Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 3, Finale

On The Road Again: Part Three, Finale

PART 3.

I made my way through the hiking trail to get to Cabin 4. It was a nice trail, very dark but oddly lit in a way to make the perfect midnight hiking experience. I did not like the noise, however. The bugs sang like they were warning people of my presence. I wish I had the time to hunt every one of them down and squash them like they deserve, but I had to keep my mind on the prizes. Only one of the three young ladies was outside. She was raising her cell phone, scrambling. I could tell she was trying to find a signal. No luck here, little lady. She was very attractive, with blonde hair and a tight slim body—but still with a sizeable chest and butt. She was not dressed for the outdoors. She wore booty shorts, tank top, and what looked to be house slippers. She was almost screaming to her friends inside the cabin, complaining about not being able to connect her calls and that her phone was almost dying. “Is there one in the car?” I heard her yell to her friends as she made her way to their vehicle. “This is almost too easy,” I thought. I could pick them off one by one. The young woman fumbled in the car for a bit until she finished up and started to exit. I had a good size rock in my hand that I had picked up along the trail. I crashed it down on her head as if it came down from the sky. She fell to the ground as hard as the rock came down on her skull. She started to twitch and seize, so I struck her a few more times until that beautiful face was unrecognizable. What to do now? I only thought that for a few moments until I heard the cabin door open. I quickly ran behind the cabin. Just before the second girl noticed her disfigured friend lying dead, I swooped behind her, putting my hand on her mouth and knife against her ribs. I threw her up against the cabin and told her to be quiet. She tried to scream through my palm, so I buried my knife into her side and twisted with full force, releasing and stabbing multiple times until the shock kicked in and she had nothing left. I let her down slowly to the ground so as to not make too much noise and rested her dying head safely on the gravel ground. The final girl had no knowledge of what had happened to her dear friends. As I peeked through the window of their cabin, I noticed her alone, on the bed listening to an old CD player. I felt a wave of Déjà vu. I had not seen one of those types of CD players since my sister’s final breath. I would have taken hers, but it fell in the water during our little tussle. I used to listen to hers when she would leave it laying around. I remembered how the songs would skip if the disc was too scratched. I hadn’t thought about it until now, how music doesn’t skip any more. I liked the skipping. After hearing something repeatedly, I get bored. Something unexpected happening—the lyric not being said after anticipating it, or knowing the next line is coming but then it doesn’t—resonated with me. It was very comforting.

I made my way into the cabin. The final girl was distracted with her tunes, staring at the ceiling, unaware a stranger had entered her world. She must have felt a presence enter the cabin, but most likely assumed I was one of her friends just enjoying the weekend getaway like herself. I crept to the bed and still she yet to open her eyes. She wasn’t as pretty as her friends, but the way she blocked out the world and enjoyed her peace made me feel a fondness for her greater than anything I felt for her friends. She had not a care in the world. She was much older than me—as were all her friends. They were all in their mid-twenties, but still they had a young quality about them that made me think of them like children. She in particular had an innocence that I envied. Just like those bitches from my school, but I feel like this one would be nicer to me than they had ever been. Oh, how I wish I would run into some of my old high school classmates. Another time perhaps. 

The final girl’s hair was soft when I gently touched it. I wanted to run my hands through it, but I decided against it. She had yet to open her eyes. When I lifted one side of her headphones and whispered, “What are you listening to?” she jumped up and let out a low toned scream. I jumped on her, not hesitating, and attempted to hold her down. This one had some fight in her. She kicked and scratched at me, knocking me to the ground. She screamed for her friends as she tried to run out of the cabin. As she stepped over me, I grabbed her leg, trying to get her to the ground. It was tight quarters, so I had limited space to maneuver around and get to my feet. She kicked me square in the face and then I felt a hard smack to the head. It was a pan, or some other kitchen utensil, and it stunned me for a moment. I heard the cabin door finally open, and I got myself together. I got to my feet and, just as I exited the cabin in chase of her, I heard it—the horrid scream that would ruin the rest of my night. She stumbled across her friends and now she was letting my remaining yet-to-be victims know that this camp site was not safe. The night may be over early, but I could not let her get away.

Outside the cabin I saw her standing, hands on her mouth, screaming and crying at the gruesome sight of her closest friends. She noticed me approaching her, and she went to run, but in typical victim fashion, she tripped on her own feet. I pulled my knife and began to slash away at this woman who I had briefly admired. With every cut deeper than the next, she screamed louder and louder. I came down on her with everything I had on her chest and stomach, until her insides were what showed the most. I dug my hand into her open wounds and kept digging, reaching for something. My arm was submerged to my elbow and at that moment I realized I did not know for what I was reaching. It wasn’t until I heard the muffled yells from two men that I took my arm out of her. 

I had to think quick of what to do. Is it over? Am I content? NO! I see in the distance two older men hastily making their way down toward me. The husbands! I do not hesitate, and I do not overthink. Quickly I rub the fresh blood from my last victim over my leg. I notice my head is bleeding from where she struck me in the cabin. I could use this along with the blood I’ve accumulated throughout the night to appear as what I am, a survivor. I put my knife back in my boot and I approach the husbands. I put on my limp routine that I’ve used plenty before. I ready my voice to sound helpless. The men are close but not close enough. They know there is trouble, but do not know who has created it. We meet each other in the road, and I beg for help. “HELP ME, HELP ME PLEASE! SOMEONE IS AFTER ME AND KILLED MY FRIENDS!” One husband, the bigger of the two, throws one of my arms over his shoulders. My hero. The other runs past us a bit, inspecting the crime scene. “OH MY GOD!” he shouts, seeing the results of the slaughter. The bigger husband attends to me. “Who did this? Where are you hurt?” I bend down in fake pain. I grab my knife from my boot. “I did this!” I said just before I stabbed my would-be savior in his eye. The first hero fell back in agony, and in a quick motion I reveal my gun and kill the other with a headshot. I pointed my weapon at the remaining man, who was attempting to dislodge my knife from his eye socket and ended his life with a bullet through his temple. The remaining wives were easy. I shot one in the back for trying to run away from me. The other was too scared and distraught to attempt anything but compliance. I smashed in her head with a log from their firepit. I could’ve shot her and made it quick, but I wanted to save the remaining bullets for any surprises on my way towards the exit. There was none. 

This was my night. It went perfectly and I made it through with only one scratch. Mr. Johnson was the only one who was not fully dead. He crawled a few feet and made his way to his wife. I saw the blood trail was still fresh, so I put a bullet in him for peace of mind. The others were surely dead. This would be a crime scene to remember. The high from the night was already starting to fade, but the sureness of nonstop news cycles and public outcry would make me feel better. I could always look back on this night as something to cherish. A perfect scene, better than anything one of those hack writers could ever imagine. Who would play me if they made a movie? What would they call it? What would they call me? Should I leave a note behind, maybe put some dumb cheesy name that would live on in infamy? I almost want to find the nearest payphone and call my brother. I wonder what he is doing right now. He has no idea what I’ve just accomplished. My first massacre. “The Glamping Massacre.” That’s what the movie should be called. It would be an instant classic. 

I decided I should take the Johnsons’ car just a few miles and ditch it. It would help me get plenty far away before the bodies were discovered. I grabbed my bag and some snacks from the office, changed my clothes, and threw my bloody ones in the Johnsons’ fire pit and reignited the dead fire. I should have checked the other cars for some supplies for the road, but best not be too greedy. I’m a bona fide cold-blooded murderer, and I pride myself in that—not so much a thief except for the occasional necessity grab. I popped the trunk of the Johnsons’ car and to my horror, there he was. He was there all along—the missing Johnson boy. He was tied up in his parent’s trunk with a plastic bag wrapped around his head. He had been dead for some time—over twenty-four hours from the looks of him. What did he do? What was the trouble he had gotten into in school? What kind of punishment was this? He must’ve done something awful that his own parents would murder him. They most likely planned on burying him out here, or were they just going to ride around forever with their son in the trunk? These people were really twisted. How could you sit there making smores while your own flesh and blood rotted just a few feet away from you? I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again. This is a strange world with stranger people. Poor kid. Did he deserve this? Maybe they just wanted to be free. I couldn’t take this car anymore. In no way shape or form would I ever let a body count be added to mine that I did not deserve. This is the Johnsons’ victim, and I will not be credited. I closed the trunk and grabbed my things from the car. I walked over to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson and soaked their blood in a rag I found on the ground. I wiped on the trunk a clear note for the crime scene investigators. 

“THIS WAS NOT ME. THIS WAS THE JOHNSONS” 

On the road again, I walked. I cut through some woods and some small towns to make my route difficult to trace. I stopped at a rest stop and dyed my hair again. I went from blonde to black and cut it down to my shoulders. The scratch on my head was healing pretty good. A couple more days and it would be as good as new. Any day now the news will break, and I cannot wait. “Multiple casualties at the local campsite.” BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING NEWS! I will be riding high on a euphoria that no drug could ever give me, and just in time for my seventeenth birthday. Seventeen will be a great year. As I stick my hand out and walk down this highway, I make a bet with myself on who will stop. Maybe they’ve already heard something. Maybe we will be riding down the highway together and the news will break over the radio. I need to practice hiding my excitement. It’s going to be almost impossible. I hear the air brakes from behind me, and I turn around to see a big rig coming to a slow stop. Here we go again. The truck stops and an older man lifts his head to meet me in the eyes. He asks what they always ask.

“Where you headed, pretty lady?” 

I put on my best fake smile.