Freddy tried another door, revealing twin bunkbeds and an open concept wardrobe. His breath surged sharply in his lungs and he wished he had time to take a hit from his vape. He had to find a hiding spot fast. The Slasher would be on his feet by now, shaking it off and picking up that axe.
The next room seemed promising. A pink hardshell suitcase and a black overnight bag patterned with skulls stood at the foot of a double bed. If Tiffany and Jen were staying here, they’d need space to hang up their clothes. To Freddy’s dismay, there was a dresser instead of a closet, and the door also didn’t have a lock. Fuck!
The last room left was the main bedroom. A beige carpet, floral wallpaper, and ruffles on everything, even the window dressing and the shade of a floor lamp. Eighties chic straight out ofNightmare on Elm Street.
Patrick’s sleek but sensible gray suitcase stood by the plump queen bed. Freddy knew it would already be empty and all the clothing hung up or neatly folded in the dresser. The only thing out of place was a buckled leather case with a handle, sitting on a bedside table. Freddy’s pulse sped up. He’d seen lots of movies in which assassins carry guns in innocuous cases. It wasn’t long enough for a sniper rifle, and he doubted Patrick had taken up the flute at Harvard. But if Patrick was packing heat, why wouldn’t he have taken it when they were heading out to look for Mikey?
Freddy had never touched a firearm in his life, but these were trying times. Even Sidney Prescott had fired guns. It wasn’t enoughanymore for a Final Girl to get lucky with a machete. Freddy plopped the promisingly heavy case on the bed and hurriedly undid the buckles. It would be good research for his screenplay, if nothing else.
The case unrolled in a whiff of oil and fresh leather, and Freddy found himself staring at a buffet of knives.
“Jesus, Patrick!” Freddy breathed.
The knives were shiny and well-cared for, like all of Patrick’s possessions, and neatly organized from the largest to smallest like surgical tools, the blades all facing in the same direction. A sudden wave of unease flooded Freddy’s gut. Patrick had invited the Jumpscare Society to the cabin and insisted they stay when everything started going sideways. Did he intend to make prosciutto out of everyone? He certainly could. These knives looked like they could cut through flesh like warm butter.
Freddy carefully slid out the largest knife, weighing it in his hand. Damn, Patrick had good taste. Freddy felt smugly satisfied. If only Jen could see him now, after she’d taken what they’d thought was the only good knife in the kitchen. This beauty made that one look like a toy. He swished it around like Inigo Montoya in front of the vanity mirror. Maybe the janitor in his screenplay should have a fancy knife roll like this, left over from his old life as a hit man—
Freddy stopped mid-swish. Slow, heavy footsteps were trudging upstairs, the wooden steps creaking a warning. Shit! Had his ruse not worked?
Freddy quickly rolled up the remaining knives and shoved them under the bed. Unfortunately there wasn’t enough room for him, not like the undercarriage of Russ’s car. He looked wildly around for another place to hide. The master bedroom didn’t have a lock on it, so as cliché as it was, he chose the closet.
Freddy slipped between the narrow louvered doors, grateful for Patrick’s careful unpacking. The wall of Oxford shirts and khakis should keep him hidden. He untied the hoodie from his waistand laid it on the carpeted floor of the closet, afraid the rasp of the swinging zipper would give him away. If the gently swaying hangers or his jackhammering heart didn’t betray him first.
He crouched beneath Patrick’s clothes, the knife gripped in both sweating hands, and peered through the horizontal wooden slats. If Russ opened the closet door, he was going to get his ankles butterflied.
Freddy didn’t see a thing. He held his breath, anticipating those heavy footfalls coming down the hallway. He heard nothing. Maybe his ruse had worked after all, and the Slasher had decided Freddy wasn’t stupid enough to go upstairs. Hopefully Freddy’s friends would arrive soon and provide the Slasher with more interesting prey. Freddy sat back, trying to make himself comfortable. He’d stay in this closet until dawn, safe as houses.
And then someone in the bedroom sneezed.
Freddy dared to peek through the closet door again, just in time to see two legs standing before him like tree trunks. Freddy raised the knife, ready to slice, but the axe burst through the slats above his head and churned about like someone trying to spoon the last of the peanut butter out of a jar.
Freddy yelped, ducking under the shower of splinters. It was too late to pretend the closet was empty. He had to move or risk getting a wedge of iron in his gut. Or throat. Or eye socket. Maybe all three. Every possibility played out in Freddy’s head. If this were a movie, the gruesomeness of his death would depend on how many of his friends had already died.
Fuck, he hoped he was the first.
No! He couldn’t die yet. He had a screenplay to finish! Freddy channeled his inner Jason Statham and yelled a wordless battle cry, stabbing the knife through the hole in the door the Slasher had made.
The Slasher retreated, pulling the axe with him. Freddy burst out of the closet with the knife outstretched, fueled by a new fire.Ranger Russ was a loner. He wouldn’t expect Freddy to fight back. He probably thought Freddy was a lazy slacker, like everyone else did.
Freddy uttered another cry, this time imitating the classic kung fu movies they occasionally showed at the Rialto. He sounded moreKung Fu PandathanEnter the Dragon,but it seemed to do the trick. Freddy waved the knife around in a figure-eight pattern, hoping Russ was dumb and racist enough to believe he actually knew martial arts.
The Slasher took another step back, seemingly surprised. That was when Freddy darted for the open bedroom door. This kung fu panda was about to run like hell into the woods.
Freddy suddenly found himself sprawled on his belly, inches from the threshold. Shit! He’d tripped on a ripple of plush carpet. Terror shot through his body as acutely as the jolt of the floor meeting his bones. He spat out carpet fibers and rolled on his back, just in time to dodge the axe slamming down to where the back of his skull had been moments ago.
Freddy scrabbled to his feet and brandished—
The knife! He’d dropped the knife! It lay in the bedroom doorway, pointing to the hallway as if giving directions. The Slasher noticed it, too, and for a chilling moment they both froze, eyes locked on the gleaming steel.
The Slasher moved first, lunging for the knife. Freddy grabbed Patrick’s empty suitcase and hurled it at him. The Slasher batted it away with the axe but succeeded only in spearing the fabric shell. He tried to shake the suitcase off, but it was stuck. Freddy laughed and scrabbled for the knife. The Slasher cocked his head, likeI can work with this,and began swinging the axe like a club, this time with Patrick’s suitcase on the end.
Oh shit. The swiveling wheels hit Freddy right in the jaw. The impact sent him hurtling back against the open bedroom door. His head struck the wood panelling, rattling his teeth. He hadn’t seen so many stars since he’d tried molly at that rave last fall.
The Slasher picked up the knife, and time slowed to a crawl.
Freddy watched, helpless, as the Slasher threw the axe and suitcase aside, too far for Freddy to dive for it. A gloved hand shot out and pinned him by the throat against the door. Freddy could almost hear Russ gloating over the clamor of his own heart.
Teeth still rattling, Freddy groped desperately for something, anything that might get him out of the Slasher’s choke hold.
