Happy Monday!

[naomi_jay]

 Hope you all had enjoyable and productive weekends like me. In between stuffing my face with chocolate cornflake cakes (as provided by my wonderful housemate, Pip) and spying on the squirrel living in our garden (he's so cute!) I wrote another 7k words on Wild (ZOMG, it's getting so exciting!) and wrote a short story.

And to top it all off, I arrived at work today to find I'd won an ARC of Jackie Kessler's next book - Road to Hell! I'm so excited. I may even be uberexcited. Hell's Belles has easily been one of my favourite books this year and I thought I'd have to wait til December to see what loveable former succubus Jesse was up to next. And now I won't! Huzzahs all round!

It had taken me a while to come to terms with our situation. But I finally had to accept it. All the signs were there, staring me in the face. We were in the woods. All of us were teenagers. It had been dark for the past eighteen hours. And it had been Friday 13^th for the past week. It was inevitable.

            I was stuck in a horror movie.

            Worse, I was stuck in a low-budget teen slasher movie, and my companions and I were being picked off one by one in gruesome, grisly ways.

            The slutty goth chick and the sex-crazed jock were first to go. Under normal circumstances, Hailey and Judd would never have spoken to each other. But these were far from normal circumstances, and the rules dictated that someone had to be first. They’d snuck off to go skinny-dipping in the lake, even though it was dark and the lake was a mile away from the camp. They didn’t stand a chance.

            We found them an hour later, naked and bloody. Their heads had been chopped off. His dick, limp and shrivelled, was still in her mouth.

            The cop was next. We called him in after we found Hailey and Judd, hoping for rescue. A stupid thing to do, really. Cops never make it out alive. Especially fat cops who don’t believe there’s a crazed serial killer on the loose. Guess what kind of cop we got?

            ‘You kids get spooked so easily,’ he told me, hitching his belt up around his impressive stomach. ‘Camp Surt Endef is safe as they get. Why, I used to spend the summers here myself, when I was a kid. Had my first kiss in this very cabin.’ He slapped the wall of our cabin with nostalgic fondness. ‘That was the summer little Obadiah Drake drowned, I think. Weird-looking kid. Now, you just sit tight here and I’ll go look around, set your minds at ease.’

            Half an hour later we heard his last agonised scream. Fifteen minutes later we found him dangling upside down from a tree, his huge stomach slit open to spill shiny ropes of intestine to the damp earth.

            The joker went next. Panicked by the cop’s death, Al made a run for it, out into the trees, ignoring our screams, pleading him to stay with us. Poor Al. He only came to camp to try and shed his joker image. He was sick of girls not taking him seriously, viewing him as just a friend. He didn’t stand a chance either.

            We didn’t find Al’s body, but we heard his terrified shrieks, cut off abruptly like the slamming of a crypt door.

            Now there were just three of us left. Myself, the sensible smart-ass girl. Beautiful, virginal Rosie. And nerdy, greasy-skinned Malcolm. We huddled together in the cabin, me and my allies against the unspeakable evil lurking outside. My allies - and my competition.

            Because there was one rule I knew that they didn’t. One cardinal rule that might help me survive until the end credits rolled. The Rule of the Final Girl.

            It’s like that old joke, you know, the one about you and your friend being chased by a bear. You don’t have to outrun the bear. You just have to outrun your friend.

            I looked over my companions thoughtfully. Malcolm probably wouldn’t last much longer. He’d panic and want to call for help again. Maybe he’d go downstairs to try the phone. Maybe he’d wander outside to try the cop’s car radio. Either way, that’s when the killer would get him.

            Rosie was a different matter. She was a virgin, so the have-sex-get-slashed scenario wouldn’t work on her. As far as I knew, she neither drank nor did drugs, so that option was gone too. My best shot was to lure her outside and leave her there, hoping the killer would attack her instead of me.

            Okay, it’s cold. I know. But we couldn’t both be the Final Girl.

            We’d been sitting on the bed for an hour. The only light came from a gas lamp because, of course, the electricity had gone out sometime ago. We hadn’t spoken since we’d heard Al screaming. There wasn’t much left to say. I didn’t think they knew we were in a horror movie yet, but they probably suspected. I cleared my throat. They both jumped.

            ‘We need to make a break for it,’ I said. ‘We can get out of here in the cop’s car.’

            ‘No way!’ Rosie said. ‘The second we step outside, we’re exposed, vulnerable. We should stay here until dawn. When it’s daylight we can get out safely.’

            I rolled my eyes. There was no room for daylight in horror movies except at the very beginning, and we were way past that. ‘I don’t think we should risk waiting any longer. That thing could come in here at any time. He could be coming up the stairs right now.’

            We all fell silent, listening, just in case. There was no sound except the steady tap of rain on the windows. Of course there was a storm. What did you expect?

            ‘Maybe Chloe’s right,’ Malcolm said nervously. ‘Maybe we should make a break for it. What have we got to lose?’

            I nodded approvingly. As the only guy left, Malcolm was making an attempt to be the alpha male, to lead us weak girls to safety. ‘You’re right, Malcolm.’ I stood, taking a deep breath to steady my quaking nerves. ‘Rosie?’

            She was reluctant, understandably so, but she agreed our best chance was to stick together. We crept downstairs, Malcolm first with a poker in hand. The cabin was silent, empty. The glass pane in the front door was smashed, blood glittering on the broken glass. The killer had shoved his hand through to grab at Rosie earlier, but luckily, I had knocked him away with the poker.

            Outside the rain fell in thick sheets, turning the earth to churning mud that sucked at our feet as we crossed to the cop’s car. The engine would be dead; I already knew that, but trying to escape in the car was a standard cliché and we had to try it.

            Sure enough, when Malcolm turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. ‘Goddammit!’ he cried, thumping the steering wheel. ‘What now?’

            I hugged myself, shivering, and glanced around nervously. Where was the killer? He should be lurking nearby, ready to snatch one of us into the shadows. Rosie, preferably. I edged closer to the cabin door in case I had to make a break for it.

            ‘Lets look in the trunk,’ Rosie suggested to me. ‘Maybe there’s a gun in there or something.’ I nodded and followed her, being sure to keep plenty of distance between us.

            While Malcolm fiddled with the key in an abortive attempt to kick-start the car, Rosie popped open the trunk and began rifling through the contents. ‘Pepper spray,’ she muttered. ‘Porn mags. Not much else. What do these cops do?’ she wailed.

            I edged away further, until her form was obscured by the open hood. If nobody could see her, chances were the killer would grab her. ‘Keep the pepper spray,’ I shouted. ‘We can use it against him!’

            There was a flash of white in the trees. My heart leapt. This was it! This was the moment. I had to be sure nothing went wrong. ‘Hey Rosie,’ I called. ‘You ever smoked any pot or anything?’

            ‘What?’ she asked irritably.

            ‘You ever done any drugs?!’ I yelled, keeping one eye on the vague white blur in the shadows.

            ‘My ex-boyfriend gave me some pot once,’ she replied, sounding mystified. ‘It was horrible. Why?’

            ‘No reason.’ I ran for the cabin.

            Seconds later, Rosie was shrieking horribly as the killer dragged her through the trees. Malcolm, petrified with horror, sat in the car, watching with wide eyes and slack jaw. Perfect. Maybe the killer would grab him too.

            But as Rosie and the killer disappeared from view, Malcolm regained control of himself and left the car, running for the cabin. Swearing under my breath, I let him in.

            ‘He took her!’ Malcolm gasped, wiping his glasses on his sodden sweater. ‘He just grabbed her! He was right there! I could see him, Chloe! I saw him grab her!’

            I slapped him. ‘Get a hold of yourself! We have to get out of here, now! We can’t risk staying put any longer.’

            ‘But the car … the car … he just took her … Oh God, I’m going to die. I’m going to die a virgin.’

            ‘Malcolm!’ I shouted. ‘Stop it! We’re going to get out, okay? We’re going to make it. I promise.’

            He went silent and stared at me apprehensively. ‘What are we going to do?’

            There was only one genre cliché suitable for dealing with this situation. I steeled myself. ‘We’re going to kill him.’

 

The trap was set. Malcolm stood at the door of the barn, weaponless. I was inside, clutching a pitchfork so tightly I thought I might snap it. ‘Okay!’ I called. ‘You know what to do?’

            Malcolm nodded. ‘How long do I have to wait here?’ he asked.

            ‘I told you, until the killer is close enough to kill you.’

            ‘But…’

            ‘When he’s that close – no more, no less – you turn and run, okay? And then I stab him with the pitchfork.’

            White as a sheet, Malcolm nodded again and turned to stare out into the rain. The killer had to be close by. Barns were the ideal place for a penultimate showdown. All those sharp tools and rusty blades were practically begging him to come in.

            Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the killer was lumbering out of the storm, stride even and fast. I tensed, praying that Malcolm wouldn’t blow it. I wouldn’t put it past him to run too soon.

            But his nerve held, bless him, and he waited until the killer could almost reach out and grab him before he screamed and ran into the barn. Predictably, the killer ran after him…

            … Straight onto my pitchfork. It was perfect. The prongs slid through him as if his body was butter. His twisted features filled with surprise and pain and he toppled backwards like a rock to smash on the hay-strewn floor. Panting for breath, Malcolm and I stood over him for a few agonising seconds, waiting for him to lurch upright and grab one of us by the throat.

            But it didn’t happen. Cliché successfully completed. I allowed myself to relax. ‘He’s dead. Let’s get out of here.’ I ran for the barn door, only to realise Malcolm was hesitating. ‘Malcolm!’

            ‘Shouldn’t we check?’ he asked nervously. ‘I mean, make sure he’s really dead? Check his pulse?’

            I stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘Are you retarded? No, we shouldn’t check he’s really dead! Haven’t you been paying attention to anything that’s happened tonight? One minute we’re just checking, just making sure he’s dead, the next there are children in the corn, aliens on the roof and deformed knife-wielding maniacs banging on the window! No we’re not checking! We’re going! We’re going now, Malcolm!’

I stormed from the barn without checking he followed.

            He did though, of course, running to keep up with me. ‘What now?’ he panted. ‘Try the car again?’

            I shook my head. ‘No point. Lets just find the road out of camp and head for town.’

            We trudged along in silence for a few minutes. I listened continually for any little sign – the snap of a twig, the hoot of an owl – that would tell me I was nearly home free. I couldn’t fail now, I just couldn’t. I closed my hands over the object I’d hidden in my sweater while Malcolm stood in the barn doorway. A small trowel, rusted and dull, but still sharp enough to shove in the killer’s head when it came down to it.

            ‘I can’t believe we’re alive,’ Malcolm said, exhaling gratefully. ‘I can’t believe we survived.’

            Right on cue, a twig snapped to my left. I spun, trowel in hand. Malcolm shouted in horror as the killer lurched from the shadowy bank of trees, arms outstretched, murder in his eyes.

            ‘Malcolm!’ I shouted.

            He turned to me, eyes wild.

            ‘Run!’

            He obeyed, and of course he fell over. Someone always falls over.

            Look, it wasn’t my fault, okay? It was raining, it was muddy and someone always falls over. It’s a rule.

            The killer swooped on Malcolm, wasting no time. The poor guy didn’t even have time to scream before his neck was snapped.

            I’d done it. I was the Final Girl. ‘Hey ugly!’ I shouted, brandishing my trowel.

            The killer turned, regarded me curiously, and stomped towards me. I let him get close. I had to. I let him get so close I could smell the stench of the grave on his breath. I let him get so close he could have killed me. I let his raise his arms to throttle me.

            And I screamed as loud as I could and jammed my trowel dead centre in the bastard’s forehead.

            Once again he fell over backwards like a rock, landing with a splash in the mud next to Malcolm.

            Overcome with exhaustion, I sat in the mud for a while, trying to gather myself and stop crying. I’d done it. I made it. I survived.

            Over the tops of the trees, the first rays of dawn began to glow.

 

It was midday. The sun was riding high, slowly drying off my mud-spattered, rain-soaked clothes. I walked along the edge of an empty highway, tired but happy. All I needed was a ride.

            Ten minutes later, a pickup truck drove by, rolling to a stop when I extended my thumb. A weather-beaten old man was driving. A beautiful collie dog sat in the passenger seat. ‘You want a ride, you’ll have to sit in the back,’ he told me. ‘Old Zeke here rides with me.’

            ‘No problem.’ I slung myself into the back and peered through the back window to ask, ‘so where you heading?’

            ‘Well now, I live on the edge of the next town,’ he replied, scratching his head. ‘You want to go further than that, you’ll need another ride. I don’t go through that place no more.’

            ‘Why not?’

            ‘Ain’t been right since those cornfields sprouted up.’ He shook his head. ‘Ain’t been nothing but trouble since they planted those cornfields.’

            I shook my head and settled down, making plans. It was going to be a long day.

 
EDIT - I also had an email from Ricia saying she enjoyed the first three chapters of Wild and wants to read more. I've sent her the next three and since I'm planning to be done with the first draft by November, I'm hoping she thinks it's worth sending to publishers.