Page 35 of The Killing Game

“I will notify the officers this is priority, level one, miss,” dispatch offers. “I need you to stay on the phone with me until they arrive.”

Light dims behind me. I turn to become face-to-face with the damned skull mask. It’s deadly warning etched into the forehead.

“Miss,” dispatch prompts. “Are you still there?”

“They’re here,” I whisper. I begin backing up onto the back deck.

“Who is? Can you provide a name.”

My back makes contact with the door of the elevator as I look around for an escape. The figure stands at the edge of the deck, blocking any sort of exit through the cabin or back through the woods. The only way out is down.

“Fucking hell,” I curse to myself. “The killer is still here. Send help now!”

I shove the phone in my pocket. The figure is walking towards me, picking up the pace with each step. Frantic, I fumble with the key to turn the elevator on. Looking up again, the figure is at the entrance of the elevator. I slam the lever and the elevator shoots down just before the figure can throw the ax towards my head.

EIGHTEEN

PRESENT

The elevator slams into the ground and I fling the door open as it clatters against the steel foundation. I push my feet forward with the remaining strength I have left. Branches scratch against every inch of exposed flesh as I weave through the trees. Each cut is a reminder of my impending doom.

Silent sobs consume my body. My mouth is dry and my throat burns with each haggard breath. I keep moving forward, I cannot allow myself to stop now. I thought I was so close to being free. I stumble through the thicket of greenery into a clearing. My eyes blink to bring everything into view.

The lake shed glows ahead, all of its twinkling lights now illuminating the wooden dock. Pushing myself forward, I run towards the door as my trembling hands grasp the door knob. I try to push the door open, knob twisting, but the door remains closed.

“Come on. I don’t have time for this,” I cry. “Please, please, please open.”

I jiggle the knob and shove my weight against the door. Once. Twice. On the third time, the door swings open. I scramble inside and slam the door close behind me. I press my back against the hard surface and lean my head back. The tears I was holding back return with a vengeance. Warm liquid leaks down my face as my chest heaves with a heaviness. I can’t do this. Not by myself. I don’t want to.

I can’t do this.

I can’t do this.

I can’t do this.

Each word is a tear at my broken soul. Everyone thinks they want to be the final girl, but no one talks about the cost of becoming one. Final girl means you are the last one standing. Final girl means everyone you loved has died. Final girl means you are alone.

I barely have time to collect myself when piercing, hot pain cuts through my mental fog. I scream out and try to jerk my right leg away from the pain. It doesn’t move. Looking down, the gleaming, red tip of the pickax protrudes from the door. Its rounded tip rests deep into my calf, blood spilling from the opening. I try to yank my leg away again, wincing at the effort. Suddenly, the weapon is ripped from the opening. I cry out and fall to the floor as the searing pain shoots through me. Flipping on my backside, I try dragging myself upward against the shelves behind me. My leg buckles under the weight. Rolling over again, I begin crawling towards the garage door that leads directly to the water.

I can hear the crack of the door swinging open behind me. Rage replaces the fear in my heart. Sending a silent prayer of courage to whomever will listen, I turn over and stare my attacker down. Their body fills the doorway. The masked figure tips their head to one side as dark eyes glare at me. Somewhere in my subconscious, I recognize those familiar eyes.

I bare my teeth as I continue to scramble my way backwards.

“You’re fucking disgusting. I bet your micro peen is so hard for this right now.” The words leave my mouth before I have time to think of the consequences.

I watch as the killer stalks closer to me, watching me through the skull mask they wear. Black, haunted eyes stare back at me. The pickax they used to mutilate my leg scrapes behind them, sparking over the concrete floor of the cabin shed.

Shit.

Of course, my smart ass would have some sarcastic quip before I die.

The killer isn’t even phased by my remark. It’d be kind of a turn on to be chased by a masked man if I wasn’t about to die.

I painstakingly crawl my way to the back door, my mutilated leg dragging behind me. Stained, red meat tendrils protrude from my thigh while blood gushes from the open orifice. The dribbles of blood smeared beneath my leg taunts the killer towards me like fishing chum in the water. My weakening body asks the killer to take hold and yank me back to my death. Each breath is ragged.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

There’s only ten feet between possible freedom and the most horrific death I could ever imagine for myself. Who would’ve thought this would be how I would go out. My friends would be cheering me on…if they were still here.