The Cabin in the Woods

followed them, obeying regulations to the letter. He had to see them sat down and plugged in before he would be permitted to return to the door.

He even walked stiffly, Sitterson noticed.

Maybe it’s time to start fucking with him, he thought, but Hadley beat him to it.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Daniel Truman, Sir.”

“Well, this isn’t the army, Truman, so you can drop the ‘sir’ shit. But Sitterson likes to be called ‘ma’am.’”

They’d reached the top of the stairs, and Sitterson slid the small cooler beneath one of the communications desks. “Or ‘Honey Toes,’” he said.

“Yes, he will also answer to Honey Toes.” Hadley wheeled Sitterson’s chair over to him and took his own across to the other sizeable desk. He fiddled with the height lever and back regulator, as always, and returned them to the exact same position they’d been in when he first touched them. As always. “Are you clear on what’s gonna be happening here?” he continued.

“I’ve been prepped extensively,” Truman said. Still very formal, still very military. This’ll be an easy one to crack, Sitterson thought.

“And did they tell you that being prepped is not the same as being prepared?” Hadley asked, not looking at the soldier. He tapped a touchpad and lights flashed on his panel.

“They told me,” Truman said. “I’ll hold my post Mister Hadley. I’ll see it through.”

“Not much else you gotta do,” Hadley said. “Stand watch, check IDs, shouldn’t be a lot more than that. And you have to get us coffee.”

There was a pause for a couple of seconds, and Sitterson couldn’t help but glance back at the soldier standing behind them. He was smiling uncertainly.

“They also told me you would try and make me get you coffee,” Truman said.

“Balls,” Hadley said. Sitterson giggled, attracting his friend’s attention. Hadley pointed at him then, speaking from one side of his mouth back over his shoulder, asked the soldier, “Can you make him get us coffee? With your gun?” “And that you would try to make me do that,” Truman said, his tone remaining unchanged.

Well I’ll be damned, Sitterson thought. He’s not as uptight as he looks. “It wasn’t funny last time, either,” he said aloud.

Hadley moved over to a bank of electronics, flicking switches all across the face, seemingly at random. The hum in the control room rose in volume and tone, becoming something like a soft moan, and the click and beep of electronic activity erupted around them.

Sitterson tapped away at his computer, the familiar tingle of excitement blossoming into a vague burning sensation that coursed through his body. It was all about to begin, and here at his fingertips sat the heart of everything that was to come. He accessed his internal emails, and confirmed that the clean-up had already been done. That was step one complete.

Glancing across at Hadley, he nodded once so that his companion—his friend—knew to initiate his own systems. In this room where so much was computerized, mechanized, and recorded, it was often the understanding between these two men which ensured that everything ran smoothly from beginning to end. Any monkey could press buttons, but it took someone special to understand the implications of each pressing.

Sitterson pushed away from his desk and swung around as he went, landing perfectly against one of the rear control panels. He felt Truman’s eyes on him, and flushed with a flicker of pride. He shoved that down quickly. This is nothing to be proud of, he thought, and he frowned, not sure where that had come from.

Screw it.

He lifted the cover from a row of three buttons and rested his thumb against the first.

“Let’s light this candle up, boys,” he said. “Up is go on your command.” He flicked the buttons.

The three screens across the room came to life. Pale gray at first, and then a glaring white that lit the room to uncomfortable levels. Then they settled, each of them showing the initial image they’d been programmed to show: approach, outside, inside. This was the default setting.

“Lovely,” Hadley said.

Sitterson wheeled back to his desk and thought about that coffee.

Soon, it would begin.

•••

She was taking things slowly, but it felt like they were moving faster than that. The air between them sizzled. She’d caught him looking at her a couple of times now, but not in the way most guys looked at her. It never hurt to be given a compliment, even though sometimes those compliments were silent and communicated through glances and smiles.

She suspected that he’d spotted her looking at him as well. That was why the game was so thrilling.

With Holden, though, he was looking at her with a combination of interest and… what, bemusement? It must have been that; a tiny frown, eyes open in perpetual surprise. She’d only just met him, so she couldn’t claim to read him just yet, but she hoped he was feeling the same as her. Interest, and surprise at how deep that interest already was.

Just another ploy to fuck you, Jules would say. He’ll act interested and deep, but in the end he just wants you to hold his dick. But hey, look at him—why not?

“It’s different,” Dana whispered, and Marty looked up from rolling a selection of elegant joints.

“Huh?”

“Nothing, Marty,” she said, and she nodded toward the objects of his labors. “They’re nice. Anyone who didn’t know you would think you’re a dope fiend.”

He grinned, ran his tongue along another paper and added another to the selection. They were all the same length and thickness, and she couldn’t help but be a little bit impressed.

Curt was still driving, nodding his head lightly to the middle-of-the-road rock station they’d found on the radio. Dana had offered to bring along a handful of CDs, but Jules’s wrinkled nose had persuaded Curt to decline. Jules was still riding shotgun, her attention flicking back and forth between the GPS and an open map book on her lap. An empty plastic cup was propped between her legs, and Holden was in the bathroom filling four more cups from the keg.

Dana found it fascinating watching him. He didn’t spill a drop, even though the Rambler was now bouncing along an old road wounded with potholes and last maintained, she guessed, just after the Civil War. When the vehicle jumped he’d follow the motion of the jog with his hand, cup of beer rising or drifting left or right, foamy head licking at the lip but never quite slipping over. It was quite a talent.

He caught her watching him and smiled.

“Like steering into a skid,” he said, offering her a cup.

Dana chuckled softly and took the drink, their fingers touching briefly. The Rambler bounced, Dana grimaced, and beer splashed onto her jeans.

“Shit.”

“I hope this is the right road,” Jules said. “‘Cause right now it looks like the only road.”

“What about that road-like thing we crossed back there?” Curt asked.

“Doesn’t even show up on the GPS. It’s unworthy of global positioning.”

“It must feel horrible,” Dana said distractedly, dabbing her jeans with a cloth.

“That’s the whole point!” Marty shouted, startling them all. “Get off the grid! No cell phone reception, no markers, no traffic cameras… Go somewhere for the goddamn weekend where they can’t globally position my ass. This is the whole issue.”

“Is society crumbling, Marty?” Jules asked without looking up from the map. She was teasing him and, Dana thought, mocking him a little. Marty was too kind or too obsessed to notice. “Society is binding. It’s filling in the cracks with concrete. No cracks to slip through anymore. Everything is recorded, filed, blogged, chips in our kids so they don’t get lost… What’s the use of free will when