Close Call

"Come out!!" he yells, voice cracking like a toddler denied his favorite toy. Oh sure, buddy, let me just waltz out and make this easy for you. Try harder.

I scan the room for a better hiding spot, when my eyes land on a fallen beam that was once standing beside the stairs but is now face-planted on the floor like it just gave up on life. What kind of earthquake knocked that over? Then again, considering my last encounter with Overalls—the guy who casually tilted an entire bridge with his mere presence—I've stopped questioning the laws of human strength in this nightmare.

Crawling behind the beam might just give me enough cover to reach the staircase, which almost killed me and is laced with booby traps. But honestly? A booby-trapped staircase sounds like a vacation compared to dealing with Manchild over here.

I hear him stomping towards the other side of the room, throwing a full-blown tantrum as he trashes everything in sight. Fantastic. While he's busy playing hide-and-destroy, now's my chance.

Moving quickly, I dart toward the stairs, keeping low beside the fallen beam. Just as I hear him stomping in my direction, I press myself against the beam, holding my breath. He's close—too close—but if I time this right, I can keep moving without turning into his next favorite punching bag.

The door is right there, practically mocking me with its false promise of freedom. But sprinting straight for it? Yeah, no. That's a one-way ticket to getting impaled by the delightful surprise that almost killed me earlier. Instead, I stay crouched, watching as he starts tearing through the area I just escaped from, tossing debris like a toddler on a sugar crash. 

As I creep closer to the door, a sinking realization hits me—dodging one booby trap doesn't mean I'm in the clear. This guy had definitely gone through the trouble of turning the entire staircase into his own personal house of horrors.

I reach for the door, carefully easing it open—

CREAK.

Oh, for the love of—

I don't wait to see if he heard that, because his destruction-fueled tantrum comes to a screeching halt, and I can practically feel his head snapping in my direction.

Nope. Not today.

I leap over the first wire near the door—the same one that nearly turned me into a shish kebab earlier—and bolt down the stairs, panic buzzing through my veins. But no matter how fast I move, I can't afford to be reckless. This entire staircase is a death trap, and the last thing I need is to escape one psychopath just to get taken out by his arts-and-crafts project.

Behind me, there's a furious roar, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy boots pounding after me.

Awesome. Now it's a race and an obstacle course.

"There you are!!!" he roars, his voice booming with way too much enthusiasm for attempted murder.

I risk a glance back—big mistake. He's charging at me, eyes wild, like a junkie desperate for his next hit.

I whip around the corner, feet barely hitting the steps as I scramble down toward the next floor—

THUNK.

Something whistles past my ear, and an instant later, an axe embeds itself into the wall right where my head had been two seconds ago.

"Son of a bitch!" I scream, as I fling my measly supply bag down to the next floor below me and lunge after it, heart hammering like it's trying to escape my body before I even get the chance.

Behind me, I hear the unmistakable sound of heavy boots stomping down the stairs. How is he so fast while dodging trip wires? He should be playing linebacker, not hunting people for fun. 

I whip around the next landing, barely dodging another axe swing. The blade bites into the railing, splintering wood as he rips it free like it's nothing. I don't stop. I can't stop. The next floor is just down ahead, the door slightly open.

Then I hear it. The shift in his footing. The telltale grunt of effort.

He's about to lunge.

I spin at the last second, ducking low as he barrels past me, his own momentum working against him. He stumbles, tries to catch himself, but I don't give him the chance. With everything I've got, I slam the butt of my chainsaw into his back.

He goes down. Hard.

The impact sends him sprawling, his axe clattering against the steps as he rolls. For a second, I think he might actually recover from that fall but then he lands wrong, his body twisting as his shoulder slams into the railing with a sickening crack.

He groans, struggling to push himself up, but I'm already at the bottom of the stairs, past him on the next floor. I glance back up, heart pounding.

I could go back, finish this. Cut his head off with my chainsaw. Make sure he never comes after me again.

But I don't. Well, I can't kill a person, which is funny because I killed Bunny Man, but that was for survival. This guy with his broken shoulder? Not a threat anymore.

Instead, I take a breath and mutter, "I hope you die a miserable death, with your sins dragging you to hell."

I keep running down the stairs, the weight of what I just didn't do sitting on my chest like a stone.

After what felt like an eternity, though it had only been 20 minutes, I stopped. The trip wires had stopped showing up a few floors back, which meant the entire staircase wasn't rigged—just certain sections. Great. At least I wasn't dodging death every other step.

I opened the next doorframe, stepping into the casino-themed room. Neon lights flickered and reflected off the walls like a bad dream, and I was on edge. I carefully scanned the area, heart pounding, ready for any psycho to jump out from behind a slot machine or roulette table. But after a thorough sweep of the floor, I didn't find anything. No maniacs waiting to tear me apart, no traps lurking in the shadows.

I decided to take a quick break. My body ached from the constant running and avoiding, and if I didn't eat something soon, I might just pass out from hunger. I sat next to a glassless window, and opened my supply bag. Inside, two packets of chips and a soda. Bird Freak really had a sick sense of humor, thinking this was enough to kill over.

I tore open a pack of Cheetos, shoveling them into my mouth like I hadn't eaten in days. Probably because I really hadn't eaten for a day. Each bite tasted like a blessing, a luxury I didn't even realize I craved.

As I devoured the Cheetos mindlessly, my eyes drifted to the fake sky. The body count flashed on the screen: 250/500. Time remaining: 24 hours (1 day). More people had probably perished from hunger than being killed over their survival bag that had two chip packets. 

Soon the Cheetos and the soda were long gone, but the hunger inside me remained—not just for food, but for something else. Hope, maybe. 

I stood up, my legs shaking from exhaustion, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't afford to. I needed to keep moving—who knew when the lunatics upstairs would reach me. But the moment I took a step, a loud buzz filled the air, a voice following the alarm. 

"Hello, my dear contestants! Hope you're all having fun!!!!!" The voice, all too familiar, echoed through the room. It was the Bird freak. Every time he spoke, nothing good ever followed.

I stepped away from the window where I'd been sitting, my grip tightening around my chainsaw. 

After a few seconds, the speakers crackled to life once again, and the Bird Freak's voice slithered through the air like a serpent.

"Well, well, dear contestants, I thought I'd make things even more interesting. See, hiding is no fun if no one can find you! So, let's spice it up—your locations? Yeah, they're being broadcasted now. That's right! Everyone within your building knows you're there. So if I were you… I'd start running. Or better yet—start hunting!"

A high-pitched laugh screeched through the speakers, followed by a sharp beep from a CCTV camera I hadn't even noticed until now. The CCTV's robotic voice crackled to life.

"Three companions on the 23rd floor. One on the 36th. One on the 56th. Two on the 13th."

I couldn't be on the 13th—I was way too high up. That meant I was on the 23rd. The man-child must be on the 36th. And the sniper? Definitely on the 56th.

But… three on my floor?

That's when I heard a creak behind me.

I spun around, heart pounding. A pair of eyes peered out at me from the darkness. Someone else was here. They were too far for me to make out any details, but their presence alone sent a shiver down my spine.

A step forward. The figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the light. A young man, probably a teenager, with a twisted grin.

His eyes gleamed with something that twisted in my gut. He took another step forward, closing the gap between us. My heart pounded in my chest. I had to escape, and fast—fighting him could be deadly, especially if the other person on this floor was waiting in the wings. I'd be outnumbered, and there was no way I could survive that.

He paused, eyes raking over me, sizing me up like I was some kind of prize. I forced myself to stay still, waiting for his next move.

Then his gaze landed on my chainsaw. His smirk widened.

"Well now, what do we have here?" he drawled, voice low and mocking. "Looks like this little mouse has some bite."

In both hands, he held sickles.

That was all I needed to see.

I turned and bolted.

He lunged after me, boots thudding loudly on the floor, gaining ground fast. My lungs burned as I pushed myself forward. His breath was practically on my neck, his excitement rising with each step.

"I've been watching you for a while," he sneered between gasps. "You're a pest, coming to my floor like this."

That's when I made my move.

I turned sharply and charged straight at him, revving the chainsaw. It was the exact move Bunny Man used when he took down Trust Issues—and nearly took me down with him.

The young man's cocky expression wavered. His grip tightened on the sickles, holding them up defensively. His eyes flickered between me and the chainsaw.

"Stay back!" he barked, trying to sound tough. "You don't want to do this."

Wait a second.

This was the same guy who shoved me back when we were choosing weapons. Locker Boy. I swore he had scimitars earlier, but no—sickles. Would've been smarter if he had picked the scimitars. Sickles were farming tools, not meant for combat. But they were lighter, so to each their own, I guess.

I was still closing in.

Locker Boy wasn't a hand-to-hand fighter—I could see it in the way he tensed up. He was fast, sure, but he didn't have the build for a prolonged fight so basically he was all bark no bite. 

But then he surprised me.

He hurled one of his sickles at me.

Instinct kicked in. I swung the chainsaw. The blade clashed against the sickle, knocking it off course. As I spun with the motion, I successfully confused him as I saw—just a split second of hesitation.

That was all I needed.

The chainsaw's teeth tore into his stomach side.

Locker Boy let out a choked gasp, stumbling forward, gripping his side. I didn't have enough strength to decapitate him like the bunny man so I brought my leg up and landed a high kick straight to his face. He went down hard, but not before his remaining sickle lashed out, grazing my leg.

Pain shot up my thigh, but suddenly, something else flared to life—my arm.

I had forgotten about the bullet graze earlier, the adrenaline masking the pain. Now, with the fresh wound on my leg screaming at me, my body was starting to protest.

If Locker Boy managed to get back up, I knew I wouldn't stand a chance.

But fate wasn't on my side.

He lunged at me, fast and desperate. I swung the chainsaw with my uninjured arm, barely grazing his chest—then I heard it.

A sharp thwip, followed by a sickening thunk as something hard slammed into his skull. 

His head shot backwards as he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, his face hitting the floor before he could even reach me.

A small steel ball rolled out of his now-bloody eye socket, its sharp gleam catching the fake sun's light in the sky. The impact had been so brutal it had gone through his skull, and through his eye socket.

I couldn't breathe. My stomach churned, nausea rising in my throat. I turned to run—but then I froze.

A soft scuff echoed behind me.

Someone else was in the room.