe I am a slasher. You don’t seem to give much stock to this Artemis thing.”
I frowned and lit the fire. Staring at the beautiful orange-red flames, I said, “I don’t think you’re a slasher. You’re something similar but not a slasher. Maybe you are an Artemis.”
“A non-virgin Artemis,” Nancy said. “I hate to disappoint but it wasn’t just Johnny Kaplan.”
“Garlic also doesn’t affect vampires,” I replied, looking up. “Folklore is usually a decent beginner’s guide but not the end all of supernatural lore.”
“Vampires are real?” Nancy asked.
“Yep,” I said.
“Werewolves?” Nancy asked.
“Probably,” I said. “They mostly live in rural America and small tribal communities. They weren’t exactly welcome at my father’s house.”
I wasn’t going to tell her things like Leprechauns also existed. She had enough on her plate as is.
Nancy blinked. “How do people not know about this?”
I shrugged. “People do. That’s why there’s movies about them. It’s just the monsters prefer to remain unseen. My father speculated there was a huge conspiracy keeping it all under wraps too, but I take that with a grain of salt. He also believed in the Illuminati and that the black mafia was behind JFK’s assassination.”
Nancy looked at me then the fire. “But how would we know?”
“Do you hear any voices?” I asked.
“Yours and your sisters,” Nancy said. “I can hear you talking to someone, but no one talks back.”
I nodded. “Do you have any urges to kill regular humans?”
“No,” Nancy said. “I did feel a desire to kill your father. A kind of uncontrollable rage took over me and I wanted to stab him to death. I felt nothing like that, well other than regular anger, when killing Charles. I also felt a tinge when around Marge.”
“How about my sister and I?” I asked, wondering if she was feeling an urge to kill slashers after all.
“No,” Nancy said, again.
“Then you’re not a slasher,” I said. “The killing urge is pretty definitive as something we all possess.”
Huntresses and slashers are Yin and Yang, the Spirit of the Hunt said. Once they were one and then they were two until they become none.
You need a new hobby, I replied to her.
No, the Spirit of the Hunt said. But she is an Artemis, a Brigid, a Maiden of the Hunt, and a Joan of Arc. Sex is not what defines her purity, though. No, what defines her is her purity of intent.
Great, I muttered. That’s not going to make things difficult.
You are a very sarcastic slasher, the Spirit of the Hunt said. I like that.
Thank you, I said. I try.
The Spirit of the Hunt giggled, which confirmed she was not a goddess of great dignity. Divinities shouldn’t giggle.
Nancy didn’t seem to hear me this time, instead concentrating on something else. “I could see the blood on her hands but somehow I knew it was justified, at least by my standards. Which is pretty screwed up now that I think about it. You? You’re clean as a whistle.”
I felt vaguely insulted. “Yes, well, that will change soon.”
“You really want to start killing people?” Nancy asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, picking up a rusted metal poker and stabbing the logs in the fireplace. “But if I’m going to start killing people then it might as well be the worst of humanity. You’re apparently a pretty good judge of people so this is very helpful.”
Nancy blinked. “You’re using me to tell you whether people are okay to kill or not?”
“Would you trust yourself if you were me?” I asked.
Nancy looked like she was contemplating that. “I feel like this is not a conversation for a first date or whatever the hell this is.”
“I don’t think dates should be after traumatic experiences,” I replied. “Mind you, I’ve never had one.”
“What? Never?” Nancy asked. “Wait, dates or traumatic experiences?”
“Dates. I’ve got plenty of trauma to go around. I’m just good at compartmentalizing, or I’m a psychopath, either way. As for my romantic history? I’m an escaped mental patient,” I replied, sighing. “I was sixteen when I got caught trying to smuggle my fourteen-year-old sister into Mexico and escape from our sick family’s legacy. From there, I spent the next ten years locked away.”
“Damn and I thought my life sucked,” Nancy said, looking me up and down. “Well, it still does, even by comparison.”
“True,” I said.
Nancy frowned. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Grievous bodily injury is your best bet,” I replied. “Decapitation or fire will generally result in a slasher’s permanent death. They may become ghosts but those are subject to exorcisms, magic, or banishment. If you’re looking
for something more concrete, I can’t help you. A lot of monster hunting lore is to try everything and hope something sticks. We buried Grandpa upside down and he kept digging until he finally ran out of lives.”
Nancy stared. “That’s...horrible.”
“It worked, though.” He was still pissed about it, though. Jeremiah was just less inclined to bother us than dear old Dad.
Nancy felt her head. “Well, I don’t have any magical girl powers. Well, aside from resurrection.”
“You might,” I said, trying to remember what little I recalled of my father’s few non-family associates. Slashers rarely worked together, but they maintained a somewhat informal network of support unless they were famous enough to have a cult like Fred Killian the Nightmare King or totally isolated like the Camp Killer. “Some slashers have powers in addition to their ability to shrug off bullets, blades, and beatings. There are people who can teleport, turn invisible, or more. They’re not as varied as other supernatural creatures, but they exist.”
“Great,” Nancy said. “So, if there’re slashers at the Fraternity’s compound, we could be dealing with supervillains.”
“Do you think there’re slashers at the compound?” I asked. My father had been confident they were just a bunch of misogynist sportsmen but, as we’d established, he was an idiot about certain things. Like life.
“I felt a tingle or two while in that place,” Nancy said, clenching her right fist. “I think there’re slashers there now. Bad ones.”
“I’m not sure there’s such a thing as a good slasher,” I said, dryly.
“Define good,” Nancy replied.
I smiled. “Fair point.”
Nancy shook her head. “So, what’s the plan? You brought me out here to let me eat and recover or murder me—”
She made the latter sound like a joke, but I wasn’t sure she was entirely joking. That hurt.
“I would never murder you,” I interjected. I didn’t know but the very thought caused me to feel a horrifying stabbing pain—which was figurative rather than literal this once.
“You don’t know me.”
“No,” I said. “Also, there’re a couple of circumstances where I would kill you.”
“Oh?” Nancy asked. “If I went after you or your sister?”
“That’s one, at least,” I said. “Thankfully, my sister seems to have taken with you.”
Nancy chuckled. “Family first.”
“Not a rule I normally observe,” I said, looking outside. “My plan was to get all of the weapons and equipment we have from my dad’s old storage unit. From there, I planned to ask you what you remembered from the compound about its design as well as personnel. I’d then case the place and draw a plan of attack. If possible, presuming I can locate them, I figured we’d rescue your friends before focusing on any retaliation.”
Nancy nodded along. “They have to die for what they’ve done. I had eight sorority sisters when this began. Seven for their ritual and two spares. They killed Tina to show they meant business.”
I nodded. “Both of us do need rest, though.”
“Give me a pen and paper and I’ll draw you a map. I’m far too worried to go to sleep,” Nancy said, sounding like she was about to pass out again. “Do we have any beer here?”
“A woman drinking beer, shock!” Carrie said in the doorframe. “That would be enough to warrant your death by dear ol’ Dad’s hands by itself.”
In her hands was an adorable but starved mini pit bull. It was black and white with one floppy ear, and it was chewing on a tiny rib.
“Your dad was a real butthole,” Nancy said.
Carrie and I looked at her.
“Seriously, you’re hanging with mass murderers,” Carrie said. “Well, one and a half mass murderers depending on how you define killing zombies. You can swear.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t,” Nancy said, embarrassed. “It’s not my thing. Cute dog, though. So, the previous owners left it? Jerkwads.”
“Yeah,” Carrie said, narrowing her eyes. “When I saw him, I knew they must die. Apparently, my prey includes those who abuse animals.”
“What’s his name?” I asked, heading to the kitchen to check the non-running refrigerator.
“Cujo!” Carrie said, proudly. “I fed him some of our murder meat and filled his bowl with the hose outside. I plan to raise him with love and care.”
The inside of the refrigerator was stocked with nothing but the cheapest beer possible. What a wonderful bunch the previous owners had been. “By feeding him the remains of victims?”
“Yep!” Carrie said, nuzzling Cujo.
“Just promise me you won’t raise him from the dead if he dies as a weird zombie dog,” I said, half-suspecting it was one already.
Carrie frowned. “I make no such promise!”
“Bark-bark!” Cujo said.
I picked up one of the beers and walked over to hand it to Nancy. “About the only thing I can say about this is it’s cold. Mostly because room temperature outside is rapidly getting freezing.”
Nancy had already passed out, though.
“Is she dead?” Carrie asked. “Because that would be very anti-climactic.”
“No, just exhausted,” I said. “Resurrection is the most difficult of skills.”
Oddly, I felt fine. Maybe a bit winded but still able to function normally. I wondered what that said about me as a slasher.
“Well, you aced it,” Carrie said, getting a murderous grin. “We should practice seeing how good you are at it.”
“No,” I said, simply.
“Spoilsport,” Carrie said. “We could be like Wednesday and Pugsley!”
“I thought I was Marilyn,” I said.
“You can be both,” Carrie said. “Do you really think she is an Artemis?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I didn’t believe they existed. I just thought Dad was being sexist, but if it’s true then that means she’s an incredibly potent weapon. Both potentially for and against us.”
“Did you tell her that Artemises can supposedly kill us permanently?” Carrie asked. “Ghosts or otherwise?”
“Woof!” Cujo added.
“Not yet,” I said, looking down at her.
“You should be honest with her if you want to pork her,” Carrie said.
“Bark!” Cujo agreed, I think.
“Carrie!” I snapped at her.
“What?” Carrie said. “Sex is really fun. You should try it. I’ll show you how if you don’t—”
“Please don’t finish that sentence,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not interested in that.”
At least I didn’t think I was. Maybe I was asexual bi-romantic or demisexual. I hadn’t bothered to do much study of the subject since my experiences with psychology were decidedly negative. Mind you, I was certain the waterboarding and electroshock they did at the asylum was nonstandard in the year 2000.
“Liar,” Carrie said. “Slip her the salami, Will!”
“You know I’m still awake, right?” Nancy muttered. “I just closed my eyes.”
“Yes, clearly,” I lied. “Hence the performance we just put on for your entertainment.”
“Beer now,” Carrie said, holding her hands out.
I gave it to her.
Chapter Seven
Nancy turned out to have not been completely faking sleep since she passed out about an hour after going over details she could remember about the compound. It was enough that I was able to start working on a plan while she got herself some much-needed rest. Carrie, by contrast, spent the entire time unloading our meager possessions and searching the house for anything salvageable. It was probably a lost cause since not only was this place a mess, but we’d have to leave after we killed the members of the Fraternity. Cynical as it may sound, killing a few random hitchhikers every month like my father used to do was a lot easier than planning on murdering people so rich they could literally get away with murder. I managed to find a few useful things on m
y own scavenger hunt but nothing game changing.
You’ll manage, the Spirit of the Hunt said. Assuming you survive.
Yes, assuming I survive, I replied. You want to help my odds by telling me something about the slashers there?
That would be cheating, the Spirit of the Hunt replied.
You are a very strange god, I said. Is everything just a game to you?
That’s all gods, the Spirit of the Hunt said.
She had me there. Instead, I focused my attention on getting my plan set up. The house had a pool table in place of the dining room and I used that to build a model made from a Lego-filled trunk I’d found upstairs. At one point there was a child living in this house and by the fact there was a nasty blood stain in their bed, it seemed they’d met a grizzly end. Probably from the meth dealers who’d taken it over afterward. God, Wounded Buffalo was an awful place.
Every American town has its share of horrible secrets. Murder, incest, child abuse, spouse abuse, and bigotry are so common as to be unremarkable, the Spirit of the Hunt said. Slashers are just more honest about their deeds. The ones you should really worry about are those who hide behind smiles and righteousness. Those people are evil.
What are you, really? I asked. Are you a god, demon, or ghost?
I am beyond your comprehension, the Spirit of the Hunt said.
I shrugged and went back to work. In the end, I had created a 1:500 scale model of the Fraternity’s compound. It was approximately one hundred acres in size, built around a central mansion, and surrounded by a variety of artificially constructed environments. A ten-foot-tall granite wall surrounded the place with barbed wire on top as well as guard towers. It had originally been a quarry but had been remodeled under the auspices of creating a vacation spot. Well, that was true from a certain point of view.
I had always been blessed with a fortuitous skill with numbers and geometry. I’d managed to refine that with years of practice since, honestly, there wasn’t much to do in the asylum but read or count the flowers on the wallpaper. Legos were also one of the few objects patients like me were able to possess, which was stupid since I could think of about a dozen ways to kill people with them. Nancy’s description hadn’t been able to give me precise sizes for staffing quarters, barracks, and other details, but I’d be able to figure most of the rest out once I got a good look at the place. Besides, I was able to extrapolate at least a good chunk of it from basic mathematics. The Fraternity compound wasn’t that different from a movie studio, really, with a corn field, campground, forest, lake, and even a fake Wild West main street. The place must have cost two hundred million dollars to construct and that wasn’t including operating costs.