Page 8 of Kill Feed

The fucker behind me.

Tall. Broad. A walking monolith carved out of midnight, every inch of him swallowed in tactical black. But it’s the mask that sucker-punches the air from my lungs.

A fucking ram’s skull.

All predatory and ceremonial, with its bone-white snout stretched into a permanent snarl. Horns coil back like crescent blades, sharp enough to gut the wind. The eye sockets are pits of nothing, voids that look straight through skin and bone and into whatever rotten thing passes for my soul.

And in his hand… a knife. A steel fang built to pierce, to burrow, to root itself inside a ribcage and pry it apart like wet fruit. One look, and I know exactly how deep it could kiss my organs before the world goes dark.

“What do we have here…” His voice comes out warped, muffled by the mask, raspy like he’s speaking through a voice box. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Oh fucking shi- I'm so fucked.

Adrenaline punches through me so hard I swear my sinews disconnect, flooding every inch of my skin, lighting my nerves like live wires.

He steps forward.

And I fucking bolt.

I sprint for the door and grab the closest shelf near the entrance and shove it sideways. It tips with a crash, spilling filigree and boxes everywhere. It’s a pathetic barricade, but it’s all I’ve got.

I run down the hall, turning sharp corners. My heartbeat pounds in my ears louder than his footsteps… but not loud enough to drown them out.

I whip around another corner and my foot slips.

Of course, it fucking does; I’m drenched in blood. I’ve been standing—and floundering—on top of a corpse.

My legs fly out from under me, and I hit the tiles hard, pain jolting up my side. I try to push myself up, but I’m already too late.

Gloved hands wrap around my ankles, yanking me back before twisting me over, pinning my back to the floor. His weight crashes down. His knees dig into my sides, locking me to the floor while towering above me.

The masked man grabs my face, rough fingers squeezing my cheeks until my jaw feels like it’s about to pop out of its socket. His breath hisses through the vents of the mask, mechanically primal and distorted.

“Wrong place, wrong time, little stray,” he growls, voice dark and dripping with delight.

Panic detonates in my chest. My body thrashes, muscles screaming as I try to lift him off me, but shit, it’s like trying to yank limbs out from underneath a concrete block. He forces my head back, exposing my throat. My fingers claw for anything, any leverage, any chance of not dying here on this filthy fucking floor.

“Tell me, little stray,” he continues, squeezing my jaw tighter, “what kind of monster stares at a dying body as it pleads for help, hm?”

I can feel his sadistic grin forming from under the mask, but I refuse to reply…mostly because he has my mouth in a fucking chokehold.

If I don’t do something right now, I’m dead. Simple math. A sick little equation spelled out in blood.

“And the nerve you have to call him out,” the man continues, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

It’s then that I realize he doesn’t have his weapon in his hand. One holds my face, and the other is propped beside my head while mine’s folded around his wrist in an attempt to pry it away from my mouth.

He must have discarded it or something. My gaze scans his figure, as much of it as I can see at least, and I notice a smaller-looking knife strapped to a leather sheath over his chest. It glints at the side of his rib like a beacon and maybe my only chance of survival.

I twist violently, jerking my head and ripping it sideways. His grip slips. Not much, but enough, and air floods my mouth in a gasp.

“Stop struggling,” he rasps, leaning in, mask filling my vision. “And I might end you quickly and put you out of your misery.” His hand comes for my face again, fingers splayed, ready to clamp down and break something.

I snap my head up and bite him.

My teeth sink into the meat of his palm so hard all I can taste is leather. He grunts, barely showing any reaction except for surprise, and jerks back, his hand ripping out of my mouth. His arm flies back instinctively, giving me that single, most precious moment I need.

I reach for the knife, ripping it from his side and lunging it into his leg. I miss the artery by sheer luck or stupidity, but the blade sinks deep into skin and muscle. He howls, a raw sound filtering through the mask, and his weight explodes off me as he recoils.