It was ten o’clock and all was very much not well oh god they were going to be here any minute.
The hedges weren’t trimmed. The snow was half-shoveled. I hadn’t spiked the punch yet. I wasn’t even finished getting dressed, and I couldn’t remember how many of them there were going to be which was sort of important.
Four? No, there was a single one – three. Wait, there were two couples. Five! It must be five. Probably.
This is what getting old is like. ‘It’s just like riding a bike’ is only said by people who have never ridden one.
Knock knock knock knock oh damnit out of time to panic it’s time to breathe.
I put on my outfit.
Giant lumpy hideous sweater. Yes.
Conspicuously loose ski mask. Good.
Red gloves. Done.
Now, time to oh right the punch shit shit shit.
I jumped off the side of the staircase (ah! Ankle! Ow! I’m not twenty – or thirty! – anymore!), sprang over to the fridge, shoved two bottles neck to neck and squeezed like they owed me money.
Ka-clik.
Key in the lock. That’d have to do.
The door handle turned.
I slid open a window.
Creak.
I jumped out the window.
“HOME, SWEET HOME!” sang out the joyous guests and I slammed the window shut as quietly as I could and ducked into the hedges.
Jesus. My heart was pounding and my ankle hurt. Not my best start to a day.
Well, I had time to breathe now. They wouldn’t need my attentions until at least two o’clock. Time to kick back, relax and
Oh. I’d left my e-reader upstairs. Shit.
Okay, time to sit under a hedge staring at the backs of my hands for a few hours. Times like this I almost wished I’d taken up smoking.
Giggles, laughs, titters, chuckles, snide commentary, cattiness. Yes, they were already in full swing in there. Party starting early. If I’d guessed right they’d spend a little bit unpacking while alternating between flirting and fighting, then go out on the slopes.
Except for one. That’d be my in. I’d knock, and then circle around back. Leave the kitchen door open and hide in the closet, then sneak up behind them as they investigated the draft. Classic.
What would I use? A kitchen knife was a little pat, a little flat…but maybe if I did it ironically. Yeah, maybe I use the knife, but it breaks in the process. That’s a Statement. Yeah, I could do that.
Or I could do a ski po no no no. No. The line between classic and cliché may be thin, but it’s violent. Not the ski pole. Not now, maybe not ever.
No. The knife. I was far enough into my career that I could substitute a little irony for a lot of novelty.
The door opened. A little early, surely? I hadn’t been woolgathering THAT long.
No, out they came. The jock first – yes, that made sense. Snowboard over her shoulder.
Then next came..
Next came…
Well.
Wait. What?
“See ya! Pricks.”
They were going out there alone? Damnit, this was EXACTLY why novelty got less fun as you got older. I’d planned for one earlybird special and plenty of time to prep for four returning guests; this was going to throw my pacing completely out of whack. How long had it been since I’d dealt with a full house right off the bat? Six years? Eight? And that was on purpose! I‘d just have a fourpack sprung on me by surprise and I hadn’t even warmed up yet!
Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. I pulled out the tiny jar of caffeine pills, jammed half the bottle in my mouth, and tried to focus. Well, you play the hand you’re dealt, even if you do stack the deck and cut the cards.
Enough metaphors, time for improv.
I needed them to split up. How? Should I cut the lines? No, that’d be stupid. Cell phones were a thing now; all I’d accomplish would be making them phone the cops faster. Preserving and prolonging the uncertain period would be my goal. The moment the panic set in it’d have to be hard and unrelenting. 911 isn’t hard to remember, but it gets a lot trickier to dial it if you’re sprinting from room to room being chased by an axe.
I could really use an axe right now. Knife probably wouldn’t cut it.
Just a little peek in the window. How’s everyone doing? Okay, one of them’s taking a call – she’s going upstairs. Could start with her – the other guy says he’s going to the bathroom. That leaves two in the living room with the TV on. Gotta get upstairs. Gotta get upstairs fast. How?
One moment a time, same as always. Get on the deck, feet on the railing, WHY IS THE DOOR OPENING AGAIN OH SHIT.
“See? Look at the stars.”
“Wow…”
“Toldja we’d be far enough from the city.”
“So many of them!”
Had they even had a chance to drink the punch yet? Oh thank god they didn’t see my feet. Now I just had to walk very quietly over all of their heads, on shingles, and open the attic in less than twenty seconds before the phone call is over, then get out of the attic and get her before she makes the stairway.
And I didn’t have an axe. Or a knife. Or anything. Is there anything in the attic? Look around look around look around.
Well, there’s some old ski poles.
No.
There’s a…fire extinguisher? No. Blunt trauma never really sings.
Okay, I was going to pick the next thing I walked by. Reached out aaaaand
Ski pole.
Fuck.
I just made it. She hung up right as I opened the bedroom door, turned around, gasped, and then as she opened her mouth to scream I grabbed her neck and shoved her out the window and slammed it on her head repeatedly.
Great. Blunt trauma, no weapon involved, and no thematic resonance. Zero stars. Mother would be proud.
Sometimes I hated this job. People expect so damned much from you. At least nobody had heard anything.
Then I heard a flush behind me, spun about, and watched the bathroom door creak open across the hall, leaving me face to face with…
Huh. I hadn’t had any time to check this. Was this the nerd? Or did I just kill the nerd? He couldn’t be the jock, she’d gone snowboarding or skiing or whatever by herself. Was this the jock’s boyfriend? Or was the jock single? I knew ONE of them was single, was the single one cheating with one of the couples or were the couples mutually unfaithful?
He screamed his lungs out.
It was a good scream. Full-force, powerful lungs, diaphragm action, long-running – and he didn’t just stand there, no, he kept it full-tilt even as he bolted for the staircase. I hadn’t seen a scream like that since my first night out.
A real pity that it was blowing my whole night to shit with every decibel. Too soon, too soon even midspree. The jig had barely started and it was already up.
Wait, I could salvage this. One scream – even a great scream – meant confusion, panic. A hunt for answers and missing friends. Yeah. That’d do it. Yeah
All I had to do was stop him.
I jumped forwards, reached out, missed his shoulder, missed his waist, missed his entire leg, and tugged pathetically on his sock, which came off in my hand. The nerd(?) pitched over, still screaming, and descended the entire staircase in one go. Head-first.
Well, it stopped the screaming. Worst kill I’d had in years, even counting the one upstairs, but hey, it stopped the screaming.
I ran downstairs, grabbed his leg, looked around. A closet, perfect. I hoisted the body over my shoulder, heard the door slam open, and immediately jammed myself and the corpse inside.
Fuck.
“Where is he where is he where is he?”
“I don’t know. Quick, get a phone.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“Coat. Get my coat!”
I used my free hand to explore the closet a little and confirmed that the soft objects hanging around me were exactly what I thought.
Well. This could have gone better.
No matter.
I put the body in front of me. I breathed. It’ll fall out on top of the phone-hunter (was the phone hunter the nerd? Maybe he was the slut and the guy I’d tripped down the staircase the nerd), then I could step out and get him. Fine. That was fine.
What would I get him with? It’d have to be fast.
Well, there wasn’t just coats in here. Something’s handle was pressed against my back. A mop? A broom? Hell, I could work with a broom.
I hefted it. Ski-pole.
The closet opened. The body fell out. The nerd(?) jumped back and shouted something like “Fuck!” Fuckbutter? Fuckshit? I wasn’t listening.
I lunged out, pulled the coat over his head, and threw him into the coathooks. It sort of worked. I guess. Lots of thrashing but I reckoned I got his jugular on there.
Lucky. Lucky lucky lucky.
And then the slut(?) attacked me from behind. Or wait, was that the romantic.
Either way, it wasn’t good. You don’t have to be a black belt to mess someone up, you just need to mean it, and the people I’m working with usually do. The closest I’d come to death before was at the nails of a five-foot-nothing and wow everything was still spinning.
What was that, a vase? Whatever it had been, the bagginess of the ski mask wasn’t enough to stop it ringing my bell pretty good. Something had burst on the back of my skull and even if it wasn’t my brain it sure FELT like it. I wished I had more protection back there, but it wouldn’t have fit. Wouldn’t have fit into the gimmick.
God, how long had I been doing this? What on earth made me decide that my shtick would be ‘ski resorts’? Well, I had shaken it up a bit – the time when I moved into an ice castle, the hot springs resort spree, and of course that one classic trip I took down to Hawaii – but still. How many times could I NOT stab someone with a ski pole and make it look good, or at least like I wasn’t trying too hard?
Oh, he was taking my mask off. Better shut my eyes.
I got a good gasp off him. Hey, thanks kid. Took a lot of careful work to make scars like that. The one across the nose was line of duty from an angry brunette with a blowtorch, but the rest? All me.
I’d knew I’d have to open my eyes inside the next half-second. That’d give me a freezeup for a moment, and then whatever was in my hand would be a weapon. Just once. Just once tonight. It would look good.
I opened my eyes. That got me the second gasp.
I sat up, hand moving.
It reached.
It closed.
It thrust forwards.
With god as my witness, I impaled that (nerd? Slut? Romantic? Wait, what if this was the clean-cut?) like a shish-kebab with the ski-pole, hoisting him as a flag.
And you know what?
It looked pretty damned good.
Marty Matthews, the Ski Stabber. Unmasked, framed against the black backdrop of the open closet. A body at his feet, a victim held overhead, a ski-pole in his red gloves.
You could stir hearts with this. You could sell copies of this.
Then I saw someone standing in the doorway.
Oh. It was the jock. Right, the stargazing corpses had left the door open. That’s why I hadn’t heard it. She must’ve finished skiing or snowboarding or whatever early.
Wait, what was she holding? That didn’t look like snow equipment.
Oh. A bowhunter.
“Fuck you,” she said, and she shot me.
That lumpy sweater was my pride and joy. Stitched and reknitted, it had seen me through more kills and laundry cleanings than my own eyes.
The bullet-proof vest underneath, however, was my practicality and common sense. A lot more replaceable, but a lot more useful.
Except bullet-proof vests are meant to stop little round angry things, not sharp blades. B’jezus that hurt.
Well. One out of four ain’t bad. Time to quit. I spun around twice and fell out the nearest window, face-first, and really wishing I still had my ski mask on. I waited until she looked outside, listened for the crunch of footsteps turning away, then rolled behind one of the shrubs and goddamnit legged it.
See, that’s the part the audience never appreciates. How good a runner you have to be. All those sprints between kills never get noticed, but they’re at least implied. The end marathon, when you need to put miles between you and the stage as fast as possible? That’s entirely omitted, from sight and mind both.
But it was over. I was unwinding even as I ran. One hand on the arrow wound – ow, ow, ow – the other pumping, pumping, working as hard as my legs even as it sang and snapped at me and oh okay my arm hurt a LOT.
A LOT.
I stopped running.
“Oh,” I said. “Maybe that was too many caffeine pills.”
Well, I tried to say that. Instead I just went ‘aaaugh’ and fell over into a lot of extremely grey mist.
Great.
And you know what really made the whole thing unfair?
They didn’t even try the punc