The Cabin in the Woods

It did. Inlaid into the floor in different colored stone was a representation of the five-armed pendant. The guy she’d stabbed had made an effort to grab that before he died, and she’d seen the tension on his face as he willed himself to remain alive long enough to hold it in his hand. It had eased him into death, that pendant, and now they were standing at the place on the floor where the five arms merged.

Each arm pointed at one carved slab, and each slab was lit by a burning torch. But Dana knew that this chamber was more than just a place for display

It was much more important than that.

“Oh, suddenly I feel a bit seasick,” Marty said, glancing over his shoulder. “Look, back where we came in.”

At the bottom of the stone staircase they’d crossed a small bridge that spanned a space maybe four feet across, and that space circled the rest of the chamber. Even behind the upright slabs there seemed to be no connection between the floor and the walls.

“I’m liking this less and less,” Dana said, edging over and peering down into the void. The flaming torches lit the rough rock wall a little way down, but beyond that was deep, heavy darkness. It looked solid, almost as if she could fall in and it would ease her fall, holding her suspended like a cartoon cloud in a kid’s imagination.

She closed her eyes, swayed, and stumbled a few steps back.

“Deep?” Marty asked.

“Can’t see the bottom,” she said. “But there seemed to be something…”

“Don’t tell me,” he said.

“Something moving down there.”

“Okay. That’s it. I officially want to cut this vacation short.”

“I don’t think we ever could have, even if we’d wanted to.” She turned a slow circle again.

“No way out,” Marty said.

“Look at these. Five of them.”

“Weird. What are they?”

“Us,” Dana said. “I should’ve seen it like you did. All of this: the old guy at the gas station, the out-of-control behavior, the monsters… this is part of a ritual.” “A ritual sacrifice? Great! You tie someone to a stone, get a fancy dagger and a bunch a robes. It’s not that complicated!”

“No, it’s simple. They don’t just wanna see us killed. They want to see us punished.”

“Punished for what?” Marty asked, and then there was movement on the stairs. Dana gasped and raised the gun, wondering what monstrosity they’d see coming through… demon or zombie, alien or mutant.

“For being young?” the woman said. She was tall and elegant, calm and reserved. She might have been beautiful, but Dana sensed a pressure of responsibility on her shoulders that seemed to crush her sense of self. She was like a mannequin given life, her beauty a suggestion rather than something she carried well. “Who’re you?” Marty asked.

“The Director,” Dana said, answering for her. “It’s you we heard over the speakers.”

The Director nodded affirmation, then continued. “It’s different for every culture. And it changes over the years, but it’s very specific. There must be at least five.” She pointed to one of the slabs, the blood-filled carving showing a woman standing erect, holding open her robe to reveal her nakedness. “The Whore.”

“That word…” Dana muttered, remembering the way the spooky gas station guy had muttered it when he looked at Jules.

“She is corrupted, and she dies first.” She pointed to the other slabs one by one, naming them. “The Athlete. The Scholar. The Fool. All suffer and die, at the hands of the horror they have raised. Leaving the last, to live or die as fate decides.” She pointed at the last slab, and this one looked different, the etching there not so defined.

Unmarked by blood, Dana realized.

“The Virgin.”

“Me?” Dana snorted. “Virgin?”

“Dude, she’s a home-wrecker!” Marty said.

“We work with what we have,” the Director said, shrugging. “It’s symbolism that’s important, never truth.”

“What happens if you don’t pull it off?” Marty asked. He’d twigged it, but Dana knew that he’d had more of an idea than any of them. His humor was his own defense mechanism, the same as Jules used her overt sexuality, and Curt hid behind his machismo. Or used to.

“They awaken,” the Director whispered. And she looked utterly, insanely terrified.

“Who does? What’s beneath us?”

“The gods. The sleeping gods, giants that live in the earth, that used to rule it. They fought for a billion years and now they sleep. In every country, for every culture, there is a god to appease. As long as one sleeps, they all do. But the other rituals have all failed.” She shook her head, frowning. “All at once, all the failure. never like this before.”

There was another huge rumble. The floor bucked beneath them, and two of the huge slabs seemed to rock on their foundations. Dust filled the air, grit pattered down from the shadows above them. Dana wondered how high the ceiling was, then doubted there was a ceiling at all.

“The sun will rise in eight minutes,” the Director said, her voice firm once more. She turned to Marty, the Fool. “If you live to see it, the world will end.” “Right,” he said. “That’s harsh.”

“Marty—” Dana said.

“But maybe that’s the way it ought to be,” he said. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

“We’re not talking about change,” the Director spat. “We’re talking about the agonizing death of every human soul on the planet. Including you. You can die with them, or you can die for them.”

“Gosh, they’re both so enticing…” he said, rubbing his chin, and it took a moment for him to notice what Dana had done.

Maybe this is all one final trick on their part, Dana thought. But can I really take that chance?

She aimed the gun at Marty’s face and squeezed her finger against the trigger.

•••

“Wow,” Marty said. Those guards had been blasting at him for all they were worth, but this was so much worse. This was Dana aiming a gun at him. He stared at its tiny black mouth and wondered if he’d see movement there before his eyes were ruptured, skull shattered and brain spread to the darkness. He looked past the gun to her face, disturbed to see how determined she appeared. “Marty,” she said, “the whole world.”

“Is in your hands,” The Director said to her. Right then Marty wanted to strangle the tall, pompous, self- righteous bitch.

Dana glanced at The Director, shaken, and Marty saw the weight of the world crushing down on her slender shoulders. She sure was foxy; he’d always thought so. And though he was sure she knew what he thought, he’d just never had the balls to tell her. Look at her, after all—gorgeous.

And he was the Fool.

“There is no other way,” The Director said to the girl. “You have to be strong.”

And then Marty caught movement from the corner of his eye. A shadow, crossing the small bridge onto the strangely carved platform, barely seen, but it resolved into something solid when the scent hit his nose. Wet dog, he thought, and from the smell it must have been wet with blood.

“Yeah, Dana,” Marty said. “You feeling strong?”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” he said softly

As she leveled the gun again and her face tensed with concentration, the werewolf leapt at her. The gun went spinning and the creature crushed Dana to the floor, claws slashing, teeth snapping at her face as she ducked her head left and right.

Dana kicked and bucked, and the creature shifted its weight and balance to remain pinning her to the ground. Fighting to the last, Marty thought, then he saw The Director going for the gun.