CHAPTER 12
“Killing isn’t easy; that’s why they call it murder.”
—Not The Big Sick
“Stu wanted to find the exit before you,” John says, pausing to lift a hand in greeting to the two new additions to our group. Jennifer looks happy to see him, and I remember that before everything went down, it seemed like they had a nice date.
“He told Dani and Colette to go back into the basement together to see if any of the dead staff had phones. I stayed on this level, and he went up to the mezzanine.”
While the slasher fan in me is screaming that nothing good ever happens by returning to the scene of the original kill, let alone going down into a basement, I can admit trying to look for a phone on one of the staff is a good idea—one I wish I thought of before we made our way up.
But why didn’t Stu tell the rest of us? Why turn an escape attempt into a competition?
He really is a dusty-ass piece of coal. And maybe he’s something worse than that. I’m starting to doubt whether that scream we heard while we were downstairs—the one that made me think the killer was above our heads and couldn’t be anyone in the room—is enough to reduce the number of suspects.
Then I realize—
“So, you’ve been alone this whole time?” I ask John.
The thought is terrifying for two reasons. The first is: What if he’d come up against the killer? What if he became the next person we found splayed out in the middle of a hallway?
The second is that unlike the four people beside me, John doesn’t have anyone to verify what he’s saying is true.
My stomach clenches when the thought crosses my mind.
Do I think he somehow killed two people, left a trail of rose petals—all while evading notice from his own group and ours—cleaned himself up, and made it back onto the dance floor to meet us?
No, I don’t.
Can I discount him as a suspect because I don’t think this sweet guy is capable of murder?
No… I can’t.
“I had to navigate this level on my own, I’m afraid.
” John directs his crooked little smile my way, the one that’s cute and humble and apologetic all at once.
“The hallway made a square kind of shape after I passed some restrooms. There was another bar, and then I hit a dead end.” His steel-blue gaze moves to each member of our group.
We’ve made an arc around him, like the lifeless remains of a dance circle.
“I didn’t want you guys to come back and find no one here, so I turned around, and when I came across the bar again, I thought there might be a first aid kit.
” The guilt of thinking he could be a suspect grips harder when he holds up the green fabric case, a white cross stark in the middle of it.
“It might come in handy in case we find anyone who needs help.”
“I don’t think a few bandages are going to help the people we found,” Billie mutters darkly, then at John’s furrowed expression she says, “Bodies.”
John’s face drops, and I realize there must have been a certain part of him that thought the bloodshed was done for the night.
That what happened in the basement was like fireworks on New Year’s Eve: a sudden, explosive display of color and sound, an assault on the eyes, but over as soon as it had begun.
He doesn’t know about the new bodies, or the blood, or the rose petals.
He doesn’t know this is only the beginning.
“What do you mean bodies?” John looks between us all, but it’s Billie who juts a thumb over her shoulder.
“Two. In a hallway over there.”
Again I’m struck by how cold she is. How… unfeeling. If it came down to John or Billie being the killer, I know who I’d put my money on.
“Christ,” John mutters, his hair falling into his eyes as he shakes his head. I have the sudden urge to brush the light brown strands back from his face, but I push that thought away as he glances back up and looks around the group. “Where’s Campbell?”
“He ran off,” Wes says. He’s turned his gaze to the mezzanine level, looking up at the rails above our heads as if Campbell and Stu are going to walk out from the shadows and wave down to us on the dance floor.
“He’s probably the one doing this,” Billie interjects. “It’s always the quiet ones.”
“What if it’s Stu, though?” Jennifer says. She’s gripping onto her elbows now, and the skin around her fingers has turned white. “What if—”
“Our job isn’t to play detective right now,” Wes interrupts.
It’s an instruction, a command, but he says it softly.
As carefully as a man wielding a chair leg can.
“We need to keep looking for a way out. We should head up to the mezzanine, but we have to have a clearer idea of what we’re walking into. It’s too easy to get lost in here.”
Far too easy. That’s what it’s designed for, after all. That was the draw for me and Laurie all those years ago, and when I glance over at her and see her already looking my way, I know she has the same idea as me.
“What if we make a map?” she says. “Jamie and I can try to piece together what we remember of this place.”
Wes and John already know about our history with Serendipity, but the offer prompts the women to look at us with surprise. I can’t help but notice that somewhere within Billie’s expression of distaste is something that looks like suspicion.
“We used to come here a lot,” I say before any accusations or more dirty looks can be thrown across the half circle.
I guess I’d be suspicious of anyone knowing the ins and outs of the club, too.
Having control over the environment is an advantage for the killer, but it could become an advantage for us, as well.
“Granted, it’s been awhile, but I don’t think the layout has changed too much… Maybe it’ll help?”
“It wouldn’t hurt. I think you should tell us about those rules, too,” Wes suggests.
“The rules?” Laurie’s voice is incredulous, and when I nod she raises a brow at me suggestively. The bitch knows me too well. “Well,” Laurie says with a shrug, “if there was ever a time to use them, it’s now. You talk and I’ll draw?”
It’s a good plan, and I move my bloody heels into my other hand and point to the coat check. “We can use paper and pens from in there.”
I’ve only taken a few steps across the dance floor, which manages to be both sticky and dusty under my feet, when Laurie is at my shoulder, Wes and John are close at our heels, and Billie and Jennifer have no choice but to follow us.
When we make it to the coat check, I ignore the dead body at my feet, making sure not to step in her blood as I place my shoes and weapon on the desk.
Opening the top drawer, I pull out some of the stationery I spotted earlier as Laurie joins me behind the desk and everyone else waits near the door or across the counter.
Their bodies are angled in a way that shows the last hour or so has been enough for rule six—watch your back—to become firmly ingrained in the group dynamic.
As Laurie gets to work sketching the outline of the club, I turn back to the group, pretending that this is just a bunch of undergrads rather than a group of people trying to survive the most horrible night of their lives.
“I’m writing a thesis—which you don’t need to know anything about except that I specialize in horror films. Slashers.
And these types of films are pretty formulaic.
The story plays out because of the characters’ choices.
To have conflict and to build tension, characters usually have to make more bad decisions than good ones.
All that’s to say, in learning from their mistakes, there are basic rules that need to be followed if you want to survive. ”
“Survive what?” Billie asks drily from where she leans against the counter.
Laurie and I share a look and her lips purse almost imperceptibly.
I’m finely tuned to the subtleties of my best friend’s facial expressions, and I can easily read her opinion of Billie.
She’s so detached, dismissive. It might be a coping mechanism, but it makes me doubt my theory that the murderer has to be a man.
“A slasher,” I say again. “Like Halloween, Friday the 13th, Scream. They’re all films about a killer who hunts down a group of people… Like what’s happening right now.”
Billie’s lip is already curled up to dislike whatever I’m going to say, but when I glance over to Wes, who’s standing guard at the entry to the coat check, and John and Jennifer, who stand behind Billie, none of them seem offended by what I’m saying.
So I ignore her perpetual bitch face and continue my lecture.
“Here are the rules for surviving a slasher.” I decide to skip number one, since I don’t think anyone is going to really have the inclination to get some action tonight.
“If you end up hiding, you need to stay hidden for longer than you think you should. In the movies, people always leave their hiding place too soon and the killer is just standing there waiting for them. I’m hoping that if the others haven’t found an exit, that’s what they are doing. ”
I pick up the broken bottle. “Having a weapon is a must. So is turning on a light when you enter a room, because the killer can hide in the darkness, but that rule also has a loophole if turning on a light is going to draw attention to where you’re hiding. Pretty much just be wary of dark spaces.”
I turn to John. “Splitting up is obviously a bad idea—”
“Stu was the one who wanted everyone to split up initially, wasn’t he?”
Jennifer’s voice is neutral, but I can literally see her biting her tongue to keep from voicing her “it’s Stu” theory again.
It’s not that I couldn’t be persuaded to think he’s the killer, or I don’t want to try and figure out who is doing this, either.
It’s just that in most of the slashers I’ve seen, people die because they get sidetracked trying to figure out who the killer is instead of just focusing on self-preservation.