The Cabin in the Woods

The zombie wasn’t quite as tall as the big one they’d seen outside, but his face was about ten times as horrific. Good job, guys, Marty thought admiringly, and then the zombie’s arm extended and his hand closed around Marty’s throat.

The fingers squeezed hard and Marty felt things grinding in there.

Not so tight! he thought, but he was already realizing his naivety.

What a dick.

The breath was shut off from his lungs, giving way to pain. The thing pulled him to the broken window, spun him around, closed an arm around his throat and tugged him backward.

As Marty folded at the waist and felt the jagged spikes of broken glass scoring and slitting his thighs and back, he was still cursing himself and his foolish thinking. There was no way this could have been reality TV There hadn’t been nearly enough sex.

How could he have been so stupid?

Marty screamed, and it felt as if he was shouting only for himself. The arm across his throat squeezed tighter as the thing tried to drag him backward through the window, and no one could make up that smell, no one could manufacture the fucking breath on that thing.

He struggled more fiercely, pulling himself back in a little even though the pain of the cuts on his back and legs was just starting to catch fire. The thing pulled even harder and Marty clung onto the window frame, refusing to let go or ease up his own pressure for even an instant.

These arms will not move however hard that thing pulls.Judah! Marty thought. That’s the father zombie out there, the father of Patience, whose image started all this down in the basement with Dana. It seemed to make sense, ridiculous though it was. And it seemed suddenly more real than any reality TV could be.

But the zombie pulled harder, tugging him so that his back creaked as he bent in half, hauled through the window, and as he lost his grip he reached around with his right hand for anything he could use as a weapon. He knocked clothes and a pouch of tobacco from the dresser surface, then his fingers closed around his thermos-shaped bong.

The cool night air suddenly kissed his bloodied skin as he exited the cabin. It seemed so much colder, and when he thumped to the ground and saw the thing standing over him, the idea that he’d ever thought it false was just so ridiculous.

Judah swung his hand down. Marty rolled, heard the harsh whisper of metal sticking into soil, looked at the zombie’s hand and saw the blade being tugged from the earth.

A second later and that would have been right through my head. He half stood, but Judah’s other hand knocked him across the shoulders, spilling him to the ground again. Marty didn’t have time to turn his head and watch the blade swinging down for another try, so he rolled to the right and saw Judah stagger as he stabbed the ground again.

Marty kicked out at the hand holding the knife and heard something crumple and snap. But it seemed to make no difference. The zombie pulled the knife up again and turned slightly, and Marty knew that if he didn’t find his feet he’d eventually be pinned to the ground with that cruel blade. And then…

“And then” he didn’t want to think about.

He kicked out at Judah’s legs, and when the zombie took a staggering step backward Marty found his feet, swaying slightly as if the ground was dipping and lifting. Judah fell toward him, one clawed hand reaching for his throat, the other raising the knife to strike again.

Marty shook the thermos shape in his hand, and felt and heard the familiar click-clack as it telescoped out into the giant bong. He’d sure had some fun with this, and it seemed a shame to smash it. But choice had been taken from him. Maybe it had been stolen long ago. Or perhaps he’d never had any choice at all.

He swung the bong into the side of Judah’s head with all his might. The sound Judah made when he hit the ground was like a bale of hay dropped from several feet up; a crunch, and a few snaps. His hand still gripped the blade’s rotten handle, and he writhed briefly before starting to struggle to his feet again.

Fuck this, Marty thought, and he turned and ran for the forest. He could lose this thing out there, outrun it-hadn’t Romero said that zombie’s ankles would break if they ran? He was the expert, right? — and then double back to the cabin, get inside, and plan with the others just what the fuck they were going to do now.

The things were strong but mindless, just living-dead freaks that needed a good shovel swung at their necks or a fire set in their-