Chapter 20 Patrick
Patrick
Patrick skidded down the hill with Jason’s name in his mouth, grunting every time he bounced over a rock or tree root. Just when he thought he was safe with his friends, fate’s morbid sense of humor had intervened and wrenched them apart.
Patrick heard a loud rip and hoped it was his khakis and not his skin.
Though he deserved every scrape and tear.
Ever since Ranger Russ had shown up at the cabin, he’d been carrying his regrets like stones in the pit of his stomach.
Do you hear that? was the last thing he’d said to Jen.
What he should’ve said was, Stay with me.
No. He shouldn’t have told Jen to stay with him. He should’ve stayed with her. But when he’d tripped and had to retie his shoelace, Jen had vanished. And then he’d heard the cry for help.
Still, he should’ve tried to find her first. He should have also been the first to chase after Tiffany, when they’d heard Mikey screaming.
She would’ve listened to him instead of Jason, considering the tensions between the couple.
He should’ve pulled Jason back when he realized they were dangerously close to the edge of the slope.
He should’ve kept his balance when Carrie bumped into him.
And now the four of them were sledding down the hill, in different directions, and heaven only knew if they would stop in the same place.
Story of his life. He’d been trying to organize a Jumpscare Society reunion for ages, but the timing had never worked out.
Getting such a large, disparate group to agree on something was like herding cats.
It was a miracle they’d managed to be in town on the same weekend.
Especially Carrie. He thought she’d never return, not even to see her mom.
It was why he hadn’t invited her in the first place.
Patrick grunted as his belt caught on a jutting tree root.
A shrub flew dangerously close to his face.
Or maybe it was the other way around. He put up his hands and it was a good thing he did, because he smacked right into a tree, the bark shredding his palms. Great.
It was going to be a pain to hold a knife now.
On the bright side, the tree stopped his descent.
Another time he might have laughed. His muddied knees splayed around a great cedar with his forehead against the trunk, like he was pleading with it for mercy.
Or getting very up close and personal. If Jen were here, she would’ve said something rude and made a reference to Evil Dead.
With whatever dignity he had left, Patrick climbed to his feet, brushing the dirt and leaves off his clothing. “I do like them tall and handsome,” he said to the tree, “but you should’ve bought me a drink first.”
The fall had torn a flap in the left knee of his khakis and thankfully not his skin.
His Oxford shirt was also a write-off, streaked with mud and sticking uncomfortably to his sweaty skin.
“Jason?” he rasped, making the effort to smooth down his ruined shirt and tuck the tails into his waistband.
The simple act gave him some semblance of control over his situation. “Carrie? Tiffany?”
Patrick peered around but could barely see a thing, let alone three other people.
The imposing trees blotted out the sky. He patted in his pockets for the flashlight and slumped with relief when he discovered he still had it, along with the compass and his keys.
He took it out and swept the beam around.
The illumination only reinforced he was surrounded by the woods, and no friends.
He checked his phone, his breathing growing shallow.
Another news headline had slipped through.
The phone was just trolling him now. No signal, but it felt it was important to inform him that the man found in the Fairvale alley had been killed with a meat cleaver.
The hairs on Patrick’s arms stood on end. “Read the room, phone,” he muttered.
Wait. What had Jason said about Russ Meachum? Feathery needles spread across Patrick’s scalp as he dredged up the memory.
Russ had been in detention for showing up to school with a knife.
With a meat cleaver.
No, it had to be a coincidence. Yet it didn’t sit well in Patrick’s gut.
Something doesn’t feel right, Carrie had said after they’d gotten that crank call.
Patrick added another should have to his long list of regrets.
He should’ve listened to her worries. They all should have.
But he hadn’t wanted to stop the party, after all the effort he’d put into organizing the weekend.
No one ever took the Final Girl seriously.
The solemn and sedate girl, who has reservations about everything.
Had there been a girl like that at Clare’s sorority, who’d felt the vibes were off?
Or maybe Clare herself had been unsettled.
Maybe there’d been an unlocked window, or a piece of furniture out of place.
Or the lingering scent of a stranger’s aftershave.
Nothing that could be put into words at the time, and that lack of eloquence had cost Clare’s life. The thought filled Patrick with sorrow.
He noted the time before tucking the phone back in his pocket.
It was much later in the night than he would’ve liked.
There was no point in trying to find out where his friends had landed.
The cycle of splitting up and reuniting was raising his anxiety levels.
Herding cats again. Why hadn’t they listened to him and stayed at the cabin?
Then they wouldn’t be in this mess. Patrick ran his hands through his hair in frustration, nearly screaming when he dislodged something that fell to the ground and crawled away on too many legs.
Patrick bent over, his pounding heart threatening to jump right out of his mouth, and drew air into his lungs to calm himself. A plan. He needed a plan. Without one he was cast adrift on a turbulent sea.
Jason had accused him of not living in the present. But what good was living in the now if your future included a blade lodged in your belly?
The cabin. He’d return to the cabin. He had to trust that everyone would head back as well.
At least Jason would. The prospect of seeing Jason again was enough to start his feet moving.
Because there’d be safety in numbers, he told himself.
Not because he wanted Jason to hold his hands again. Not really.
Patrick studied the compass and headed west. After a few minutes the woods began to thin, and his spirits lifted a little.
The peaked roof of the cabin rose in the distance.
He was closer than he’d thought. The sight filled him with a giddy hope.
He prayed that Russ had given up, taken his car and left.
The woods spat him out onto the road. Russ could run him down in his car, so Patrick kept to the shoulder, turning off his flashlight and listening for the telltale rumble of an engine.
No one came roaring out of the dark to meet him.
The Park Services SUV sat in front of the cabin, alongside their abandoned cars.
Shit. Ranger Russ was still at large. On foot, but at large.
“Jason?” Patrick whispered. “Carrie? Tiffany? Anyone?”
No one answered. He was alone.
The cabin’s windows were dark. Patrick crept forward and listened carefully near one of the open panes. He didn’t hear any stirring inside. It was probably safe to go in. He climbed up the porch steps, wincing as the screen door’s hinges shrieked in the silence.
Inside, the pine-scented air freshener tickled his sensitive nose, but there were other scents mixed in. Something coppery yet organic, and slightly fetid, like spoiled meat. It was a feral smell that had no rules. A buzz hummed faintly in his ears, and Patrick hoped the power had come back on.
No such luck. Nothing happened as he flicked a light switch. He turned on his flashlight instead, figuring it was safe. If Russ was lurking, he would’ve shown himself by now.
The flashlight’s weak beam picked up a familiar shiny shape lying next to the staircase. “What the hell?” Patrick said, forgetting he was trying to keep quiet.
What was one of his knives doing on the floor?
That was the Japanese carbon steel chef’s knife that cost more than the rest of his kit combined.
Patrick was going to kill someone if it was ruined.
Though it would serve him right for making all these big, elaborate plans for the weekend.
He’d wanted to surprise his friends with his newfound skills.
After surviving his freshman year on takeout and instant ramen, Patrick had taught himself how to cook via YouTube.
Surprisingly, he’d discovered he loved cooking.
So much so that he’d taken a leap six months ago and enrolled in a few night classes at a local culinary school.
During the day he found himself dreaming about delighting friends with perfectly butterflied chicken or hasselbacked potatoes.
Cooking for people made him feel like he had when he’d hosted the Jumpscare Society.
He was sharing something he loved. It was the same high as running around onstage at the Rialto, making an audience scream and laugh.
His economics classes couldn’t compare. Financial risk analysis had probably never brought tears of joy to anyone’s eyes.
Patrick padded closer to the knife, the sweat on his skin turning to ice. It was lacquered with something thick and dark, like a mole sauce. He crouched down to pick it up, and his pulse raced as his fingers registered the stickiness.
It was blood. The knife was covered in blood.