Page 43 of Don't Watch Alone
My subconscious responds before my head can understand it. I flinch, shaking my head hard. I don’t know if I should trust him. But maybe I should. At this moment I don’t even trust myself. Just because the cameras are showing Tony cornered by the killer doesn’t mean Andy isn’t part of this too. He could be leading me into a trap.
“Go away!” I shout, my voice breaking against the glass.
His fists pound harder. “Blaiz, please! He’s right beh…”
He stopped speaking all of a sudden. An outline comes out of the hallway behind him. Not the masked figure I saw on the screen, but just as striking. His hand rises, and the dim red glow from the emergency lights plays along the curve of a hooked shape with rough edges.
My scream escapes as the hook plunges into Andy’s back. His eyes bulge, locking onto mine,mirroring shock and agony perfectly. He gargles, and then the hook bursts through his chest, the point peaking out just below his sternum.
Blood splatters against the glass in a violent burst. It runs in thick, dark streaks down the window, blurring Andy’s face as life slips away from his body. He drops, sliding down the glass as if a string was cut, leaving a red smear.
Another scream escapes me, a rough, cutting noise, and hot tears burn my face. Andy’s body twitches once, then goes still.
A strange voice echoes from the intercom above me. “Blaiz, if you don’t want anyone else to die, you need to come out of that office. Now!”
My head quickly turns toward the door. The figure outside wears the same pale, featureless mask as the one pursuing Tony on the video footage. Blood drips from the hook in a slow, steady rhythm. He doesn’t advance. He just stands thereand waits.
Then he moves his fists, pounding against the door in a brutal beat that shakes the walls. The glass might hold for now, but not for long.
I look around the small office, searching for anything that could save me. My eyes land on the phone that sits on Gus’s desk. I grab for it, snatching up the receiver. I try to dial 911.
Nothing.
The spiraled cord hangs cleanly cut behind the base.
Either there are two killers working together, or the footage I’ve been watching is a sick pre-recorded game, and Tony is already dead. Either way, I don’t know what to do.
The door shakes again as the killer throws his weight into it. My eyes shoot to the utility closet in the corner. Maybe Gus has a gun in there.
Driven by a rush of adrenaline, I hurried across the floor and pulled the door open.
A heavy body rolls out, hitting the tile. Gus stares up at me with lifeless eyes, and his mouth is frozen in mid-breath. He’s dead.
The security office’s strong door trembles and moans; every forceful hit from the exteriorvibrates through the structure and into my body. He’s out there, forcefully giving it his all, with each strike emphasized by a repulsive, deep grunt that sickens me.
“Stop! Please, stop!”
Gus lies sprawled at my feet, eyes wide, blank, staring at the cracked ceiling like he’s still trying to process the last second of his life. He’s not here anymore. He’s just meat between me and the bastard trying to get in.
The frame splinters open with a sharp crack, revealing a narrow line of darkness, or just the barest hint of light. Either way, he’s breaking through. He’s strong, inhumanly strong, and he’s not going to stop until I’m fucking dead.
I spin, scanning the cramped, grimy space for anything I can turn into a weapon. A busted monitor. A chair with one leg. Everything seems useless. My eyes fall on Gus. His pockets. He always had something, some random gadget or tool he’d brag about like it made him invincible.
I kneel, my hand trembling as it presses against the clammy fabric of hispants. I feel nauseous, yet the door banging makes me keep going. The right pocket is empty. The left pocket has cold metal. My fingers close around a long utility knife, ridiculously oversized like everything Gus carried.
The door cracks loudly as its top hinge separates from the doorway. Pulling back fast, it opens a space big enough for an arm; I then spot a dark sleeve, reaching around blindly to grab something.
I slam my whole body into the door, shoulder first, hip following, screaming, “Get back, you son of a bitch!” The impact sends a sharp pain through my body, but I shove again, harder, trying to crush his arm against the frame, trying to force him back. He grunts, surprised, but his arm moves in deeper, his hand grabs my hair.
As he pulls, dragging my head to the gap of the door, an intense pain explodes across my head. My cheek scrapes the door, and my scream turns to a choked, broken sound. He’s going to pull me through, snap my neck like a doll, and no one will ever even hear it.
But I’ve got the knife.
I clutch the utility knife harder, my hand slick from sweat and Gus’s blood. With a primal scream, I drive the blade upward in a tight, desperate sweep and bury it in the thick meat of his forearm. The knife sinks in with a wet, tearing sound that travels through my fingers.
His scream gives me a small amount of satisfaction. His hand immediately lost its hold. Pulling his arm back, he smears blood across the gap. I stumble backward. His blood is smeared across my face.
The door swings back into position; its top hinge is broken off. I stand paralyzed, panting, with the knife still gripped in my hand. Every muscle in my body is ready to break or run.
