The doorknob turned with a slow, metallic finality that seemed to suck all the air out of the cramped utility closet. The six of them were a single, trembling organism of fear, pressed against mops, buckets, and shelves of industrial cleaner. There was no other exit. No window. No more clever tricks. This was the end of the road.
Ethan's eyes, wide and desperate, scanned the darkness. They landed on a length of discarded steel pipe, probably part of an old plumbing apparatus, leaning in a corner. It was heavy, cold, and utterly, pathetically inadequate against a screaming chainsaw. But it was something.
He snatched it up, the weight a grim comfort in his hands. He met Ray's gaze and gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod towards the left side of the door. Ray, understanding flashing in his terror-widened eyes, nodded back and shifted, pulling a terrified Lina with him. Leo, on the right, caught on, pressing himself and the others flat against the wall beside the doorframe.
They had one shot. A moment of surprise.
The door creaked open, inch by agonizing inch. The dim hallway light framed the silhouette of the Man. The pristine white mask, the blood-drenched shirt, the chainsaw held loosely, its engine quiet for now. He filled the doorway, a monument of silent, patient death.
He took one step inside.
Now.
Ethan didn't think. Thinking was what got you killed. He acted. With a grunt that was part effort, part pure, unadulterated fear, he hurled the steel pipe like a javelin, not at the Man's body, but straight at the chainsaw itself.
It was a desperate, stupid gamble. The pipe clanged against the saw's housing with a sharp, metallic CLANG! The impact jarred the Man's arms, and for a precious half-second, his attention was locked on the deflected weapon clattering to the floor.
"GO! LEFT AND RIGHT!" Ethan screamed, his voice raw.
He didn't wait to see if they listened. He launched himself to the right, skidding along the grimy floor, intending to slip past the Man's left side while he was distracted. Leo went left in a mirror move. It was a pincer movement of pure, unadulterated panic.
As Ethan scrambled past, something caught his eye. The Man's black leather belt, from which a few unused loops for tools hung. An idea, brilliant and insane, flashed in his mind. It was the kind of idea that only occurred to someone who had spent too long surviving on pure, dumb instinct.
Instead of just running, he twisted as he passed, his fingers hooking into the leather belt. He yanked with all his might, not to pull the Man over, but to find the buckle. His thumb found the prong, and with a frantic, clawing motion, he ripped it open.
The belt loosened. The Man, already turning to backhand this annoying gnat with the chainsaw, faltered for a microsecond as his trousers suddenly sagged.
Ethan didn't stay to admire his handiwork. He was through the door and into the hallway, his heart trying to punch its way out of his ribcage. Leo was already there, wide-eyed and gasping.
But Ray wasn't.
Ethan spun around. Ray was still in the doorway, his body blocking the Man's immediate pursuit. The girls were scrambling out behind him.
"Ray, move!" Lina shrieked.
But Ray had seen something. He saw the Man, momentarily unbalanced by the unbuckled belt, his focus split between the escaping prey. He saw the pristine white back of the mask, where the smooth, featureless surface was unbroken.
He took the risk.
As the Man began to turn, raising the chainsaw with a low, mechanical growl of irritation, Ray lunged. Not for the weapon, not for the body. He went for the mask. His hands, slick with sweat, grabbed the smooth sides of the white surface. With a fierce, desperate grunt, he twisted.
It wasn't screwed on. It wasn't bolted. It was seated snugly, but it turned.
With a soft, plastic click, the mask rotated a full one hundred and eighty degrees.
The Man froze. The chainsaw drooped in his hands.
The smooth, featureless white of the mask was now on the back of his head. Where his face should be, the two black, light-absorbing eye holes were now staring… at his own shoulder blades.
He was blind.
A confused, guttural sound, like a stalled engine, rumbled from within him. He took a shuffling step forward, the chainsaw swinging in a slow, disoriented arc, completely missing the now-empty space where Ray had been.
Ray didn't wait. He shoved the last of the girls—Mira—into the hall and sprinted after them. "RUN! HE CAN'T SEE!"
They didn't need to be told twice. They ran as they had never run before, a stampede of sock-footed terror down the blood-red corridor, past the ruined doors and the grim evidence of the night's work. The sound of the chainsaw revved behind them, but it was wild, unfocused, chewing harmlessly into a wall as the blinded killer stumbled in a circle.
They burst out of the motel wing into the cold night air, the parking lot a vast, open plain of safety. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. The flashing red and blue lights painted the asphalt in strobes of salvation.
"There! The bus!" Hazel pointed, her voice cracking with relief.
Their chartered bus was still parked where they'd left it, a hulking, dark shape on the far side of the lot. They sprinted for it, their lungs burning, their legs on fire. Ethan, in a final, ridiculous burst of foresight, had snatched the keys from his pocket—the bus driver had given a spare set to Professor Nolan, who had, in a moment of distraction, left them on a table which Ethan had casually pocketed, because "you never know."
He fumbled with the lock, finally wrenching the door open. They piled in, collapsing onto the seats, a heap of sobbing, gasping, traumatized survivors.
As their eyes adjusted to the dim interior light, they took stock. They were seven. Ethan, Ray, Leo, Lina, Hazel, Mira… and a handful of others who had been hiding in different parts of the motel and had the same idea. A jock named Mark who was crying quietly. A quiet girl named Sarah who was hugging her knees, rocking back and forth. Maybe twelve of them in total, out of… how many had there been?
It was a scene of utter devastation, a pocket of shattered normalcy. And then, a voice, crisp, dry, and utterly incongruous, cut through the silence from the very back of the bus.
"Well," it said. "That was a suboptimal pedagogical experience."
Every head swiveled.
Sitting in the rearmost seat, primly straightening his tweed jacket as if he'd just finished a mildly tedious faculty meeting, was Professor Nolan. His briefcase was on the seat beside him. He looked a little pale, and there was a smudge of dust on his trousers, but he was otherwise completely, infuriatingly unscathed.
Ethan stared, his brain refusing to process the image. Of all the people, the one who had survived without a scratch, without even a hint of panic, was the man who had droned on about safety protocols.
Professor Nolan adjusted his glasses, his gaze sweeping over the bloody, disheveled, tear-streaked faces of his students.
"I trust," he said, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion, "that everyone has gathered sufficient primary source material for their field methodology reports?"