Tim Lebbon: The Cabin in the Woods

“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.

Clean-up began.

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.