The blaze dances along the glass as the fire continues to spread onto the roof of the cabin. Taylor finds herself frozen, staring at the rising flames as she begins to picture the school bus flipped on its side. Slabs of flesh are embedded into its dented grill as its cracked windows steam up from the heat. A disfigured hand slams onto the front windshield, a man's agonizing screams echoing toward her as it smears blood against the glass before slowly dropping out of sight.

"Taylor!" Marc, sweating more from fear than the unbearable heat, grabs onto her shoulders as he pulls her away from the window. A wooden post on the front deck of the cabin collapses, the burning planks of wood crumbling into a pile as if it was part of a bonfire.

Still not fully in sync with her surroundings, she gazes around the room until she finds her eyes settling upon the fireplace. The sizzling corpse of what was once her best friend stares back at her and, although Millie's eyes are lifeless and glazed over with a thin pale cloud, Taylor can feel betrayal in her glare. She can feel the pain Millie must have suffered, not from her death but from the knife Taylor had thrust into her back years ago. As the guilt seeps in, her knees quickly begin to grow weak and she suspects that they will buckle at any moment. She grabs tightly onto the back of the loveseat, trying her best not to break down yet again, when she feels the floor slightly rattle beneath her feet.

Particles of dust and small chips of wood crumble onto her shoulder, drawing her attention to the ceiling above. Through the many deteriorating wood panels, she can see that the fire had already spread across half of the roof. She hears a sudden thud and turns her head to see Marc repeatedly ramming his shoulder into the door. The frame slightly rattles with each hit but it's no use. Even if he could somehow manage to get it open, the thick sheet of black smoke slipping in from underneath it suggests that it may not be the best option.

"Mar—" She coughs, covering her mouth as she quickly walks toward him. "Marc, what are we going to do?!"

Panting, he turns to look around the room she can see the tears filling his eyes as well. He tries his best not to focus at all on the body as he scans the room, looking for any possible exit. "There has to be a way out!"

Staring directly at him, she scrutinizes on all of the damage she had indirectly caused him. If it wasn't for her, he would have never found himself involved in this mess. He would probably be at home right now, writing away at some school article while Nash is curled up on the floor against his feet. And Millie... she would still be alive. Shit, if only she hadn't driven away that night—if only she had done the right thing and called the cops immediately after witnessing the horrid accident—a lot of people would still be alive.

Marc's eyes land on a small window above the sink and he reaches over to grab onto Taylor's hand, leading her toward the rear of the building. "This way!"

As the two approach the wall across from the entrance they can hear more of the porch collapsing, probably along with some of the shingles on the roof. Trying not to let it distract him, he grabs at the window to see that it is nailed to its sill like all of the others. With a clenched fist, he bangs heavily on the glass. "Shit!"

"Step back."

He turns around to see Taylor grabbing a wooden barstool by its legs from the corner of the room and quickly obliges. Closing her eyes, she lifts it upward and swings it into the window, the rounded seat sending shards of glass flying outside. She tosses the stool to the floor, covering her mouth again as she can feel her lungs fill up with even more smoke.

Coughing, Marc snatches a stained plate from the sink and uses the dish to chip away any loose fragments of glass from the sill. Once done, he tosses it aside and lifts Taylor up to help her through the window frame. She slides her legs out first until her entire body nearly sways from the window, surprised that her feet have yet to touch surface. She allows herself to slip out of Marc's grip and falls about two feet to the ground below.

As she lands on the grass, Taylor can feel a sudden sharp pain in her right forearm. She looks down to see a large shard of glass sticking out of it just below her elbow and, without hesitation, rips it out from her arm. Grunting, she covers the wound with her hand as she lifts herself back up and approaches the broken window—not seeing Marc anywhere behind her.

"Marc?!" She gazes into the cabin, blinded by the now thicker cloud of smoke.

A figure slips through the smog and, as he quickly runs to the window, she takes a sigh of relief as she sees Marc wielding the shotgun. He must have left it by the sofa when he had unveiled the logs underneath the blanket.

"Come on!" She shouts just as he hands the shotgun to her through the window. Leaning it against the back of the cabin, she turns around to grab his arm and help pull him outside.

A corner of the ceiling on the far wall caves in, just as Marc slips his legs through the window frame and the two tumble down into the dirt. He notices the blood trickling to her wrist and his eyes grow wide as he touches her arm. "You're bleeding!"

"I'm okay." She pulls her arm away, looking around them as they get to their feet. "Just a cut."

Nodding, he knows that they have no time to count their scrapes and bruises as the moment. The only thing on the agenda is to get the fuck out of here. A rusted pick-up truck is parked vertically along the back wall of the building and, dangling from beneath its open tailgate, is a cut strip of barbed wire wrapped around the trailer hitch. As they look up at the roof, they can see that the other end leads up to the chimney shaft.

"Sick bastard." Taylor mumbles under her breath, finding it unbelievable that somebody could be so deranged as to orchestrate such a demented display. Whoever it was went through intricate lengths to terrorize them and, deep down, she reminds herself that the night is not over yet.

Further ahead, Marc notices a winding trail leading from the back of the cabin and figures that it must wrap around to the main drive. He grabs the shotgun with his right hand and her palm with the other. "This way!"

As the two run side-by-side down the narrow trail, which is nearly as overgrown with weeds and tall grass as the woods surrounding the path, Taylor tries her best not to look back at the burning building behind her. Even though there was obviously no hope for Millie, at least not at this point, she can't help but feel as if she is abandoning her friend all over again. She can't—

SNAP!

Suddenly, Marc's grip loosens and she can feel his hand slip from her palm. She halts, catching her breath as she spins around to see nothing but tall shrubs shaking nearby. Hearing him groan, she quickly takes a few steps forward to see him lying on the ground and gasps. Several razor-sharp blades clasp onto his left ankle from both sides, the bear trap that had drug him to the dirt is buried into his flesh so deep that its steel teeth can no longer be seen.

"Oh my god!" Taylor screams, crouching down next to him. Unsure of what to do, her hands brush against the metal as she watches blood spew out from his torn ankle. "It's okay. We can get you out of this!"

The two lock eyes and she grabs his wrist, squeezing it reassuringly. He clenches his jaw, looking back down at the trap as he grabs it from both sides. She sets her hand next to his, helping him apply pressure as they pull the blades in the opposite direction in an attempt to get him free. More blood seeps from his wounds, drenching the bottom of his pant leg as each of the blades slowly retract from his skin and the spring creaks under the pressure. The metal slips from his grip, the bear trap quickly snapping back shut.

"Fu—" The pain agonizing, Marc screams as he buries his fingers into the ground and peers up at the many trees in front of them. Hearing a twig snap in the distance, he tries to twist his head but is unable to look behind him. He focuses back on Taylor, taking in a deep gulp before speaking. "Go."

"What? No, we can do this!" Taylor shakes her head, feeling her eyes begin to swell as she reaches for the trap again. "We have to! Come on!"

He looks up at her, his eyes pleading for her not to argue. "Go."

"No, Marc—"

"Just go!" He screams, knowing that they won't be able to get him loose. The last thing he needs on his conscious, although it may be short lived, is to see him drag Taylor down with him. "Even if we can somehow get me free, I can't walk like this. At least, this way, one of us can make it..."

Shaking her head, she leans closer to him. Her tone is both comforting and confident. If she is faking it, then she is sure as hell putting on a good show. "We're getting out of here. Both of us."

Taking a deep breath and holding it in, Marc nods as he gazes back down at the bear trap. The two reach for it and, again, try to pry the blades apart. As the trap opens a few inches, Taylor frees one of her hands to reach over and grab the shotgun. She slips its stock between the slim opening and uses it to pull the blade more at an angle, straining the trap to the point to where she fears that the gun might snap it half. Blood squirts in all directions as each sharp end slips out from his ankle. He can see a slight pale color behind his ripped flesh and, figuring it is bone, Marc peers up at the sky as he tries his best not to faint.

Then he hears a light click—just as the two manage to push the blades all the way down. Without hesitation, he pulls his foot free and it dangles loosely in the air before he lowers it back to the ground. His shoe is drenched as the blood continues to ooze from his torn pant leg.

"You okay?!" Taylor asks frantically as she pulls at the lower hem of her shirt, ripping a small piece of cloth off.

"Yeah. I'm—" He cuts himself off, grunting as he looks down to see her tightly wrapping the fabric around the wound as if it were gauze. Through the wheezing, he's able to slip out a sarcastic response. "Peachy."

She ties each of the loose ends into a tight knot, watching as the blood quickly soaks through the cloth. "That'll work for now. Let's get the hell out of here."

Taylor gets on his left and wraps his arm around the back of her neck. Grasped tightly in her right hand, she continues to hold the shotgun close to her side. She helps him rise to his feet and he lifts his left foot, using the right one to limp alongside her as they continue down the trail. They both find it a struggle to keep their eyes not only on the dozens of trees surrounding them, but on the ground as well as they look out for more possible traps.

"You know..." Taylor cuts through the silence, an unexpecting smile sweeping across her face. "Twenty One Pilots sounds good right now."

Remembering not too long ago when he had snatched the two of them tickets to see the band, for a brief moment he forgets about the pain and snickers. "It does, doesn't it?"

They laugh, continuing to cut through the seemingly endless trees until they finally find themselves back in the open lot in front of the strip of cabins. Marc's car still remains sitting between the first cabin and the larger building across from it, the headlights cast upon the field ahead of them.

"I'm sure they'll be back on tour soon." Grunting, Taylor helps pull him toward the car. His ankle drags behind him, the piece of fabric falling from the torn flesh as his foot rakes through the dirt. Whether it's from shock or the massive amount of blood loss, the only feeling he has in his left leg now is an odd tingling sensation. She keeps talking, hoping the conversation will distract him. "And this time, we'll get VIP passes. Deal?"

"Deal." Marc mumbles, smiling at her as they reach the car.

Leaning him against the right side of the vehicle, she opens the passenger door and carefully eases him into the seat. She then places the shotgun on the floorboard between his legs and shuts the door before quickly walking around the hood toward the driver's side. She opens the door and climbs inside, slamming it shut behind her and immediately slams her fingers on the lock button.

She looks down at the ignition, seeing there are no keys hanging from behind the steering wheel. Trying not to panic, she quickly fishes around the car in search for them. "You got the—"

The sound of metal jingling fills her ears and she looks over to see the keys dangling as Marc reaches out to hand them to her. Growing pale, his head bobs back and forth as he struggles to talk. "You didn't think I'd leave them in here, did you?"

"Smart man." She smiles, planting a fast kiss on his lips as she takes the keys from him. "This is why I love you."

Although it was really her being affectionate, it was also another attempt to keep him from passing out. His eyes widen as he sits up in his seat, the move working.

She thrusts the keys into the ignition and turns them, startled to hear nothing but a faint rattle come from the engine. "What? Come on!"

"No." Never having issues with his car, he already senses that something is off. He sits up straight as he shakes his head, unsure of what is going on. "Try it again."

"I'm trying." Sighing, Taylor twists the keys again. The rattle is now lighter, followed by a steady clicking noise, and she uses her foot to tap on the gas pedal. Quickly growing irritated, and also worried, she tries it another time. "Come on, damnit!"

The clicking continues and, as she continues to mess with the ignition, Marc turns to gaze out the windshield as he notices the hood of his car is slightly popped open. Through the small gap, he can see torn wires gutted like entrails sticking out from above the motor. She follows his stare, gulping at the sight, just as—

The blade of a large axe, its red paint chipped away from the years, shatters through the passenger window and Taylor covers her eyes as shards of glass go flying all over the dashboard. It misses Marc's head by no more than an inch, digging into the headrest so deep that only the pick on the rear of the blade is visible.

The killer, the drawstrings of his black hood pulled so tight that even a mask can't be seen, reaches in through the opening to pull the small lever beneath the window sill, unlocking the door. He opens it and grabs Marc by his neck, yanking him out of the car as he tosses him to the ground. Groaning from the pain, which has now reached an intolerably high level, Marc rolls to his back as the killer leans into the car to retrieve the axe.

Rubbing her forehead, Taylor pulls her hand away to see a small trace of blood on her fingertips. She touches at her right eyebrow to feel a cut but ignores it. Looking over, she sees the shotgun had fallen to its side on the floorboard but Marc is no longer next to her. She bats her eyes a few times, gazing around the car as her vision slowly adjusts. Hearing a scuffle, she peers up through the windshield and sees the lunatic dragging Marc by the collar of his sweater toward the lake.

"Marc!" She hollers, reaching over to grab the shotgun.

Struggling, Marc claws at the killer's hand as he tries desperately to break loose from his grasp. With his good leg, he kicks at the dirt as he stares forward at the headlights of his car—the glare growing smaller and smaller as he is drug further across the lot. Suddenly, he can feel the grass turn into wooden planks and gazes down to see that he is now on the pier. Spotting a hole in the wooden dock, he quickly grabs it and pulls himself forward in another attempt to free himself.

The hooded man stops in his tracks, tugging on Marc's collar to find that the pullover is beginning to rip rather than dragging him any further. He drops his grip on both the fabric and his axe in the other hand, quickly turning around to kick Marc in his lower back.

Marc lands face flat on the wooden planks and wheezes, finding it difficult to keep his eyes open at this point. As the blood continues to ooze from his left leg, now at a faster rate, he can hear as it seeps through the wooden boards and drips into the water below. His wounded leg is suddenly lifted up and, as he can feel two hands dig into his ripped flesh, screams as he is pulled further down the pier. The killer drags him nearly to the edge of the short dock before he stops, allowing Marc's leg to drop back to the timber. He walks around him, turning his back to the field as he looks down at Marc lying helplessly in front of his boots.

Sparing a few seconds to catch his breath, the killer looks up at the seemingly black lake surrounding them. The undisturbed water offers him a brief moment of pure serenity and—through the many miles of trees and the nearby reservoir—all he can hear are crickets chirping in the distance and water splashing against the shore.

And the sudden, distinctive sound of a shotgun cocking.

He quickly turns around to see the muzzle of the weapon aimed at his chest. Taylor's clench onto the pump tightens as she takes a step forward, no more than a foot away from the killer.

"Leave him alone." She snarls, blood landing on her cheek as it slowly drips from the cut splitting through her eyebrow. "He has nothing to do with this!"

The killer tilts his head, the hood still not showing a face of any sort underneath. Without further hesitation, her finger reaches for the trigger but he quickly grabs the gun and aims it downward at the docks—a bullet shattering a hole through the wooden platform below. He uses his free hand to get a firmer grip on the barrel and pushes the gun up, the butt of the weapon slamming forcefully into Taylor's jaw and sending her stumbling backwards. She stops herself before nearly falling into the water, dabbing at her bottom lip to see that it had been busted open by the blow.

Focusing his attention back to Marc, the lunatic grabs him by his sweater and pulls him up to his feet. Marc blinks a couple of times, not fully aware of what is going on at the moment, and the killer tightens his fist as he looks down at the water. He keeps an intense grip on the shotgun in his other hand, keeping it aimed at the pier.

"No!" Knowing that, in his condition, Marc stands no chance of swimming—Taylor tugs at the killer's shoulder from behind, attempting to stop him yet again.

He rapidly swings his arm back, elbowing her directly in the throat. Taylor falls to the dock as she gasps helplessly for air, her eyes widening as she sees that the killer's hood had fallen off in the struggle. But, instead of revealing a mask, she sees the back of a shaved head. His skin sags in certain areas and, in others, is pulled tight as if the flesh had melted out of place like dried wax that had drizzled past the edge of a candle. Scars cover the twisted mesh of skin, and the man slowly turns to face her.

"... Garrett?"

A smile spreading across his face, Garrett peers back at her and—before she can let out another word—he shoves Marc into the water.

♫ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴀʟʟᴇʏ / sʜᴀᴡɴ ᴊᴀᴍᴇs ♫