“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die,” Chelsea says through quiet sobs. She’s sitting in a corner, arms squeezed tightly around her knees while she rocks back and forth.”
“Shh, he’ll hear you,” Britney whispers. “I don’t want to die, either, but it will be okay.”
“How do you know?” Chelsea whispers back, a desperate frustration in her voice.
“Do you see him?”
Britney strains her head to look through the window into the moonlit factory.
She slowly pans from left to right, and then from right to left, trying to catch any glimpse of movement.
They were being stalked by a knife-wielding maniac.
Britney and Chelsea were walking to the train from an underground party.
The air was still, the night was quiet, and the sound of heavy breathing and footsteps cut through the silence like a Wüsthof through warm butter.
And the sound of metal scraping against pavement told them to run.
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” their stalker said, his maniacal laughter echoing off the surrounding buildings.
He picked up his pace, slashing wildly through the air.
“I’m going to cut you up and make fruit leather out of your skin and NO ONE WILL HEAR YOU SCREAM!” the psycho yelled as he stalked his prey.
“Over there,” Britney exclaimed, grabbing Chelsea’s hand, and ducking into a nearby building. “We can hide in that office.”
The office was dilapidated, and its air was heavy with the stench of urine.
“I don’t see him. Maybe we lost him.” Britney says, her voice full of false hope. “Check your phone.”
Chelsea glanced at her phone only to see it still had zero bars.
“Nothing,” she responds, trying to hold back a fresh onslaught of tears.
A rat scurries past Chelsea and she yelps.
“Shhhhh, he’ll hear you. Do you want to be murdered tonight?”
“Too late,” he yells as he breaks through the flimsy drywall.
They scream in terror as he makes a beeline for Britney, slashing her arm, creating a mist of blood.
Britney falls to the ground, screaming while trying to fend off the frantic slashes of her attacker.
“You shouldn’t have given me a fake number,” he says, a deranged look in his eyes. “Now you’re going to pay.”
He turns as a chair connects with his face and he falls, dropping his knife.
Britney grabs it and begins stabbing him, piercing flesh, and scraping bone.
He howls in excruciating pain as he pleads for his own life.
Britney stops, coming to her senses, knowing that she is not a murderer.
Chelsea helps her up and before they leave, bangs on a metal desk and yells “DINNER TIME!”
Wallowing in his own blood and urine, the psycho stalker catches some movement in the corner of his eyes.
The fresh smell of blood has drawn them out and the man screams in agony as the rats begin their feast.
“Do you hear something?” Chelsea asks.
“Nope,” Britney responds.