The Cabin in the Woods

“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.

He jumped, sliding across the stone floor toward the dropped weapon.

Dana screamed, the werewolf howled. Good. If she was screaming, it meant she was still alive.

As his fingers brushed the gun’s grip, The Director landed on his back, jarring his chin against the floor and sending spikes of pain up through his jaw and into his brain. He tasted blood and the grit of a broken tooth.

The woman clawed at his back, trying to pull herself over him to the gun, but Marty punched up and back over his shoulder. His fist hit her jaw and he heard a gentle crack. She moaned. But she never stopped pulling and kicking, and in seconds she’d be at the gun that lay just beyond his reach.

One chance, he thought. The Fool has to fool her. He went completely limp, resting his face against the cold stone and letting out a deep breath. The Director paused in surprise… and Marty pushed up with all his might, spilling her from his back and flipping over so that he landed atop her. Her head thunked against the stone and breath puffed from her, and he stood and fell onto the gun.

He turned and knelt, aiming at the flailing mess, knowing that if he took too long to aim it might mean the difference between Dana living or dying. He fired three shots and the werewolf reared up on its hid legs, its chest red with blood. It turned to him and he fired again, hitting it in the face. It screeched and ran from the chamber, a howl retreating into the tunnel beyond.

Dana rolled over, eyes wide and white in the bloody mask of her face. She held her hands up, as if afraid to touch any part of herself, and her breath came in rapid, short gasps.