The Cabin in the Woods

ONE

Never did understand the whole kid thing, Gary Sitterson thought. Mess your house up, drain your resources, and make you grow prematurely old.

He held his mug beneath the coffee dispenser, setting on “strong.” He’d have used “nuclear” strength if it existed; it was going to be a long day, and he was tired. Beside him Steve Hadley sighed, and Sitterson smiled to himself.

Besides, it’s obvious for all to see: women are mad.

It had been brought to his attention more than once that this attitude made his job far easier.

“It’s hormonal,” Hadley said, continuing the rant which, if anything, was more of an expression of bemusement. “I mean, I don’t usually fall back on, you know, ‘It’s women’s issues’…”

“But child-proofed how?” Sitterson asked. Hadley, married and still childless, had been bemoaning the fact that his wife was preparing their home for the arrival of a child not yet conceived, though one for which they had been practicing for some time. “Gates and stuff?” “No, no, dude,” Hadley said. Bemusement was turning rapidly into exasperation. “She bought gates, they’re stacked up in the hallway. She did the drawers! We’re not even sure this fertility thing is gonna work and she screwed all these little jobbies where you can’t open the drawers.”

“At all?” Sitterson asked, holding his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. What the fuck? There was mad, and there was plain crazy-batshit. He’d met Hadley’s wife briefly and, patently insane though she was, he’d not thought she was any higher on the scale than most women. But screwing all the kitchen drawers closed? What, to stop Hadley getting at the food so he’d go to bed and screw her instead?

“They open, like, an inch,” Hadley said, illustrating with thumb and forefinger and shaking his head. His own coffee cup had overflowed once already, but he pressed the serve button again. Dude was definitely somewhere else today; that wasn’t good. “Then you gotta dig your fingers in and fiddle with this plastic thing, a catch, lock, like a sorta…” He shook his head and grabbed his cup, spilling half of it. “It’s a nightmare!”

“Well, I guess sooner or later—”

“Later!” Hadley spat. He shoved past Sitterson and started pumping dollar coins into the vending machine. Chocolate bars and bags of chips tumbled, and Sitterson thought, He really can’t get into his kitchen cabinets. “What I mean is—”

“She did the upper cabinets as well, man! Kid won’t be able to reach those ’til he’s thirty! Assuming, you know: kid. Hell, she can’t even reach them—has to stand on a stool or call for me!” He looked into some depressing distance for a few seconds, then mused, “Wonder how the hell she got up there to drill.”

“She chosen the kid’s college yet?”

Hadley paused in tearing open a chip bag, staring at Sitterson as if, for a moment, he was going to rip open his own friend’s throat.

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Gary,” he said.

“I know,” Sitterson said, mock-stern. But he couldn’t keep a straight face, and as his lips twitched and his eyes started watering with restrained mirth, Hadley shoved the food into his pockets and hefted the bundle of files under one arm. Coffee cup gripped in the other hand—still spilling, though almost empty by now—he pushed past Sitterson and left the room.

Still laughing, trying to calm himself, Sitterson picked up the white cooler box at his feet and went after him.

“Hold up!” he called. Hadley had started along the plain concrete corridor, starkly painted white walls echoing his offended footsteps. “Hey, Steve.” Hadley paused and glanced back, a defeated smile softening his own features.

“Shithead,” he said.

“Yeah, I know.” Sitterson took a swig of coffee. “It’s a talisman. It’s an offering.” “Don’t even—!” He shook his head. “Man, you have women’s issues.”

“Please,” Sitterson said softly, feeling a little sad for his friend now. He knew how long Steve and his wife had been trying, and maybe he should try to empathize a little more. “You of all people—”

“Me of no people. It’s a jinx! Guarantees we won’t get pregnant, and it takes me twenty minutes to get a fucking beer.”

“Look out,” Sitterson whispered, spying movement along the corridor past Hadley. “Here comes trouble.” Trouble in this case was a tall, severe-looking woman in a white lab coat. Six feet tall even without the two-inch heels she wore, Wendy Lin was one of the few women ever to make Sitterson feel uncomfortable.

No wonder he’d always wanted to get into her panties.

She might have been beautiful if she wasn’t so tense, and she mightn’t have been so tense if she didn’t choose to tie her hair back so tightly. Sometimes Sitterson thought that Lin must employ the aid of some arcane preening device to pull her hair back so far each morning. And just to make him more firmly convinced of his generalizations, she was quite patently mad.

“Stockholm went south,” Lin said. No greeting, no preamble. And with news like that, it was hardly a surprise.

“Seriously?” Sitterson gasped. “I thought they were looking good.”

“What cracked?” Hadley asked. “I haven’t seen the footage,” she replied. “Word’s just going around.” Sitterson felt a chill at the news, but it was mostly one of excitement. With Stockholm gone, it made them that much more important.

“That scenario’s never been stable,” Hadley said. “You can’t trust… what do you call people from Stockholm?”

“Stockerholders?” Sitterson grinned at Lin, knowing how she hated flippancy. She was as serious as her hairdo, and probably twice as tight.

“Ha!” Hadley coughed, making a gun with his fingers and shooting Sitterson for such a bad, sharp, quick joke.

“That means there’s just Japan,” Lin said, pointedly ignoring them both. “Japan and us.”

“Not the first time it’s come down to that,” Hadley said. He chewed on a Snickers to cover his nervousness, but Sitterson could see the way his friend’s eyes were shifting.

He’s thinking about his kid that’s not yet conceived, he thought. And who can blame him?

“Japan has a perfect record,” Sitterson said, stating what they all knew anyway. And he admitted to himself that, yeah, okay, he felt a little nervous at the news as well. Even well-oiled machines fell victim to gremlins on occasion.

“And we’re number two, so we try harder,” Hadley said. He hated being beaten by anyone, but especially the Japs. If Sitterson was sexist—something he was aware of, and comfortable with—then Hadley’s main fault was his casual racism. Sitterson had never brought him up on it, because it was just too uncomfortable. Too damn serious. And the only way he got by was by ignoring anything serious unless he had no choice but to confront it.

“It’s cutting it close,” Lin said.

The three of them started walking, passing beneath steadily glaring fluorescents and moving along the featureless corridor. The floor was power-floated concrete sealed against dust, the walls were unadorned and unbroken, and the ceiling hid a network of pipes and wires above its suspended panels. There wasn’t a single nod to aesthetics. Identical doors were spaced at equal distances along one side, and behind the other wall was something else. Something that didn’t have doors.

Their footsteps echoed dully, and around the corner sat three golf carts, their “charged” lights blinking green. The wider corridor before them was just as bare and featureless, its far end swallowed by perspective. Sitterson had walked it a few times. But why walk when there were wheels?

As usual, Hadley took control of the cart, with Lin and Sitterson sitting in the back.

“Yeah, cutting it close,” Hadley said, dropping his vending machine haul onto the seat beside him. “And that’s why it’s in the hands of professionals.”

“They hired professionals?” Sitterson asked, grinning at Lin’s sour face. “What happens to us?”

“You guys better not be messing around in there,” Lin said. “Does this mean you’re not in the betting pool this year?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling. He liked to think that was his finest feature, a mischievous look that women found irresistible.

Statistics had yet to prove him right.

“I’m just saying that it’s a key scenario.” Damn, she really was the Ice Queen. Sitterson wondered idly whether her face would slide off her skull if he were to surreptitiously sever her hair band and relieve the pressure.

“I know what you’re saying,” Hadley said, pushing the electronic ignition. The cart started to purr beneath them. “But remember ’98? That was the Chem department’s fault. And where do you work again, Lin? Wait, it’s coming back to me…” He accelerated away, and Sitterson half-stood to avoid spilling his coffee.

“Gonna be a long weekend if everybody’s that puckered up,” Hadley continued, quietly. Then he seemed to liven up, weaving the cart back and forth across the corridor, narrowly avoiding striking both walls several times.

“Damn it!” Sitterson said as he lost the battle and spilled coffee on his sharp-creased trousers. Wiping it with a napkin, he rolled his eyes at Lin, who regarded him coolly. He glanced down at the front of her lab coat. She always wore it large and loose, and he always wondered…

But when he glanced up again, her expression forbore any wondering. He rolled his eyes again. She blinked slowly and looked away. Later, he thought. When all this is over and the celebrations are starting, maybe—

“Hey, you want to come over Monday night?” Hadley called back to him. “I’m gonna pick up a couple of power drills and liberate my cabinets.” He laughed like a banshee, and barely slowed the cart to take the first ninety-degree corner.

Sitterson gave up and tipped the rest of his coffee out of the cart.

Monday, he thought. This’ll all be over by then.

“Sure,” he said.

Dana Polk loved to rock and roll. Most girls her age were into some of the softer, safer, middle-of-the-road rock music that the new millennium had brought. She could listen to Coldplay if she had to, but for her they lacked edge. She could put up with Nickelback, if they were forced on her. But her preference as a thoughtful—some would say sexy, though she still had trouble applying that word to herself—sophomore, was music with… well, balls.

She loved to rock out, feeling the music driving her blood and increasing her heartbeat, and sometimes she thought that was part of the reason she stayed so fit. The best workouts she’d ever had—well, the second best—were in the mosh-pits at rock concerts.

And so what better music to pack to than the Foo Fighters. Dave Grohl… now there was a man. Her friend Jules would issue an Ewww whenever Dana mentioned him. He’s too old for you by far, and too… hairy. But he was a guy with edge. He had, as Dana’s mother liked to say, “The Grrr Factor.” He was also happily married, but that never stopped Dana’s mind from wandering his way now and then.

She bopped and skipped as she packed, shirt flapping around her bare thighs, swinging an invisible microphone stand in front of her and launching into a chorus just when a guitar solo burst in. Whoops, she thought, feeling a blush of embarrassment even though she was on her own. Perhaps for now she should concentrate just on filling her weekend bag.

Dana glanced around her room, wondering what else she should take. She’d miss this place. The room was neat and restrained; books stacked mostly in alphabetical order, CDs stored in tidy piles. Unlike some students, she’d quickly imprinted her personality on the place, displayed most prominently in the several sketches and watercolors about which she’d been confident enough to frame and hang.

Most of them were portraits, or pictures of imaginary people, but a few were more abstract landscapes which Jules said she sometimes found spooky. Forest scenes with ambiguous shapes suspended in high branches. Fields of corn with shadows where there should be none. Dana thought they were just offbeat, but she supposed someone who wasn’t living in her mind could justifiably see them as weird. She ran her fingers along the bookshelves and pulled out a few political science textbooks. No harm in taking some reading, in case things were quiet this weekend. She threw in some art supplies, as well—stuff she never traveled anywhere without, including pencils and charcoals. Picking up her sketchpad, she started flipping through the pages.

Like any naturally artistic person she was eternally self-critical, but she could also remove herself to a distance and view the work objectively. And she knew that some of what she did wasn’t at all bad. Sure, she could find something to criticize in everything she sketched, but that was the curse of a true artist. She flipped the pages, musing more upon her passion for art than the pictures themselves, until—

There he was. The son-of-a-bitch.

Gorgeous. Longish hair, glasses… the very epitome of a college lecturer. Damn it, if only she hadn’t been so fucking stupid. But he was so handsome. Bastard.

She sighed, thought about finding a pair of jeans, and—

“What a piece of shit!”

Dana gasped, letting out a little shriek. She hadn’t even heard Jules approaching.

“I rushed it,” Dana said, recovering quickly and not taking her eyes from the picture.

“You know what I mean.” Jules’s voice was low and sultry, a natural attribute which she put to great use. “Why haven’t you stuck that asshole’s picture on the dartboard yet?” “It’s not that simp—” Dana began, but as she turned around, shock cut her off. For a second confusion overwhelmed her.

“Oh my God, your hair!” she gasped.

Jules struck a pose that would have made lesser men weep, and even strong men quake in their boots.

“Very fabulous, no?”

“I can’t believe you did it!” Her friend certainly did look very fabulous. She’d been talking about going blonde for months now, but Dana had never believed she’d actually go through with it. Brunette had served her well, but Jules was nothing if not experimental. She sometimes called Dana “rock chick,” but she was far from the stereotype that usually went with that term. Rock yes, chick no. Out of the two of them, it was Jules who wore that badge with pride.

“But very fabulous, right?” she asked again, scowling a false frown. “Hurry up with the very fabulous, I’m getting insecure about it.”

“Oh God, no,” Dana said, “it’s awesome! It looks really natural, and it’s great with your skin. I just didn’t think you were ever gonna—”

“Impulse,” Jules said. “I woke up this morning and thought, I want to have more fun. Who is it that has more fun?” Still posing, she ruffled up her hair and pouted. “Marilyn, dahling.”

“Manson?”

“Monroe! Imbecile.”

“Curt’s gonna lose it,” Dana laughed.

“He’ll have more fun too,” Jules said. “And so will you… ” She snatched the sketch pad from Dana and stared at it, scowling at the image. “…while we are burning this picture.”

Dana grabbed the pad back, her good humor slipping just a little. She understood that Jules was being protective of her, and angry at the man who’d hurt her. But really, it was only Dana who knew everything that had gone on.

“I’m not ready to,” she said. “And seriously, this isn’t all his fault.”

“What’s not his fault?” Jules asked. Her posing and pouting was over now, and she stalked Dana’s room like a cat looking for a mouse. “Being thirty-eight and married, fucking his student, or breaking up with her by email?”

“I knew what I was getting into,” Dana said, looking at the picture and silently acknowledging how much crap that was. She hadn’t known at all. In retrospect she’d come to understand it all, but that was what learning by mistakes was all about.

“Right,” Jules said. “Dana Polk, homewrecker. Puh-leeze.” She moved to the dresser, and started rifling shamelessly through Dana’s open drawers. Dana loved Jules as a best friend, but sometimes she was so damn… close.

“You know what I—” she began.

“You know what you’re getting into this weekend?” Jules asked, her mood brightening again. She was holding up Dana’s little wine-colored bikini. “This. And if Holden’s as cute as Curt says he is, possibly out of it as well.”

“That’s the last thing—” Dana said, then she saw the truth behind Jules’s smile. “If you guys treat this like a set-up, I’m gonna have no fun at all.”

“I’m not pushing,” Jules said, doing exactly the opposite. She crossed to Dana’s bed, flipped up her suitcase’s lid and ran her hands over the surface of the stuff she’d already packed. “Hmm. But we are packing the bikini. Which means…” She pulled the textbooks out and dropped them on the bed, one, two, three. “…we definitely won’t have room for these.”

“Oh, come on, what if I’m bored?”

Jules gasped and looked at her, and Dana closed her eyes, realizing just how lame that sounded.

“These’ll help?” Jules said. “Soviet Economic Structures? Aftermath of the Cultural…?” She tossed one of the books theatrically across the bed, not even blinking when it bounced onto the floor.

If that cover is broken, the library will charge me, Dana thought.

“No!” Jules cried, grasping the remaining two books to her chest. “We have a lake! And a keg! We are girls on the verge of going wild— Just look at my hair, woman!”

Dana looked, and nodded, and she had to admit to herself, Yeah, this has the feel of being an epic weekend.

“It is great,” she said, and she was about to add more when a voice called from the doorway—

“Think fast!”

Curt had only been listening for a few seconds— well, maybe thirty… okay, perhaps a minute—and while the idea of snooping for longer on his girlfriend and her hot friend had its attractions, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He thought of himself as a decent guy, and decent guys didn’t do things like that.

Besides, there was the risk he’d hear something he didn’t want to. And he’d been timing himself.

So swinging around the corner into the room and throwing the football had seemed a suitable way to overcome his slight embarrassment. Perhaps he should have thought to check on whether both girls were dressed.

One of them let out a surprised yelp, though he didn’t know which one. As the ball sailed between them and directly through the open window, he had an instant to register two facts about the view: one, his girlfriend’s hair had changed color; and two, Dana was only wearing a shirt and panties.

It took him only a heartbeat to confirm that he liked both things.

“Well, faster than that,” he said, grinning.

“Curt!” Jules snapped, but he was already darting into the room. He shoved them toward the window, and all three of them looked out to see what had become of the ball.

It was a nice street, with close-built three-story town houses, mostly given over to student accommodations, and a variety of vehicles parked along the curbside. Some students had new cars bought for them when they came to college, others had to buy their own— gleam sat next to rust, but both seemed very much at home here. The whole place exuded a good vibe, and that’s why Curt liked it so much.

Also out on the street was a guy dropping his duffle bag and rushing sideways into the road, hand reaching, arms stretching, feet leaving the road surface as he leapt. And the thrown football landed in his hands as if drawn by some invisible force.

The squeal of brakes was only slight—a perturbed gasp rather than an upset screech—and the car that touched his leg seemed to do so almost tenderly.

“Yes!” the guy said, holding the ball up in one hand. Then he became more contrite, backing out of the road and half-bending so he could look in at the car’s driver. “Sorry,” Curt heard him say. “Sorry. Move along.” “Niiice!” Curt breathed. Damn, the guy could catch. He detected disapproval battering him from both sides, so he remained looking out into the street. The guy saw him and waved up.

“Is that Holden?” Dana asked.

“Come on up!” Curt called, and he thought, Is that interest I hear in her sweet little voice? He took a step back so he could look from Jules to Dana, speaking to both of them. “Just transferred from State,” he confirmed. “Best hands on the team. He’s a sweet guy.” “And he’s good with his hands,” Jules said, looking pointedly at Dana.

Curt laughed out loud, then let his laughter fade away as his expression dropped into one of embarrassment.

“Um, hi,” he said to Jules. “I’m sort of seeing this girl, but, uh, you’re way blonder than she is, and I was thinking we could… ” He glimpsed the book she was holding to her chest, and abandoned the play. Time for another angle. “What is this?” He snatched the books from her, tugging lightly when she tried to resist. She growled, but he knew when her eyes were smiling.

“What are these?” he demanded. “What are you doing with these?”

“Okay,” Dana said, “I get it, I’ll—”

“Where did you get these?” Curt asked Jules, stretching the joke. “Who taught you about these?”

“I learned it from you, okay?” Jules gushed, holding one hand up to her forehead, feigning tears and storming breezily out of the room.

Curt was enjoying himself. He felt Dana’s slight discomfort, but he was also enjoying denying her the opportunity to pull on her pants. His girlfriend sure chose some cute friends, that he could say. He leaned close to Dana, struggling to keep his eyes on her face and not those long, smooth legs.

“Seriously?” he said, voice anything but. “Professor Bennett covers this whole book in his lectures. Read the Gurovsky; it’s way more interesting and Bennett doesn’t know it by heart, so he’ll think you’re insightful.

“And you have no pants.”

He smiled, threw the books on the bed and shouted out into the living room, “Holden! Crazy mad skills of catching!” Behind him he heard Dana’s small gasp of panic, and he glanced back to see her hauling her jeans up over her thighs and shapely behind.

Damn, he thought, eyes off, Curt. Eyes off.

As he left the bedroom Dana followed him out. He hoped he hadn’t upset her. It was set to be a momentous weekend; the great outdoors, beer, and sex. But probably not in that order, and in far from equal quantities.

Jerk, Dana thought, but it was with intense affection. Jules and Curt had been an item for over a year now, and she was really fond of her friend’s boyfriend. He was hot, too, but not really her type. A little too… jock for her liking. Though she’d never say that to him, or even to Jules. She wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings.

As she followed him out into the living room Jules was already opening the front door, and Dana had time to think, Damn it, didn’t brush my hair, are my jeans done up, did I button my shirt up because dammit I’m not wearing a bra yet and—

Holden stood framed in the doorway. Dana caught her breath.

“You laid it in my hands, I did but hold them out,” he said, smiling at Curt. He was even better looking close up than he’d seemed out in the street. Dark, strong, short hair—way shorter than any jock would choose to wear—and he had an easy smile that was completely unforced.

“There was the small matter of almost being hit by a car,” Curt said.

“It’s never a great catch unless there’s a challenge attached.” Holden tossed the ball to Curt, and grabbed a bag from beside his feet.

“Hey, I’m Jules,” Jules said, holding out her hand.

“Hi,” Holden said, eyes widening slightly. “Man, Curt did not exaggerate.”

“That’s a first,” Jules said, but Dana could see how flattered she was. She was surprised her friend didn’t start giggling and hiding her face against her shoulder like a coy little girl. The compliment had sounded pure and honest, though—if it hadn’t been, Holden surely would have come out with something smoother.

And then.

“Dude, this is Dana,” Curt said.

“Hey,” Dana said. Hey? Hey? Couldn’t she think of anything… ? But they locked eyes then, and Holden dropped his bag and walked past Curt to where Dana stood, making a point of closing the distance between them. Nevertheless, his three steps seemed to go on forever.

He shook her hand, his grip strong but gentle.

“I’m Holden,” he said. “Really nice to meet you.” He held her hand for just a little too long, then grinned and looked around at the others. “And thank you guys for letting me crash your weekend. I’ll just put a disclaimer up front: you don’t have to explain any of your in-jokes. I’ll probably be drunk and think they’re funny anyway.” A soft frown. “Should I have left out the part about being drunk?”

“With hindsight, yeah,” Curt quipped.

“Damn.” Holden looked past Dana at her bedroom door. “Can I help anybody carry anything?”

“Thanks, but I’d better finish packing first,” Dana said. She turned smartly and entered her bedroom again, looking at the open suitcase and the books spilled onto her bed, and the red wine-colored bikini Jules had insisted that she take. Her sketch pad still lay open on the bed beside the books, and her ex-lover’s eyes stared at her, rendered with Dana’s expert hand while they had still been together. Back then, she’d drawn him with love in his eyes. After what he’d done to her, even though she could not deny the feelings she still had for him, she didn’t think she could ever draw him again. Not that she would ever want to.

She dropped the bikini into the case. Maybe there would be some swimming in the lake this weekend, after all.

Jules had many fond memories of Curt’s family Rambler. The recreational vehicle slept six at a push, but the three times she and Curt had used it, it had just been the two of them. And they’d made full use of all the space inside. One time, when they’d been parked up in the mountains, sun setting behind the peaks and bleeding orange down the mountainside, she’d sat on his lap in the driver’s seat. Then, in neutral, he’d revved the engine. Damn, those vibrations. They’d used half a tank of fuel that night without going anywhere.

Now here it was, about to take them away again, and she was certain the memories she’d bring back from this weekend would be of somewhere else entirely.

Jules was glad to see the quiet, tentative communication going on between Holden and Dana. That scumbag lecturer had done a real job on her friend, and she hated it when Dana said, I’m not ready to let it go yet. It wasn’t that she was weak or feeble, it was just that… well, maybe Dana thought about things too much. And with what he’d done, it didn’t even need thinking about. He was a shithead, and she was better off without him.

You need someone to romance you, take your mind off him, she’d said, and Dana had replied, No, not that.

Well then, maybe you need a good screw, she’d said, and Dana had denied she needed that, either.

Maybe Holden’s the one to give her whatever the hell it is she needs, she thought.

Dana was inside the Rambler storing their stuff, and Jules watched as Holden passed up her own suitcase, then the polite smile that passed between them. Was that a brief touch of hands on the suitcase handle? She couldn’t tell from where she stood on the sidewalk, but—

Stop it! she scolded herself. It was up to the two of them now. She and Curt had done their bit. It was time for nature could take its course. “That pretty much it?” Holden asked, turning around and looking at her. He had a film of sweat on his forehead. Well, maybe three suitcases was a little excessive for just one weekend.

“Fuckin’ better be!” Curt said. “Jules, it’s a weekend, not an evacuation.”

Jules took a step closer to her boyfriend and prodded him in the chest.

“Trust me when I say there is nothing in those cases you won’t be glad I brought.”

“I’m shuttin’ right up,” Curt said. He raised one eyebrow, but Jules just smiled enigmatically and turned away. He loved it when she dressed up, and she wasn’t about to reveal any of the surprises she had in store.

“Oh my God!” Dana said. She was standing in the Rambler’s doorway looking along the street, and when Jules followed her gaze it took a moment for it to register.

Martin Mikalski. Marty.

He’d been part of their close circle for a couple of years, and to outsiders it might have looked like a strange combination. But whereas Curt was the wildman jock, Dana the sweet young thing with a fiery centre, and Jules the opinionated blonde type—today, literally, Marty was the most unaffected of them all.

There were no airs and graces with Marty. He called it as he saw it, was totally comfortable with himself, and seemed to want for nothing. He cherished his friends, Jules knew—he’d told her enough times, stoned and relaxed—and he seemed completely unselfconscious. And he was funny.

If Jules had been born a guy, she’d told herself many times, she would have wanted to be Marty.

But as soon as she saw him and what he was doing, Jules snorted in disbelief. It was almost a laugh, she supposed. But not quite.

Marty had parked his car and was still smoking a huge bong while climbing out. It was an awkward maneuver, but he concentrated hard to maintain his balance and avoid knocking the bong against the doorframe. It looked to Jules as if he’d done this many times before.

They all glanced around to see who was watching, who might see, and whether there were any cops in the area. The police often cruised by at regular intervals, and sometimes if they were bored they’d park up and watch for any students they could hassle for something. It didn’t happen much… but for them, something like this would have been pure gold.

“Marty… ” she muttered, not quite knowing what to say

“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.