The Cabin in the Woods

What the fuck is that?

It was a moment that punched him in the gut. Amongst all the chaos, thumping, shouting from outside, and his own terrified panting, it was the sight of the smallest thing that finally succeeded in knocking Marty’s breath out of him.

The remains of the china lamp were splayed across the floor, and from its plastic heart a white cable led to the plug socket in the wall. The bulb had survived- shielded from impact by the bent-out-of-shape shade- and in its glare he saw a second wire.

It was thin and black, and there was something about it that seemed all wrong.

The wire snaked through the remains of the broken lamp, its end pointing directly at him. An end? Shouldn’t it be plugged in somewhere? Shouldn’t there be a fixture? But Marty’s bullshit detector was on full, and he knew this was something that shouldn’t be there.

He bent and picked up the wire, squinting at its end, and thought, fiber optic. The sense of being watched was suddenly very real. His place in things shrank to an almost infinitesimally small point. And he stood and looked around the room, thinking of the one-way mirror.

Curt’s weird behavior.

Jules’s brutal death.

“Oh, man,” he muttered.

“That’s deep,” Hadley said. “‘Oh, man.’”

“He’s not there for his philosophical insightfulness.” The guy’s face filled the screen now as he stared into the hi-tech camera, distorted by the closeness to the domed end of the cable, and for the first time ever Sitterson experienced a glimmer of fear.

It’s almost like he’s watching us.

He shoved it quickly down. He wasn’t here to empathize.

But he couldn’t ignore the obvious.

“Uh-oh,” he said, “that’s not good.”

Hadley flipped down the microphone on his headphones and flicked a switch. “Chem, I need five hundred cc’s of Thorazine pumped into room three, now-”

“No no no,” Sitterson said, because he’d seen movement elsewhere. Oh we’re just too fucking good, he thought, pointing at the large screen to the left. “Hang on.” And yes, the movement was manifesting into a shambling, pale thing in the darkness, passing between the silent statues of trees and seeming to emerge from the very darkness itself as it approached the cabin.

Sitterson checked a few settings and smiled.

“Judah Buckner to the rescue,” he said. And the brief pity he’d had for the kid was eaten away by the sight of Buckner’s zombified face.

He could have mouthed obscenities or flipped them the finger, but that wouldn’t do anything to help him right now.

Now, he needed answers, and perhaps some clue as to how the hell they could get the fuck out of Dodge. But…

As he pulled the wire taut and started following it around the room-across the floor, along the skirting to the corner, then up to where a small hole was drilled in the ceiling’s corner-the realization dawned that he’d been made to look like a complete dick.

He stared up at the ceiling and smiled.

Of course things had been out of kilter. The cabin was fake, maybe even the woods all around them were unreal, and everything they did and said was being monitored.

“Oh my God, I’m on a reality TV show.” Every breath they took, the booze they’d drunk, the almost biblical amount of pot he’d already smoked, the kissing couple on the sofa, everything was for public consumption. The stuff in the cellar really was a set-up, planted there by scene designers who must’ve had multiple orgasms when they saw what was required of them in the shooting script.

Those things outside, the zombies, Jules’s death and her head rolling about on the floor like that… all of that was thrown in just to scare the shit out of them. And it worked, he thought, but then he chuckled, too. Jules’s and Curt’s noisy fucking in the shower was probably the most-viewed clip on YouTube right now.

“My parents are gonna think I’m such a burnout.” And then he realized that he’d be the one they’d be focusing on right now, and if they didn’t want him to ruin everything for the others, they’d have to-

The window behind him smashed, and Marty aimed a knowing smile at the fiber optic cable still in his hand. They’ll have to come and get me.

He turned to the window, ready to see the cameras and the presenter, so sun-baked that he or she had passed tanned and entered somewhere into the orange spectrum. Microphones thrust at him, producers with fingers at their lips silently pleading for him to Keep the secret a little while longer, and there would be transport to somewhere from where he could view the remainder of his friends’ ordeal…

And though he felt cruel and immature even thinking about it, he couldn’t wait to see what a job they’d made on the fake Marty-Slashed-Up-And-Dead mannequin.