Chapter 14 Freddy
Freddy
There were those who assumed that thinking wasn’t Freddy’s strong suit.
They’d be wrong. Drugs opened your mind!
He had a multiverse in his head, and it was all the possibilities dancing in front of him at once that had sent him crashing into the trees when the shadowy figure had appeared.
In a heartbeat, he’d seen the myriad ways the figure could attack.
In slow motion and from different angles, like a John Woo or Zack Snyder film.
Freddy saw all the damage Ranger Russ could do with the knife that had been taken from the kitchen.
Throats slit, hearts stabbed, bellies disemboweled, even (gulp) eyeballs gouged.
Brutally, with no finesse—or with the grace of a dancer.
And so Freddy did what any sensible person would do.
He bolted.
Freddy crashed through the trees, not caring if saplings whipped his arms and smacked the flashlight out of his hand. At one point a branch dragged off his hat, and another caused him to stumble so badly the cigarette lighter and baggie of weed slipped out of his hoodie pocket.
That was fine. His life was worth more than those material things.
He welcomed the cooling air on his sweating scalp as his arms and legs pumped, searching for a place where dark figures didn’t suddenly pop out of nowhere.
The appearance of mysterious strangers belonged only on the pages of his screenplay.
Eventually a cramp squeezed his side and his lungs begged for mercy. Unable to run anymore, he bent over with hands on his knees, gulping great mouthfuls of cedar-scented air.
“I think we lost him,” Freddy said, panting, each breath a stab to his chest.
Carrie didn’t answer.
Shit. Freddy straightened. He could’ve sworn Carrie was right behind him.
She wasn’t.
Shit. Shit.
He slouched against a tree as his knees turned to jelly, putting one hand on his chest to quell his racing heartbeat. What if that shadowy stranger had gotten Carrie while he was running away?
A needle prick of guilt pierced Freddy’s conscience.
He ignored it. What could he have done? Only someone with a death wish would’ve stuck around.
Heroism was all well and good in movies.
In real life, however, he could leave it to guys like Jason and Patrick who were used to being the heroes of their own lives.
Mikey, the second banana who desperately wanted to be a leading man, was also welcome to step up.
None of them had the imagination to see beyond their own tropes.
Jen was a rebellious goth, always thumbing her nose at the establishment.
It made her predictably unpredictable, not that he’d ever tell her.
Tiffany was the girlfriend who stood by her man—once he’d won her over.
And Carrie was a Final Girl through and through.
A survivor. Someone who overcame struggles with grit and determination.
Look at her coming back to Cedar Lake even though she’d slunk away in shame. That took moxie!
At least Freddy was self-aware enough to not fall into that trap.
Main character energy was for suckers. Main characters got thrown into the path of conflict.
Conflict made you unhappy! Killed your buzz.
Harshed your vibe. Freddy did just fine for himself, lurking in the wings and taking notes. Often literally, at the Rialto Theatre.
So what if he’d acted the coward. Who wouldn’t? Until someone was in this exact situation—hiding out from an angry knife-wielding ranger—they couldn’t judge.
Anyway, Carrie had the bread knife. She’d be fine! She was the Final Girl. She might not be tough like Jen, but Final Girls never were at first. She’d figure it out.
Freddy took out his vape, needing mellow vibes more than ever. The cannabis calmed him down, and he was able to think without collapsing into a ball of hysteria.
He wobbled in a circle, surveying his surroundings.
Trees, trees, and more trees. These woods were perfect for losing oneself in nature.
He’d always meant to camp out one weekend with shrooms. It would be great for expanding his mind.
Not so much for running from crazed stalkers.
Where the fuck was he? Carrie had the compass.
Though as long as he’d lost that shadowy stranger, his location didn’t matter.
So what was he going to do now?
He knew what the janitor in his screenplay would do. What Jason Statham and Liam Neeson would do. But what would Frederick Min do if he were alone in the woods? Time to draw on his creative thinking skills.
He caught a glimmer in the distance. A knife?
No, it was sparkling too much. The lake!
He could see the lake from here. If he could get to the lake, he could find the cabin.
Knowing Russ was in the woods, probably searching for the others—thank you, main characters—Freddy could hide out in the cabin until daylight.
He doubted anyone else would make it back at the appointed time. If they did, then what? Go back out into the woods, where Russ was waiting? No fucking way. Freddy would lock himself in the cellar or a closet, and even if Russ came back, he wouldn’t know Freddy was there.
Freddy stowed the vape pen back into his cargo shorts.
The lake didn’t look that far. And he still had the corkscrew in his pocket.
If Russ got too close—surprise! He was in for a bloody aerating.
Maybe he could write that into his movie.
Jason Statham would dispatch the killer, toss the corkscrew disdainfully onto their body, then quip in his raspy growl.
Breathe, motherfucker. Freddy chuckled. It wasn’t perfect, but he could workshop it.
He started to trudge toward the water, pleased with his plan. And people thought he was a simpleminded slacker.
They had to check their biases, stat. Just because a guy decided not to go to college didn’t mean he wasn’t getting an education.
Freddy worked at the Rialto because he got to watch movies for free.
They didn’t just play Slasher all the time.
There were new releases, as well as classics.
He was attending film school at no cost. Hell, they were paying him to be there!
Scrubbing fake blood off the floors and picking stray popcorn out of seats was worth it.
Quentin Tarantino had worked at a video rental store before making it big, soaking up all that movie ambience. The Rialto was Freddy’s Video Archives.
It was also a great place to meet girls.
It was amazing how many cute girls wanted to hear about his screenplay.
And smoke some of his weed, too, but he was sure they were mostly interested in his writing.
Even the most standoffish always softened when he confessed he’d stayed in Cedar Lake to help out his mom and dad.
He really needed to tell Mikey to lay off the alpha male shtick.
Most girls didn’t want a macho man, they wanted a sensitive cinnamon roll.
Freddy wasn’t lying to the girls. He wasn’t a sleaze.
His parents needed a lot of help around the house.
Umma had arthritis in her hands, and Appa hadn’t been the same since he’d hurt his back in a car accident.
Freddy had started smoking weed only because he’d swiped it from his dad’s stash.
George Sr. needed it to manage his chronic pain.
George Jr. had been in college when the accident happened, so he got to go to med school and fulfill that immigrant dream.
Freddy was the spare who got left behind to take care of his elders.
He didn’t mind that much. He was being a dutiful son. And frankly, he was good at it.
But performing in Slasher’s shadow cast had been the one time Freddy had gotten to escape his responsibilities.
He could pretend to be a regular guy. A regular guy who got a claw hammer between the eyes in the first hour, but a regular guy nonetheless.
Guileless Chad was like a young Keanu Reeves, and Freddy took it as a compliment when others remarked their personalities were similar.
And honestly, after Chad died on-screen, it was so much fun standing in the wings and spraying the audience with fake blood. Freddy kind of missed it.
The lake shimmered in the moonlight. Almost there.
Freddy could even see some of the gravel road to the side of him, but he stayed deep within the foliage.
He’d be a target if he walked out into the open.
Russ wouldn’t even need the knife. He could get into his SUV and reduce Freddy to roadkill in a hot minute.
The peaked roof of the Slasher cabin eventually appeared above the tree line.
And there! A familiar white shape loomed ahead.
Freddy’s beloved van, Sidney, flat tires sunk in the mud.
He wanted to fall to his knees and weep.
Girls had come and gone, but Sidney had always been faithful.
Resilient and loyal, like her namesake in Scream. She’d never let him down before.
“We’ll find the bastard who did this, Sid,” he muttered.
Well, he wouldn’t. But someone else would.
Freddy cautiously emerged from the woods, looking and listening for signs of life.
The driveway was seemingly empty, except for their abandoned cars.
He clung close to their sides, hiding from view just in case.
He could always hop into one and lock the doors if Russ came around.
Or maybe not. The possibilities played out in his mind again.
Windows could be broken, trunks could be jimmied open and Freddy dragged through slashed backseats.
He’d seen that a hundred times in movies.