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Chapter Text

Lainey, your receptionist, lay slumped in her chair with her head split in half.

You were transfixed as her brain slowly pulsed inside of her head. You remember reading somewhere that your brain is still active for seconds to hours after death. You doubted that still applied when your brain is split open like a summer watermelon.

Blood covered every inch of her skin. It soaked into her clothes, staining her forever. Her glassy, dull eyes were wide with fear. Blood slowly trickled down her face from the gaping hole in her head.

( NIMM DEINE FICKEN MEDIZIN )

“[Name]!” Hank asks, snapping his fingers in front of your face. You gasp out of the trance you must’ve been in.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” He questions.

“‘M fine, fine. Just spaced out,” you reply as you stare at Lainey.

“Ya looked a little sick there. I wanted to be sure you wasn’t tappin’ out on me,” he says, placing a hand on your cheek and tilting your head to check for any injuries you might’ve gotten from the elevator.

You watch as gore slowly slides down the rip in Lainey’s head. Her carotid arteries twitched every so often, sending a mist of blood through the air. Hank lets his hand drop from your face and steps over to Lainey. Everyone knew that they had something going on, it was pretty damn obvious. Hank stands in front of her, trying his hardest to not let the tears fall that desperately wanted to escape. He leans forward and kisses her cheek then places his fingers over her eyelids, closing them so she wouldn’t have to see the horrors of this world. Her severed veins spray a mist of blood onto Hank’s face, speckling his freckled skin and mixing with his own blood.

Jack walks over to the phone attached to the wall and picks it up. He presses it up to his ear and is silent for a few moments.

“Fuck, it’s dead,” he says, dropping it where it bounces around on the cord and hits the wall. Hank bends down and grabs Lainey’s bloody and smashed phone. He rummages in her pockets for her keys only to come up empty. Something glints through the blood and gore and you bend down to pick it up.

It’s the bottom half of Lainey’s car key.

You check your pockets for your own keys, only to come up short.

“Don’t got my keys either,” you say as you all stare at each other. The guys check their pockets and sure enough, no keys or phones.

The next town is thirty miles away, there’s no way you make it in time, before whoever murdered Lainey exited the mine and found you. It’s miles upon miles of open road and woods. You could hide in the woods, but who’s to say you wouldn’t get lost? Lord knows how far back those woods stretched, and it was pretty damn far. The road was just about untraveled, save for the miners and a few truckers who had a load to take to one of the big cities down the mountain and didn’t wanna deal with the city traffic.

What you have to do hits you like a freight train.

“Well, fuck,” Ennis says, puffing out a large breath of air. Everyone stands silent for a few moments before Hank speaks.

“Let’s pray whoever did this ain’t goin’ down the mine. We’ll take the elevator and find some truck keys and a phone then hightail out of here,” Hank says then clicks his safety on and unclips his magazine then checks the bullets. Jack and Ennis do the same as you walk out the door and to the elevator you went up. You shove your gun into your holster and press the button and the doors open.

“[Name]?” Ennis calls.

You take a step on the metal grate and the elevator plummets down.

You hear a chorus of gasps as the elevator stops for a moment then falls back down. It stalls again and heavy footsteps pound the ground as the men near you. You hear your own scream of fear erupt from your throat as you stare down in the darkness. Hands are wrapped around your torso, your arms, anything they could get purchase on as the elevator finally falls down. You get yanked backwards and onto gravel. You’re pressed against someone’s chest. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you hyperventilate.

You whirl backwards to find yourself pressed against Hank’s sturdy chest. He places gentle hands on your biceps.

“Ya okay after that?” He asks.

Your breathing slows and you finally answer him.

“Yeah, didn’t know it was gonna fall on me,” you reply. Jack and Ennis hold out their hands for you to take and haul you up to your feet.

“Guess that rules that out,” Jack says. Ennis nods in agreement. You stand in silence for a bit before you all wordlessly turn to the mine entrance and walk back into the mine.

Your new graves.

You make your way to a small clearing and stop. A loader sits almost in the middle, still running. A bloody handprint sits on the side of the ladder. Hank holds a hand up for everyone to stop before he raises his gun and climbs into the loader. He makes it to the cab and pauses before ripping open the door and aiming his gun inside. He stares for a moment before turning and calling to you.

“James is dead. It’s….fuckin’ awful ,” he says, turning back to the cab. You climb up the ladder and peer inside.

The only reason you knew it was James was his decapitated head. His body was literally ripped apart. Blood and viscera covered the inside of the cab. Hot, thick blood slowly oozed down the walls and windows. Bloody bones that still had flesh on them were scattered across the floor and seat. Something glinted on the speedometer and you reached a hand to take it.

It was circular and felt like jelly. You rubbed a thumb across it to clear some of the blood and James’ blue eye stared back at you. Your eyes widen and you feel your stomach churn. You drop what you now know is James’ eye. It bounces across the floor and rolls until it hits a bloodied work boot. Bile rises in your throat and suddenly the cab is too small. You step out on the landing and fly down the ladder, swallowing back the bile that threatened to rise. You bend over and cup a hand over your mouth.

Hank steps out of the cab and climbs down the ladder, leaving bloody shoe prints on it. You feel a hand on your back and you glance at the ground where boots stand in your peripherals. It’s Jack.

“Ya good?” He asks.

You will away the puke and straighten up. You wipe a hand across your brow and it comes away slick with sweat.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m good,” you reply. Jack removes his hand from your back and everyone keeps going forwards.

“PLEASE, GOD NO-” a voice screams before it is silenced. Everyone stops in their tracks.

You drive your Ford-350 down a lonely back country road lined with thick woods on either side. Your eyelids droop heavily as you glance at the clock on the dash.

2:33.

God, you wanted to sleep so bad it almost drove you crazy. The only sounds were your wheels turning on the gravel and the fiddle of Amarillo by Morning on the radio. You yawn and take a hand off of the wheel to rub at your tired eyes.

You blink, and a black dog runs across the road, right in front of your truck. Your eyes snap open wider as you slam on the breaks to let it pass and to not kill the damn thing. It crosses safely and you press on the gas gently, and continue down the road, this time more cautious. 

You continue on until a scream rings through the quiet woods. Your head snaps to the right, where it came from.

The hell was that? 

You turn down the radio and roll down your window, head craned to see what in God’s name that was. You sit for what felt like an hour before easing on the gas. You roll down your passenger window and-

“[Name]!” A voice shouts.

Your eyes snap open and Hank’s soft brown stare deep into your own. 

“Stay with me,” he says sternly. You snap out of your stupor and nod. The guys huddle around you protectively, ensuring you won’t fall behind or get wrapped up in your mind.

You pass more corpses, you noticed a pattern in the ways they died. Some had a gunshot wound in their head, some were bashed in by what you guessed was a blunt object, then the others ended up like James. Their dead yet watchful eyes glared at you from their hollowing sockets.

Walking further into the core of the Earth, the screams get louder and echo around the walls and into your ears. Gunshots ring out, accompanied with the CRUNCH of bones inside bodies breaking and a nauseating SQUELCH . Occasionally, maniacal laughter would carry through the tunnels. Forcing yourself to not let your mind wander back to the night you tried not to remember and the event that was currently banging on your front door, you find your thoughts on your father.

-

You look up at him with tears blurring your vision.

“Oh, baby,” he croons as you start to cry. He drops his military-issued bags then picks you up in his arms and you feel his warm, comforting hands wipe away your tears.

“I’ll be back, don’t worry,” he says, craning his neck down to be eye-to-eye with you.

You take one of his big hands in your smaller ones.

“Promise?” You whisper.

He smiles.

“Promise.”

-

Hank stops suddenly in front of you and you run into his back. He pays you no mind as Ennis starts to speak but is silenced when Hank holds his hand up.

You can faintly hear the screams of victims before they’re silenced forever.

Hank slowly steps forward. Everyone stays silent and still.

Hank enters one of the large caverns where you’d carve into the Earth. He points his gun around at all the machinery and when he decides it’s safe, he motions for everyone to continue moving. As you got closer to the end, you encountered countless unmoving bodies. What freaked you out the most was that the bodies were still fresh . Fresh as in the muscles involuntarily flexed, the skin turned ashen, the blood was still reacting to the oxygen. Their lips weren’t pale, the hands weren’t blue, their eyes weren’t sunken in-that scared you the most. They’d been dead for maybe five minutes tops.

That meant the killer was very, very close.

You continue on before you begin to hear voices. You can’t make out the words but as you enter the current cavern you were currently mining in, words began to shape. Hank rushes everyone behind a loader tire before you’re seen.

“Ain’t there supposed to be a few more?” A gruff voice, presumably a male, asks.

“Yeah, four others,” another voice rang out, warped by some sort of voice changer.

“You ssssuh-sssuh-sure?” A German accent asks.

“I’m sure, Rogers. Shut up so we can listen,” the warped voice snaps.

“Ich schwöre, Brian, wenn du falsch liegst, werde ich dich wie ein Schwein ficken,” the German voice said. You got lost in your mind as you racked your brain for why that voice sounded so familiar.

The voices continue to bicker like children when the realization almost causes you to gasp.

It’s the man from the diner.

You grasp Hank’s hand tightly in yours. He turns to you, confused.

It’s the man from the diner , you mouth. His eyes widened in surprise before risking a quick glance to the middle of the cavern where the men stood. He looks back at you and nods to confirm your suspicion.

“What’re we gonna do?” Ennis murmurs lowly to Hank. Hank’s brows furrow as he thinks of a possible solution and your mind wanders.

Another scream echos through the dark and once quiet woods. Your heart rate begins to speed up, ready to fight or flee. The greenery shakes and a figure crawls out from the underbrush.

Your blood turns to ice in your veins.

It was a man. He had only his upper body, his feet to his waist nowhere to be found. His intestines dragged against the ground as he noticed your truck sitting still and cried out for help.

“PLEASE, HELP ME!”

His nose was broken beyond repair, blood streams down his face from the gaping hole where his right eye should be. Gore slips down the cavern in his eye, vitreous liquid spilling down his face and running into his mouth. A small chunk of his iris slides down the rivers of blood covering his face and falls into his mouth that currently wails for help. Bile rises in your throat and you slap a hand over your mouth.

An odd buzz rises in your mind, like your brain had filled with TV static. Ringing starts low and quiet in your ears, before it rises in pitch and volume until all you hear is ringing, drowning out the man’s pleads for you to help.

You’re not in control of your body as you open your truck door and step out. It’s like an out of body experience when-

You blink.

“We’ll shoot ‘em, grab our shit, and get the hell outta Dodge,” Hank whispers.

Everyone takes their stance and aims their guns in front of them. Jack and Ennis peak around one side of the loader tire while you and Hank look around the other. Once everyone’s in position, Hank nods. 

You hesitate.

B A N G

B A N G

B A N G

B A N G

Four shots fired, only one hit their mark.

A man in a yellow hoodie and black mask falls to the ground as a bullet engrains itself into his forehead. The black pistol he held fell and clattered against the ground.

Another man in an orange Carhartt jacket and a white feminine mask was hit twice, once in the abdomen then the right shoulder.

The man from the diner had a bullet sized hole in his throat. You swear you could see the other walls of the cavern through it. You hesitated, too wrapped up in the memory of his handsome face in the diner and missed your shot. He doesn’t seem to mind, and turns to your hiding spot while the other man doubles over and says some words that would make a your grandma whack him upside the head with a hairbrush.

For a single moment, you meet the familiar eyes of the man from the diner. He wore odd goggles over his eyes that you couldn’t see the color of because of how much blood and guts covered him. He was absolutely drenched in blood. He wore a bloodstained mouthguard and the same boots you first saw him in. Two hatchets hung from his belt. Judging based on how bloody he was, you confirmed he was the one who ripped the bodies apart. Underneath his mask, he smiles, you can tell by his cheeks rising, and he sprints at you.

You can’t will yourself to move. It’s when he raises a hatchet above his head and Hank yanks you forwards to run that you take off, running behind another tire. The hatchet sails behind your head, slamming against the hard wall and lodging itself between chunks of heavy rock. The man slows to a cocky walk and rips it out of the wall like it was nothing, making eye contact with you the entire time. You turn around and run harder.

“Holy shit balls!” Ennis says, chest heaving from adrenaline and sprinting. The man from the diner chases as well, calling out to his friend.

“Alright thu-there, Timmy?”

“ SHUT UP ROGERS !” Comes his raged reply. You’re hit with a tsunami of anger and you feel your blood boil in your veins from it.

You swivel your waist so you’re looking at the man but you’re still running forwards. You fire at him again, but that does nothing to slow him. He starts to gain on you and you turn around and run harder. Damn, he’s fast.

You abruptly slide underneath a truck and take off running from the other side. His sights seem to be set on you as he slides under and gives chase again.

There were plenty of places to hide, most of the machinery was in this cavern. You zig-zag around drills and tires until you hide inside of a tire.

Fuck, why didn’t I stay with the guys? You mentally slap yourself. 

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your heavy breathing as you hear his shoes stop pounding the ground and walk.

“Luh-luh-little pig, little pig, where did you go?” He calls out. In the dim lighting, his goggles glow. You risk a peek around the tire and his back is to you, allowing you to see his frazzled mullet.

His head whips around suddenly, and his mask had fallen down during his chase. A large rip on the side of his mouth stretched across his cheek. You could see inside of his mouth, and you almost gagged upon seeing his tongue run over his teeth, a hungry predator catching sight of harmless prey.

“Found you,” is all he says before launching himself at you like a starved dog looking at meat.

You shriek and start running.

Duck, left, straight, right, you develop a pattern to lose him. You felt like Danny running through the hedge maze from his deranged father. You could only pray you lost him as you ran like a scared rabbit.

“Little pig, little pig, let me in!” He cries out from behind you. You gasp as you struggle to breathe. Your chest heaves with every breath, your leg muscles burn with exertion, your heart pounds wildly in your chest. Adrenaline makes a home in your veins as your feet pound the ground with everything you have. 

You pass by a massive tire and feel arms wrapped around your waist. Before you can scream, a thick hand is slapped over your mouth, muffling your efforts. You’re held against a broad chest. It’s not until you take a deep breath that the scent is familiar.

“Shh, it’s me,” Hank murmurs, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. You visibly calm, and he releases you.

“I got separated from Jack and Ennis. The other man’s up and madder than a hornet in a coke can. How about diner man?”

You lean against the tire and catch your breath.

“Fuckin’ psycho bitch,” you pant out. You straighten up and start to talk before you’re cut off by a wail of pain and a silenced cry of a name. You stare at Hank with wide eyes before you both run in the direction where the scream came from. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw.

Jack lay in a puddle of blood. Blood poured from his chest, directly above his heart. Ennis kneeled beside him, pressing down on Jack’s chest. Ennis noticed you and Hank standing motionless behind him.

“Please,” he sobbed out, “we gotta help him.”

A large hatchet wound laid over his heart. You put two and two together and felt your heart drop.

You all knew there was no saving him. A slash to the heart is fatal, no matter how much you hope and pray it isn’t.

Wordlessly, Jack placed his hands on Ennis’ face. The tears that Ennis tried to not let fall now fell freely, slipping down his cheeks and onto Jack’s hands. Jack stares into Ennis’ eyes. A wordless argument stood in between them. Ennis shoves his face forwards and his lips meet Jack’s. They pull away after a few moments and stare at each other. Ennis presses his forehead against Jack’s and they stay like that, even as Jack’s eyes dull and his tears dry. Ennis takes a shuttering inhale then places his fingers over Jack’s eyelids and closes them gently. His lips ghost over his forehead then he stands up. Blood stains his jeans and hands, yet he doesn’t care as he wipes away his tears with a bloody hand.

No words are spoken as you continue to where your phones and keys were, watching out for the murderers. You hear loud footsteps grow louder until they’re on the other side of a drilling machine. Everyone presses up against the large tire as the man nears the corner of the drill. Ennis flicks open the blade on his pocket knife and you realize what he’s about to do a moment too late.

“ You killed Jack, you fucker !” Ennis screams, then jumps on the man’s back, pocket knife raising and falling rapidly.

“Ennis, no !” Hank shouts and charges the men fighting. The man in orange flailed around wildly, trying to fling Ennis from his back.

B A N G

B A N G

You stare at the scene unfolding, confused. You run your hands down your body, you weren’t shot. Who was?

Your question is answered when Ennis lets out a pained grunt and tumbles off of the man’s back. Hank tackles the man and they begin to brawl on the hard ground.

“[Name], take Ennis and run,” Hank grunts out.

You will your body forward and shove your gun into your holster. You drag Ennis a few feet away behind a tire, leaving a blood soaked trail behind. He groans in pain as you readjust your grip on him and continue to drag him.

“I know, but I gotta get you safe,” you murmur apologetically. You managed to drag him a few hundred yards away, a few twists and turns would lead you back to Hank and the man. In the back of your mind, you pray Hank’s okay.

Blood pours in buckets around the two of you as it streams from his stomach. You drop his hand and drop to your knees beside him.

Two bullet holes riddled his torso, one in his stomach and the other in his chest, over his lung.

You pressed your hands over the holes, trying in vain to stop the blood from flowing. He winces as you apply more and more pressure. Sticky, hot blood stains your fingers as he raises a shaky hand to rest over yours. Tears prickle in your eyes as you look up at him through your brows. His face was already paling, his eyes growing less blue and more gray by the second. 

“Sing,” he whispers. The tears grow harsher in your eyes, begging to be let out.

“Ennis, I don’t-”

“Sing. Please. My dyin’ wish,” he breathes out a chuckle. Through his pained laughter, you hear the slight wheeze he takes as he has to breathe. He’s trying to fight it, but it’s inevitable. His lung will collapse.

"But-"

"Please," he's begging you now.

You look in the direction of Hank and the man in orange. You hear strained grunts and huffs as they fight. You take your caliber from your holster and click on the safety then lay it beside you.

You look back down to Ennis. “Okay.”

You clear your throat as you shuffle to where his head rests in your lap.

“The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms.” Your voice wavered as you struggled not to cry.

“When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken. So I bowed my head, and I cried.” Ennis graces you with the biggest smile he can muster as blood begins to stain his teeth.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.” Tears begin to fall down your cheeks as you reminisce on the night you met Ennis.

“Hey, lonely. You look like you could use a buddy.” You glance up from what must’ve been your fifteen shot of the night. You drank Southern Comfort, but you weren’t very comforted. You wanted to drown in your sorrows alone, but he seemed like he had other plans.

“Not interested,” you shot him down quickly.

“I’ve always loved you, and made you happy, and nothing else could come between. But now-” you cut yourself off with an ugly snort, “but now you’ve left me to love another. You have shattered all of my dreams,” you’re starting to make those ugly sobbing hiccups that you do when you cry, but you have no mind to care.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray.” Tears fall down Ennis’ face freely. 

“Not interested in that,” he says, a sly grin on his face. A familiar tune begins to blare from the old, worn out jukebox in the corner of the bar. Hoops and hollers fill the bar as everyone recognizes the song. Come on Eileen. Ennis turns to look at the jukebox then back to you.

“Living room routine?” He holds his palm out for you to take. You stare at his outstretched hand then back at him. You smile and grab his hand.

“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.” You look at Ennis, not wanting to miss a thing.

“Please don’t take my sunshine away.” Your voice trails into a whisper as your emotions sweep you under.

Ennis’ thumb sweeps across your cheek, wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop coming no matter what.

“Please don’t take my sunshine away,” you repeat. You’d give anything to go back to that night, suddenly realizing you wasted so much time. Death was unforgiving, relentless. You’d seen what death does to families. It’d happened in your own. 

You’d never held a dying man in your arms. Your breath came out in hiccuping, gut wrenching sobs as you held Ennis closer. You heard him inhale and exhale for the last time and that opened the floodgates. 

You were too wrapped up in your sorrow to check on Hank and the man. Over time, the man in yellow had somehow survived a fucking gunshot wound through the head then overpowered Hank and was currently beating the shit out of him.

“Rogers! Get your head out of your ass and fuckin’ get  them !”

You dimly wonder what they’re talking about when a sharp pain rings across your skull, coming from the back of your head. Your face slams against the rock floor. You feel disoriented, spots swam in your vision and the world spun.

What-who- 

A hand threads through your hair and yanks. Your world shifts and makes you nauseous. You yelp and grab at the hand attached to your head. Strands of hair snap and break. You do everything you can, digging your nails into their skin, raking up and down as fast as you can in your bewildered and terrified state. You’re dragged across the ground on your stomach and the rocks underneath you scratch and scar up your skin, dirt stinging the small wounds. You remember your gun and let go of their hand to grab it. As soon as you pull your caliber out, a swift kick is aimed at your hand and your gun goes flying, sailing through the air then skidding across the floor. There goes that plan.

“ Let go of me-” you scream as you struggle. You lace your fingers through their bloody hands and you know who it is. You pull against their fingers, but it’s like pushing a concrete wall.

Their grip in your hair loosens and you breathe out in relief.

THUNK.

CRUNCH!

Your head slams into the pavement as a boot hits the back of your head, and hard. You gasp as your hands try to reach to your face to hold your broken nose but cry out again as a boot stomps on your hand.

CRUNCH!

“FUCK!” You wail as you feel bones in your hand break. Tears spring in your eyes again.

A heavy weight sits on your back. As it makes impact with your body, you wheeze out a breath. His thighs straddle your back. His knees press into your forearms, keeping them pinned down. A bloody hand grabs the top of your head roughly, wrenching your head to the side to watch the scene unfold before you.

The man in yellow stood over a semi-conscious Hank, a bloody crowbar in hand. The man in orange laid a few feet away, dead.

“Hank!” You cry out to him. He lies facing you. His eyes open at the sound of your distress, and he reaches out to you. The man in yellow slams the crowbar down onto his hand.

You gasp in pain, as if you were the one hit. You can feel his bones break in his palm and fingers. He cries through his teeth.

“Tie them up, Rogers,” the man in yellow orders the man on top of you, Rogers, you guessed.

“NO!” You yell, thrashing wildly underneath him. Your protest is nothing to him as he reaches a few feet in front of you. His body covers yours, his erratic breath fans over your head, dusting your ears and sending wisps of your hair flying. You slam your head backwards into him, and he almost topples over from the force. You buck against him, but he quickly overpowers you.

Rope begins to wrap around your hands. Your arms are yanked behind you, and are tied together with the rope. He loops it and you know what he’s doing.

He’s hog-tying you like livestock. You were nothing but a lamb to the slaughter.

You struggle against him harder and harder. A quick punch to the back of the head sends your head careening forwards, back into the rocks. Gravel cuts your face open by small wounds and slow drips of blood fall onto rock. He ties your legs together and straddles your back as if you were a comfortable chair. His hands press the side of your face into the rocks and he leans in close to your ear.

“The fffffffuh-fuh-fun is about to begin,” he whispers, then grins.

You meet his psychotic eyes.

“Rot in hell, ya psycho bitch.”

He laughs at that. “Fiesty, Ich mag es.”

He turns to the man in yellow, giving him the go-ahead.

He brings the crowbar down on Hank’s head.

“NO!” You wail. Tears fall down your cheeks, mixing with blood.

He raises it high above his head.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare! I’ll kill you!” You shriek.

He ignores you and slams the crowbar into Hank’s head. This time, you hear a loud CRACK as his skull begins to burst open. Hank cries out.

You manage to rip your hand from underneath his knee and claw at the ground, your nails cracking and breaking in the process. You didn't get very far, due to the rope binding your hands together.

"You bastard! You fuckin' bastard!" You yell.

The man raises it.

“Please, don’t, I’ll do anything,” you beg. The man above you, Rogers, leans his mouth close to your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it.

“Sssssssuh-suh-suh-suh-sweet, mourning lamb, there’ssss nothing you can do.”

A disgusting squelch rings in your ears.

“Please stop! Stop it! Hank, get up!” You yell. Blood ran down your face, mixing with your warm tears and running into your mouth, swirling with your saliva.

The crowbar slams into Hank’s head and you shut your eyes. Hank screams with every hit and you can hear the sounds of his skull slowly caving in. Calloused fingers wrench your eyes open to watch the life bleed out of Hank with his blood. Hank’s brown, weathered eyes stare at you the entire time. The emotions show through them like glass-anger, fear, sorrow.

Regret.

“Please get up,” you murmur to him.

The crowbar comes down again and again and again, until Hank’s skull had caved in. The man gave him one last hit and took a few steps back. A pool of blood stood around Hank and his killer. Muscle, blood, bits of skull fragments and hair, and other viscera laid where Hank’s head once was. You still saw his brown eyes through all the gore.

They stared through your soul. Judging. Watching. Waiting. Knowing .

You fell slack in Rogers’ hold. You have never been so utterly hopeless in your life. Hank was dead, Jack was dead, Ennis was dead, every single worker was dead. No one could save you. Everyone told you working in the mines was a death wish, it’d just leave you in an early grave. 

You never believed them then. Now you regret it.

Your heart pounds in your ears as the two men talk. You can’t hear what they’re saying over the roar of your heart. You stare at Hank’s body. Guilt washed over you like water. You wished you could go back in time, prevent all this from happening. Maybe everyone would still be alive. You wish you were stronger. You should’ve killed Rogers when you had the chance. 

God, you felt so stupid . You were to blame. You should’ve shot him in the head. You hesitated before pulling the trigger. That caused Hank his life. Your hesitation cost your friends their lives. The only one that would’ve came after you would’ve been the man in orange. Four against one was fairer.

“ Please don’t take my sunshine away. ”  

You open your eyes.

B A N G

The man in yellow’s head explodes as a bullet rips through skull and brain like it’s nothing. Blood and brain and skull pieces splatter everywhere, on you, Rogers, and the ground. A bit of brain falls on your forehead. Chunks of flesh desperately hold onto the man’s neck as he falls backwards. 

You turn to look at who fired the shot, your savior, but your view was blocked by Rogers. His rises off of you quickly and unsheathes the hatchets that hung on his hips, raising them high above his head-

B A N G

His kneecap was blown out, making him stumble as he threw the hatchet. Thankfully, you don’t hear the hatchet connect with flesh, and another bullet fires as whoever it is dodges the fast throw. The bullet embeds itself in his forehead, and his head explodes in the same gooey mess that painted the ground a couple feet away, leaving him to crumple to the ground in a heap. You see your savior.

Jill.

You weren’t close friends, not like Jack and Ennis were, but you’d still make small talk. She was hilarious to be around. A hastily made tourniquet fastened around her left thigh, dried blood smeared on her body, she looked like an angel in person.

“[Name]! Are you okay?” She runs over to you and whips out a pocket knife, severing the ropes holding you.

“‘S fine as I can be,” you reply, shoving yourself up as your head spins. Jill’s hand reaches out to hold you steady.

“What’s wrong?” She asks. You groan.

“Concussion. Hurts,” you grunt out. Blood still streams from your nose and you spit out a glob of saliva and blood onto the ground. She helps you stand and you shuffle over to Hank. You stare down at him sadly. Jill walks away, giving you your privacy.

You bend down and grab his left hand. His old wedding band from his only ex-wife sat on it. You slip it off his finger and take off your father’s dog tags. You loop the ring around the chain and tighten it, slipping the tags back around your neck.

“I’m sorry ‘bout Hank. Is anyone else alive?” Jill asks, genuine sympathy in her voice.

“I’d lie and say it’s fine, but it ain’t. ‘N not that I know of. Me, Hank, Jack, and Ennis was the only ones until-” you cut yourself off as a lump lodges in your throat. Jill nods once, knowing too well what your sentence would end in.

“Me and Rick heard the gunshots and screams. We hid underneath a mine cart. When those fuckers passed us, we went over to them bodies and covered ourselves in blood then played dead. We…. we decided to come out and try to kill them. Didn’t work,” she says with a forceful, hollow chuckle.

“Twink with hatchets got ‘em.”

You turned your gaze from Hank to her.

“‘M sorry.”

She brushes you off.

“Got him back, didn’t I?”

You nod.

“Here's your gun," she says, then hands you your caliber.

"Let’s get out of here,” Jill announces, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You wrap one around her waist and take out your gun. You slowly begin your travel up to the mine entrance and to freedom. As you got closer, you heard distant thunderclaps and the roar of rain. While you walked, you and Jill talked about anything, everything. Your families, your past lovers, stories from high school, whatever came to mind. Anything to distract yourself from the sins behind you.

Jill had her phone, and she called the police. Due to the 30 miles between the nearest town, they wouldn’t be there for a while. That was fine, you could wait. Your nose had slowed to a distant drip. It still hurt, but was now a dull ache. Your adrenaline had worn off, leaving you tired and exhausted as the beatings got to your tired body.

Unknown to you, the men were slowly rising. Their blood soaked back into their bodies, bones regrew, limbs snapped back into place. Rage filled their veins: rage that they had been bested by unworthy mortals .

They regrew with renewed rage, and may God have mercy on whoever stands in their path.

-

You and Jill stopped near the entrance, her wounded thigh finally getting to her. You dragged her along, bracing a hand on the packed dirt. Lightning crashed against the dark sky, and following it, thunder boomed through the skies and your ears, rain pelted the ground. Wind nipped at your faces, chiling you straight to the bone. 

“Hey Jill?” You call to her.

“Yeah?”

“Wanna get Mexican after this?”

CRACK!

SQUISH!

Jill’s eyes widen and her mouth gapes open like a fish out of water as she struggles to speak.

“Jill?” You ask, growing increasingly worried as she doesn’t answer. Your back is to the storm roaring behind you, and Jill’s to the dark mine. She slumps forward and you catch her in your arms.

“Jill?” You panic and pull her closer. Hot, sticky blood runs down her back, over your hands, staining the air with the all too familiar scent of blood and misery. It isn’t until you feel the hatchet protruding from her spine do you realize what happened. You stare over her shoulder as she takes gasping breaths and there stands Rogers, his other hatchet in hand.

Behind him, emerging from the shadows, walks out the men in orange and yellow. The man in orange holds his bloody crowbar, the other holds a pistol.

“The fuck ?” You mutter, perplexed. A cold sweat beads on your skin as you size the men up. Through the blood on Rogers’ forehead, there’s an angry, red rash where a bullet once killed him, where skin cells are still raw and growing. 

No one moves as you all stand in silence. Jill stopped breathing a long time ago, her dead weight heavy in your tired arms. Lighting crashes against the sky and illuminates the three men in front of you. You can barely hear the thunder over your scared heartbeat.

You see it out of the corner of your eye as the man in yellow begins to raise his gun. You instantly take a step backwards and Rogers takes a step forwards. The man in yellow raises his gun fully and Rogers notices.

“Thu-they’re mine ,” he snarls, like a vicious dog.

And in that moment, you have an idea. It could not even work, but there’s a possibility.

You take off running into the office.

“Oh, great fuckin’ job , Rogers!” The man in orange booms as everyone gives chase.

You run past Lainey’s dead body, as flies begin to dance around in her wounds. Your plan went something along the lines of this: In the basement sat the old heater. The heater was from the first year the coal mine was established and the office was built, 1920. It hadn’t ever been replaced, and you had to check it three times a day and pull out the little knob to allow pressure to release into the air, thus cooling it down. If you didn’t, it’d get too hot and burn everyone out. You could adjust the temperature to rise, but not down. That’s what was so dangerous about it. Getting it replaced had been a heated discussion at board meetings, or so you were told. The heater was absolutely massive , with 250 pounds per square inch. You didn’t know how hot it could go, but it was pretty damn hot. On one of your recent trips down to the basement, you remember seeing a lot of cans of gasoline, extras for all the machinery. Why they kept it so close to the heater was beyond you, but you weren’t gonna complain if they were all full.

The men ran directly behind you, death licking at your heels every step you took. Your tired legs pounded the ground with everything you had, despite wanting to collapse from exhaustion. You willed your body forwards and out of their grasps. Another left, straight, right, down, straight, right, straight, left. The constant change in direction helped to slow the men down the tiniest fraction. All you needed was a few seconds and your plan could work.

Their heavy footsteps fall behind you, in sync with the loud thrum of your heartbeat.

Fucking fuck!  Your mind screamed. They’re too damn close !

You whip out your caliber and fire a few blind shots.

“Fuck!” Came a strangled cry. The man in orange tumbled down and the other didn’t didn’t stop to check on him. You turn and fire twice at the man in yellow, and hit him in the leg both times. You waste no time checking if they’re alive before running right. You pause as you prepare to fire at Rogers and take a defensive step forward.

The only thing that comes from your caliber is a hollow clicking.

Shit ! I’m outta bullets !

You shove the gun into your holster as you think of what to do to buy you enough time. You fly down a small set of stairs and the idea comes to you.

Your good hand flies down to your jeans and you pull out your pocket knife. You flick the blade open and sprint down the hallway. You round the corner and stop momentarily. You lean backwards on your trail leg and push off of the ground and Rogers slams into you, sending you both stumbling to the floor. You land beside him and you scramble to stab him. The tip of your pocket knife drags on his Adam's apple as he pushes his forearm against yours. You grunt and push back with all the strength you have left. The tip sinks back into his neck before he shoves you back and you sail backwards, landing on your tailbone, sending waves of pain through your spine.

A kick is aimed at your head, and you lie flat on the floor to avoid it. You stab your knife into his calf, and drag it down, severing muscle and skin in a bloody mess. He swings a punch, and it connects, sending your head to slam against the concrete floor. 

THUNK !

Spots dance in your vision, and you swear he just made your concussion worse.

“Fuck,” you grumble before punching him square in the nose.

CRUNCH !

Blood pours from his nose as you break the bones in it.

“Aggressiv, das gefällt mir.”

With that, he lunges towards you. You shriek as you instinctively scramble backwards. Both of his hands wrap around your right ankle and begin to twist, bending your bones in a way they’re not supposed to be bent. He applies more force and-

SNAP !

You let out a blood-curdling screech. Your ankle lays at an odd angle on the ground, now useless. Tears rim your eyes as you stare at the man. He only grins like a devil back.

“You sick fuck,” you whisper. Suddenly, you reach forwards, knife raised, and stab him in the chest. His hand comes up and slaps your knife from your hand. You drag yourself against the ground, desperately grabbing for your knife. Your fingers graze the handle and a hand is wrapped around your foot. You grab it as you’re yanked backwards by your broken ankle. You muffle a whimper through your teeth as the broken bones grind together.

You’re pulled back into him. The backs of your thighs lay on his upper thighs. He leans over you and raises a hand for a punch.

“Rot in hell, you fucking bastard,” you grit out before swinging your knife in a large arc. The arc ends as you plunge your knife into his ear, ripping downwards and ending at his collar bone. His blood splatters downwards onto your body and face. He slams his fist into your nose.

CRUNCH !

The shards of bone in your nose shatter and scatter underneath your skin. Your head snaps backwards as you cry out. He punches again, this time hitting your lip. It bursts and a thin stream of crimson drips from your bottom lip. You grip the handle of your knife with all you have and yank it from his neck.

You flip it in your hand and cry out victoriously as you jab your knife upwards, straight into his under chin, where his tongue sat. You drag down, slicing his tongue in half, rendering him useless to speak. You rip your knife out of his chin and shove him off of you. You shove yourself up and make yourself keep going.

You limp down the hallway, holding onto the walls for the support that your ankle didn’t give, never looking back. You wince every time you put the slightest amount of weight on your ankle. You continue your search for the basement. The closer you get, the hotter you feel. Sweat begins to bead on your skin. You step into a utility closet not far from the basement and reach for the top shelf. There you find a two-barrel shotgun and a few boxes of bullets. On your first day at the mine, Hank showed you around. All closets had guns in them, safety precautions for an incident that happened more than 20 years ago. You shove the barrel open and push two bullets in, cocking it and relishing in the sound. 

That sound promised death and destruction, the end of everything new. 

You keep going until the basement door stands in front of you.

You open the door and shut it tightly behind you. You stumble over to the heater and look at the thermometer.

120 degrees Fahrenheit. The needle was slowly climbing to the end of the red zone. When the needle hits the end, you’d better run. You press the little knob down farther into the heater. You close all of the openings and stand back. The needle steadily rose hotter and hotter. You hobble over to a small cabinet, and open it.

Inside sits a few gas cans. You pick them up, and they’re filled to the brim with gasoline.

“ Thank God ,” you mutter. You set them out and open one and begin pouring it everywhere. On the old books that were sure to help the fire start, on the wooden shelves that had coal dust embedded in every crevice, on the heater itself, everything else in the room. When all the cans had ran out, you chucked them in a corner and stood in the middle of the room, shotgun at the ready.

Eventually, three shadows cross the threshold of the basement.

You sigh quietly. 

You all stare at one another, sizing the other up. The man in yellow makes a move to step forward and you fire your gun with no second thoughts. The bullet tears through his throat, making him grab at his neck to stop the blood flow. Rogers raises a hatchet above his head and lets it fly.

CRUNCH !

The blade embeds itself in your left shoulder blade. You scream, and stumble backwards, falling to the floor. Your hands wrap around the handle. What feels like fire has engulfed the left side of your body. Tears burn in your eyes as you try to rip it out. You wail. This hurt the most, more than anything that had happened today. Rogers takes his sweet time walking over to you. He grabs the handle with one hand and yanks it from your shoulder, seemingly effortlessly. You shriek from the pain and tears fall from your eyes.

The man in orange stalks over to you. Those negative waves of emotion are back, and this time you can’t tell if it’s you or him. He reaches you and grabs the front of your shirt and starts to drag you across the ground. 

“Let go of me!” You snarl at him and squirm against his hold. He pulls you upwards, onto your feet, and slams your back against the heater. You hiss as the heat burns through your clothes, scorching your skin. A gloved, bloody hand grabs your face, forcing you to stare into the brown eyes behind the mask. 

His other hand snakes to his waistband, and for a moment, you’re scared he might do something inappropriate. That thought is forgotten when he unclips a pocket knife from his jeans and flicks it open. He brings it awful close to your skin, and you take a sharp breath.

“Listen to me, and listen to me good. Whatever you have planned, won’t keep us away if you live. We will regrow. We will find you. And we won’t be so generous next time,” he threatens, and you know he means every word he said. You risk a glance over to the thermometer.

210.

God, you feel like if the blood loss and the three murderous men standing in front of you won’t kill you, the heat will. Your backside burns as it’s pressed hard against the heater. Sweat drips down you in buckets. You can practically cut the humidity in the air with a butterknife. A few more minutes and this whole place will be sky high. You need to keep them distracted for another minute or so then try to get the hell outta here. You can see your breath taint the air as you speak.

“This is generous?” You bark out a laugh. “Hell, this ain’t nothin’. Ever been bullriding? Fuck, you wanna talk about a beatin’,” you say.

“Ya remind me of a bull. Easily pissed off, all muscle, no brain,” you taunt. The hand with his pocket knife in it raises and stabs into your hatchet wound. Your grin screws into an open mouthed moan of pain. From his reaction, you can tell your insult got to him. Through the pain, you put a smirk on your face and glance over to the thermometer.

240.

The temperature was rising, and quickly.

“You a little thin between the ears?” You laugh in his face. The knife stabs deeper into your wound.

The man in yellow steps forward. 

“Keep your cool, Masky, or I’ll do it. This is your one chance, don’t blow it,” the man in yellow warbles. You feel there’s a little more behind that statement as Masky tenses in front of you. Blood runs down your shoulder and your eyes begin to droop from the blood loss.

A single bead of sweat drips down your neck, sliding down the valley across your spine.

“You aren’t leaving this place alone. Only way you're gonna leave by yourself is over my dead body,” he says flatly, though you feel it’s more of an demand.

You look at the thermometer. It was so high you couldn’t see the needle from where you stood. A high-pitched, neverending squeal rang through the sweltering room. It was time for you to leave, and fast.

“You’re wrong about that first part, Masky ,” You say his name just to piss him off.

“Ya ever seen a horror movie? Ya know what happens at the end?” You look straight into the face of death and aren’t scared. Prior fear has melted and twisted into a red hot rage that ran thickly through your veins. Rage for all the fucked-up shit that happened to your friends, who didn’t deserve to have their lives to violently taken from them. You open your eyes wider, ignoring the pain radiating throughout your entire body.

“The psycho fuck gets killed. The final girl escapes. Happily ever fuckin’ after. Wanna know who you are?”

His brown eyes glare into yours, clearly not amused.

“The psychotic freak who’s never gotten his dick wet a day in his life. I’m the final girl. And final girls always-” you cut yourself off as you try to lean on your snapped ankle.

“Fuckin-” you bend your knee as you prepare your final stand.

“WIN!” You scream as you kick your good leg into him as hard as you can, sending him flailing backwards and you pressing against the heater.

You smell burnt clothes when you pull away, but don’t pay any mind to it as you make a beeline for the door. Out of your peripherals, Rogers chucks a hatchet at your body and you instinctively duck. It whistles through the air before finding its last target, the man in yellow.

The hatchet digs into his head, ripping through muscle like it’s nothing. The man’s body swings backwards from the force, taking his feet out from under him. Rogers sprints towards you, an anger that previously wasn’t there before shining in his eyes.

You limp to the door, and reach it just in time. You slam it on Rogers, and he shoves against it.

You dig your feet into the ground as they slide from Rogers’ strength. You grunt and shove your back harder against it.

“Let go asshole!” You snap at him. He responds by pressing harder, making you slide farther across the ground. The toe of his boot snakes around the door and that gives you a spike of adrenaline. You regain your footing, and place both hands on the door. You grit your teeth as your muscles burn underneath your skin and you walk the door into its hinges. Rogers presses with all his odd strength against the door, and with one last push, the door slams into the hinges. Someone had messed up the doorknob down here, and the lock was on your side. No one cared enough to change it, and you were suddenly grateful no one did.

Wood splinters as Rogers slams against the door. It pauses, and suddenly the sound of metal on wood sends you sprinting through the empty halls. The entire building is now hotter than hell, and it’s only a matter of time if the heater causes an explosion or the electricity heating up does.

You stumble through the halls, unable to think of anything but getting the fuck out. Nothing matters anymore, no injuries, no losses, as you struggle to the entrance.

The high-pitched squeal was so loud you could barely hear it.

It’s not until you stumble past Lainey’s body and see Hank’s worn jean jacket on a hook do you snap out of your survival driven trance. You become insecure of the blood on your hands and wipe them on your bloody jeans, not that it did much. You hesitantly grabbed the bottom of his jacket, raising it to your face and taking a deep inhale, despite your mind screaming at you to get out.

Get out! What are you doing?

WWWWHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

A loud sound breaks through your sadness and your head whips to the hallways down to the basement. 

“Fuck!” You yell as you rip Hank’s jacket off of the hook and rush over to the cubbies that held your keys and phone. You grab them with your good hand and limp quickly to the doorway. Panic overrides any other thought as you rip open the door and step outside of the office.

BBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!