I drop the comic into my bag.
“We need to go,” I tell Stephanie. “Grab your phone, get your stuff, we need to get to L.A. We’ll call Julia on the way.”
We call her fourteen times before we reach the state line. She doesn’t pick up once.
—transcript of San Diego PD officers Dwight Riley and Judy Hicks interviewing multiple homicide survivor Julia Campbell, October 23, 1992
THE FINAL GIRL SUPPORT GROUP XX:
The Final Chapter
We fly through the prairie.
We took the Chevy to a body shop and paid the guy my last eight hundred dollars for new bumpers and a windshield. I make him give me a loaner for the day it’ll take to do the work.
“Keep her under sixty-five and don’t go on the highway,” he tells me.
“Absolutely,” I tell him.
We hit the highway and I keep it at eighty-five all the way.
Julia won’t pick up. Neither will Dani, and Heather’s phone remains out of service. Marilyn has blocked Stephanie’s number. They’ve all turned their backs on me because they think I slept with my monster, because they read my book, because they think I’m crazy. My only proof comes from Chrissy and a messed-up child’s comic book. They’ll never believe me.
I press the gas pedal down. The car’s frame shakes ominously. Stephanie rambles for the entire drive.
“Everyone thinks the wolves in the park are dangerous,” Steph says as we pass a sign for Yellowstone. “But it’s the bison that attack people all the time.”
Stephanie talks like she needs to remind herself she’s alive. What happened in Chrissy’s house must have shaken her more than I thought. She reads billboards out loud. She states her opinion on the drivers of other cars. I don’t answer. I need to get to California.
We take route 30 to circle wide around Salt Lake City, heading toward Wells on 80. There’s no way I’m going anywhere near American Fork, even if it is faster.
We don’t stop in cities. There are too many people in cities. We drive through an America made of four-lane highways and lined with rest stops. Cities are billboard clusters bisected by off-ramps and merge lanes.
Bruises and scratches cover Stephanie’s arms and face. I wonder when I can cut the stitches out of her head. She stops calling her parents. I don’t notice until ten hours have passed.
“You gave up?” I ask.
“What do they have to say?” she asks. “The police are already after us. I mean, we’re probably both going to jail. Where are we even headed?”
My body vibrates inside my skin. Are they with Dr. Carol or did Julia listen and get them somewhere safe? Did she get Skye to go with her? Are they at Sagefire? I don’t even know where we’re going.
Sometimes you don’t know why you’re doing anything anymore so you just keep moving even though you’re out of options.
“We need to stop,” Stephanie says.
“No stopping,” I say.
“I have to pee,” she says.
“Go in a cup,” I say. The back is full of empty coffee cups. I’m so caffeinated my eyeballs vibrate inside their sockets.
“I’m not peeing in a cup,” Steph says. “You pee in a cup.”
“I will when I have to,” I say. “You’ll hold the wheel.”
“Gross,” she says, crossing her arms and looking out the passenger-side window.
The loaner’s heater is stuck and hot air blasts us both in the face the entire way.
“I’m broiling,” Stephanie says, and I don’t disagree. My feet feel hot and sweaty. “I’m actually cooking alive.”
We drive through a night so black that if we turned off the headlights the planet would disappear.
We fill the back seat with fast-food wrappers. A couple hundred miles ago we had a trash bag, but at a certain point the entire back seat of the car became a trash bag.
I tell her about Skye. I tell her that he’s the one doing the killing. I tell her we need to stop him, but I don’t know how. I can’t hurt him, but no one will believe me no matter what I say. I’m out of ideas. My plans have reached their limits. I’m just motion now.
“Call him,” she says.
“We can’t,” I say. “We’ll lose our advantage.”
“What advantage?” she asks. “If you think he’s going to kill everyone, call him.”
We’re past Reno on 80 now; all that remains is a straight shot out to the coast, then south. I call him on Steph’s phone. I have a hard time hitting the right keys. I hesitate before putting it up to my ear, and then I commit.
It’s ringing, then goes to voicemail.
“Skye,” I say. “It’s Lynnette. I . . . we . . . where are . . . will you call me back?”
I hang up.
“That was a good message,” Steph says. “I’d definitely call you back. It sounds like you’re asking him out on a date.”
I’m crashing hard and the engine keeps lulling me to sleep, my head snapping back and then forward.
“You know how this has to end,” Steph says from the passenger seat. “If that guy’s the one doing it, we kill him.”
“There has to be another way,” I say. “Maybe I can talk to him. We can all just go our separate ways and, and, and just leave each other alone. No one has to die. We can have a happy ending here.”
I know I’m babbling. Every word out of my mouth sounds less convincing than the one before. She’s a guided missile locked onto her target, and I’m a philosophy student failing her oral exam.
“Figure out where we’re going,” she says as Taco Time franchises give way to Tender Greens. “That’s all we need to do.”
“How?” I ask, and I realize I can’t let her know I’m lost. I can’t let her know I’m panicking. “No one’s talking to me! I don’t know who to call!”
The glow of Sacramento is staining the horizon orange by the time I make the call I’ve been dreading.
“Who’re you dialing?” Steph asks from the passenger seat.
“Garrett,” I say.
“What the fuck are you doing that for?” she asks. I look down to hit send. The tires veer. Steph yelps. “Jesus FUCK!”
I drop the phone and keep the car on the road. The heater keeps blasting me in the face. I’ve sweated through this T-shirt so many times it’s gray. The car smells like the load of garbage we’re carrying in back. I dig Stephanie’s phone out of my crotch.
“Think about it,” Steph says. “Why’re you calling him?”
“He’ll help me,” I say.
Quick as a snake, she snatches her phone away. Not thinking, I grab for it. She has the advantage because morning traffic is picking up and I can’t take my eyes off the road.
“Stop hitting me,” she snarls. “I’m doing you a favor. He’s going to get you arrested the second you call from this phone.”
“Garrett is straight with me,” I say.
“You stole his car,” she says. “You abandoned him on the side of the road. All the other cops think you escaped custody. You kidnapped me.”
“I’ll chance it,” I say.
“Not with me in the car,” she says. “He takes me home and my parents will lock me in the house and then I’m a sitting duck. If this kid’s coming for you, he’s coming for me now, too. He’ll . . . have to go through my family.”
Her voice hitches. She can’t bring herself to say “kill her family” because it’s too ugly. I take deep breaths. Someone else relies on me now. I have to think about her.
“Okay,” I say. “I won’t call him.”
“What’s he even going to say?” Steph asks. “You saw some kid’s comic book and are convinced your therapist’s son is a serial killer? Do you know what that sounds like?”
Signs for San Francisco try to lure us west, away from our path.
“I know how to
spot that kind of thing,” I say. “The violent imagery, the triangular teeth. The dialogue wasn’t anything a kid could come up with. It was too specific. You saw the book.”
“I saw a bunch of little-kid drawings,” she says.
“It has to be him,” I say, and I sound like I did when I thought it was Dr. Carol.
Does this ever end? Will there always be someone out there turning little boys into monsters? Will we always be final girls? Will there always be monsters killing us? How do we stop the snake from eating its own tail?
Steph looks out the window.
“There’s a rest stop coming up,” she says.
“We’re four hours from L.A.,” I say.
“So what?” she practically screams. We’re starting to work each other’s nerves. We haven’t had any sleep. We’ve been fifteen hours in the car without a break. I want to tear my face off. “No one will even talk to you. They won’t take your calls. Where are we even going?”
“I don’t know!” I say. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it, and now that it’s out I double down. “I don’t know! But we have to do something! We have to go somewhere! We can’t let him kill us! Not again! Not like this! Not while I can actually save everyone this time.”
Steph kicks the dashboard with both feet.
“I want out of this car,” she says. “Pull over at the rest stop.”
“Why?” I ask, suddenly scared I’ve pushed her too far.
“Because I have to pee and I’m not going in a fucking cup!” she yells.
I find a parking space and we both get out of the car and walk away from each other. I stand on a median of yellowed grass carpeted in cigarette butts. How many of these were smoked by men on the prowl for hitchhikers? How many were butted out by runaway kids before they hitched their final ride with the wrong driver? I breathe in the exhaust and stale oil stink until I’m calm again, then go back to the car and begin cleaning out the back seat.
I glance up and see Steph talking on her cell phone, walking toward me. The back seat is full of paper cups sloshing with melted ice, congealed fries, greasy sandwich wrappers, triangular cardboard boxes for the Sbarro slices that Steph loves.
“Okay,” she says. “I love you too.”
She hangs up and stands looking down at me for a second before she smiles and says in a soft voice:
“Here, let me dump those cups.”
Working together we unearth the back seat and reveal the carpet. It’s stained and stinks of cold grease, but at least it’s not a rolling garbage dump anymore.
“I talked to my parents,” she says. “Told them that I was coming home. That I’d see them soon. They seemed calmer. I guess?”
“Do you want to go home?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“When do I feel like myself again?” she blurts out. “How long does it take?”
I think about Garrett and all the women in group and how they all treat me like I’m crazy. Maybe they’re right.
How did I wind up trapped inside this life? Where did I go wrong? The Walkers punched my ticket at sixteen, and ever since then everything has been leading me here. Abandoned, broken, useless at everything except being scared and staying alive.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But if I ever feel that way, I’ll let you know.”
“Oh,” she says.
Suddenly Steph looks very small and cold and vulnerable. I stand up, take a deep breath, and give her a hug. It has all the warmth of rubbing two bricks together. Her hair smells filthy. There’s no give, no yield, no softness in either of us. I end the hug and am filled with a sense of having done the right thing. Maybe this is what makes a life? Responsibilities, obligations, who we tie ourselves to? Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing?
“We’re going to be in L.A. soon,” Steph says. “What’s the plan?”
I am insane and stupid, but this girl relies on me. She’s just a kid. I should send her home. I should go my own way, keep driving, maybe up to Canada, never come back, break up the band. But I can’t. Even if they hate me, I can’t walk away from my obligations. This movie that is my life has to end. It can’t keep going on like this forever. I won’t let Skye die. I won’t let this keep chewing up more and more people. I won’t let messed-up parents keep making monsters, and I won’t let these boys keep making more final girls. It’s not some profound and ancient ritual. It’s just a waste of a life.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know where anyone is. I don’t know if they’re with Julia, or Dr. Carol, or at Sagefire, or with Skye. I don’t know anything, Stephanie.”
“Why don’t we go to Dani’s?” she says.
“Dani?” I ask.
“Wherever everyone is, she’ll know,” she says. “And no matter where they are, Dani’ll be at her ranch, almost definitely. You said she’s stubborn and suicidal, right? We find her, talk to her, find out where everyone is, maybe convince her to come with us to at least check Skye out, and the others will listen. Everyone respects Dani.”
She’s talking like she knows us, and then I realize that she does. We’re all final girls now.
“Yeah,” I say, and then I have to admit, “I’m not really sure where her ranch is.”
“I’ll find it,” she says. “She runs a horse rescue place for abused ponies? I can look it up on my phone. Big Sky Haven Ranch.”
“You know the name?” I ask.
She checks out the toes of her sneakers.
“I was kind of a superfan,” she says. “Of Dani, not you. I’m sorry.”
Of course. It all makes perfect sense. Dani always knows what to do. We get her on our side and everything will be all right.
“You navigate,” I say. “I’ll drive.”
“You’re the boss,” she says.
It’s time for this to end. After Stephanie, there will be no more final girls.
—“The Dream King Conspiracy” by Blaze Sullivan, Fangoria, March 2003
THE FINAL GIRL SUPPORT GROUP XXI:
The Final Chapter II
The first sign of trouble is the sign.
Dani’s ranch is near Elizabeth Lake, twenty miles outside L.A. in those flat little hills that always look like they need a bath. Grubby humps with dust-coated trees clogging their folds. It’s a light brown world covered with scrub.
It takes us an hour to find the right road, and half an hour to find the little dirt track that leads from the road onto Dani’s ranch. Out here in the country no one thinks to put up street signs or house numbers. If you have to ask, you don’t belong. I hate the country.
I’m doing fifteen miles an hour when we see the gate.
“Do we just open it?” Steph asks, looking up from the map on her phone.
There’s a ditch on either side.
“I can’t drive around it,” I say.
The engine idles. I scrutinize the gate. The chain is wrapped loosely around the post five or six times to hold it shut. This is where you get out of your car and the monster rises up out of the ditch, where his hand shoots up out of the sand and grabs your ankle.
Nervously, Steph gets out. I lock the doors after her. I watch the ditch, I watch the sand, I check my mirrors. She reaches the post, stops, and turns back to the car. She points to the ground. I pantomime-shrug at her through the windshield. She bends down and lifts one end of an unpainted board. It’s old and someone has carved letters into it and filled them with white paint:
BIG SKY HAVEN RESCUE RANCH
Now that I see it, I also see the post it was nailed to. There’s raw yellow wood snagged on the nails like it was recently ripped down. Dani would never do that. Dani throws out Heather’s coffee cups. Dani uses a lint brush on her flannel shirts. Dani picks up leaves from the parking lot and tosses them back into the bushes when she walks to her truck.
Steph drops the bo
ard, unwraps the chain, pushes open the gate.
“Get in,” I call out my window. “We need to get to her house.”
I can’t take the car over fifteen without feeling like I’m about to crack the suspension, so we creep up the road too slow, leaving the gate yawning open behind us. Then we see the smoke.
“People burning leaves?” Steph asks.
A column of black smoke rises up through the stand of eucalyptus trees ahead of us. The car crawls, and sweat pours down my sides, stroking its ghost fingers over my clammy skin.
We drive into the trees and come to the house. It’s a neat little farmhouse in a clearing surrounded by a split rail fence with a big circular parking area out front and a water pump in the middle. Dunes of wildflowers sway around the pump. The soil beneath them is dark black, moist and new. The flowers Michelle wanted to see before she died. Against all this brown dust they stand out like fireworks.
The house is tucked back in the eleven o’clock position on the circular drive. To the right, at about three o’clock, a path leads to a stable. Dani’s truck sits in the drive and the front door to the ranch house stands open.
Neither of us can take our eyes off the bonfire that’s burning in the middle of the parking area. Wooden dining room chairs are piled up, and weak orange flames lick their legs in the sun. A heap of blackened books smolders beneath them, and a few charred magazines blow around in the dirt.
We got here too late.
“Do you see Skye’s car?” I ask.
“I don’t know what Skye’s car looks like,” Steph says, pulling out the .22.
She checks the chamber like a pro. I should have re-armed myself.
“I doubt he’s still here,” I say. “But let’s check.”
We step out into the hot breeze. I look inside the trunk. There’s a cut-rate jack made of pressed aluminum in a greasy cardboard box. It’s barely better than nothing. I let it dangle in my right hand, and the two of us approach the house, instinctively circling from opposite sides.
The Final Girl Support Group Page 24
