Chapter Twenty #2
Round the corner and Payton’s there. Wrenching at the door handle.
I yank her back by the hood, just enough to see through the glass fogged with her breath.
Dimly lit. No angles on Derek, only the girl he caught.
Tied to a chair. Gagged. Tears down her face.
The monitors are looping each player’s death in HD. The kind of shit that sticks behind your eyelids.
Payton whirls to me. “He’s not in there.”
I jam my knife into the door’s seam. “He’s watching.”
She rams her shoulder into it. Once. Twice. “Get her out.”
I drag her back. “Stand clear.”
The lock’s heavy-duty—government-grade shit. Kicking it would just shatter my kneecap.
I scan the hallway.
Fire extinguisher.
My fingers close around the casing. Boot to the wall.
Heave.
My shoulder blazes white. Something tears—muscle, tendon, my last fuck to give. Doesn’t matter. My fingers are numb around the metal.
“Move.” Payton skids in, hip-checking me just enough to steal the angle.
Her fingers wedge under the bracket, forearm cords stretched taut. Blood wells where the metal bites her palms. She keeps going.
I replant my hands over hers.
One brutal yank—
The bracket shears off the wall, taking drywall and screws with it.
The extinguisher comes free like a bad tooth, slamming into my thigh. The jolt shoots straight to my jaw.
“Cover your face,” I grit out.
Payton doesn’t listen, of course. Just stares at Kristy through the glass, breath coming in wet hitches.
I swing—aiming for the frame, not the glass.
First hit. Steel on steel. The frame dents, ringing loud. The viewport shudders but holds.
Second. Metal groans. A crack spiders through the wire-mesh glass.
One more. The deadbolt snaps. The door blasts inward.
I step over glass, knife up, scanning the shadows.
“Kristy …” Payton lunges past me. Claws at the duct tape. “You okay?”
Kristy nods, shakes her head, nods again, eyes bulging.
No sign of Derek anywhere. Only two bodies—Neck Tat and Sandwich Guy. Plus a note on Kristy’s chest—Tag. You’re it.
The tape rips free. Kristy gasps, sucking in air. “Watch out!”
A thud behind me.
The ceiling.
I spin—just in time to eat a fist to the jaw.
Pain spikes through my skull, my mask knocked slightly askew. I stagger, knife raised, staring into another Ghostface and—
Gun. Barrel aimed between my eyes.
“Took you long enough to reach the final boss,” Derek rasps through his modulator. “But don’t pop the champagne just yet. We both know how your number ends.”
The gun taps his own temple. “Gotta say, though, you’ve done well, Thirteen. Pity your luck’s about to run out.” He tilts his head. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”
“What do you want, asshole?” Payton snaps behind me.
“Show’s starting soon. But first—let’s get your nerves buzzing.”
A flick of his other wrist.
Blue light. White heat.
My ribs explode. Muscles snap tight, lungs seizing.
The knife hits the floor.
My knees follow. Shoulder. Face.
Derek crouches, a fucking compact taser in his palm like an offering.
Could’ve grabbed it. Fought back. Done something—anything. But my fingers won’t stop twitching. Like a fish flopping on the deck.
Static in my ears. Payton’s screaming something—his name? Mine?
Get up. Move, goddamn it.
Bit by bit, the noises bleed through. Kristy’s broken gasps. Derek’s smug chuckle. Payton spitting fire.
My fingers jerk—still twitching—but the current’s grip is easing.
Derek leans in, mask to mask. “Aw. Look who’s almost functional again.”
Payton lunges—not at him, at my knife on the floor—
Derek straightens, boot stomping down on the blade in one fluid motion. “Tsk. Bad move, little fox.”
“Drop it.”
“Wesley,” Payton gasps.
The idiot playing Reaper is looming behind Derek, scythe hooked clean across his throat.
Damn it. I could kiss the bastard.
Now, get up. My legs won’t fucking listen.
The blade draws a thin line of blood. “I said, ‘Drop it.’”
Derek raises his hands. “Let’s not be hasty, Death.”
Wesley wrenches the gun away. Tucks it behind his back. “Heard you’ve been slaughtering players for real, you sick fuck.”
The scythe stays hooked at Derek’s throat as he rips the taser free and jams it into his cargo pocket.
A chuckle hisses through the modulator. “Careful. Those toys bite back.”
“Death doesn’t fear ghosts, asshole. We collect them.” Wesley scans the carnage—grimacing at the looped footage—then glances our way. “Jesus. How many did he drop? You guys okay?”
“No,” the girls fire back in unison.
Payton finishes untying Kristy and drops beside me. “How bad is it?”
“I’m fine.” I tear my mask off. Spit. Glare at Derek.
“Come on.” She slides under my arm, hoisting me like she’s done it a hundred times.
My shoulder screams. My body’s useless—twitching, numb, dead weight—and I hate it. Hate that the jackass I told to fuck off is suddenly the goddamn hero. Hate that I need Payton just to stay on my feet.
Blood or spit drips from my chin—I don’t even know which—and fuck if that doesn’t make it worse.
“Now what?” Wesley asks, holding his scythe to Derek’s neck. “We call the cops and wait for them to haul this psycho away?”
Derek cocks his head. “Wanna know the punchline, Death?”
Wesley nudges the scythe. “One more word and I’ll reap your soul.”
“The phones are dead,” Kristy mutters. “Can we please get the fuck out of here first?”
I roll my jaw, my body slowly catching up.
Wesley doesn’t lower the blade. “All right. How do we leave?”
“He’s got the access key,” Payton says.
“I do.” Derek’s mask turns toward her. “Right pocket. Care to fetch it, little fox?”
My fist would’ve been in his fucking face if I had more function than a scarecrow.
“You’re coming with us, asshole.” Wesley jerks his chin at the door. “Now, move.”
Wesley herds Derek toward the open door, scythe never wavering from his throat. The bastard walks too calmly, like this is just another scene in his goddamn show.
Payton’s arm stays locked around my waist, her shoulder digging into my ribs as she half-drags me forward. My boots scrape the floor—useless fucking limbs—but I force one foot in front of the other. Not dead yet.
Kristy sticks close behind.
At the threshold, Wesley half-turns—blade to Derek’s throat. “Once we’re out, we can round up the other players and—”
Snap-hiss.
Wesley’s back arches. Payton screams.
Ozone stink fills the room.
Taser. Not Derek’s.
The scythe slips—
—Derek’s gloved hand lashes out, snatching it.
The screen catches a rubber snout.
Pigface steps out of the shadows.
Derek presses the scythe to Wesley’s throat. “Surpriseee. Now, that’s the punchline, Death!” Static shreds his voice. “New rule … no one leaves before the credits roll.”