Brooklyn and Denver walked stiffly around the cabin to through the darkness, seeking the front door. The snow was falling thicker now, and neither of them were dressed for the bitter cold of a November night.

As they rounded a corner, they walked past the store of firewood stacked against the wall of the cabin. Leaning on the pile was an axe. Recalling that they were a bit low inside, Denver stopped to collect a couple pieces.

“Hey, come on,” said Brooklyn nervously. Arms crossed, she rubbed her upper arms for warmth. “Now isn't the time for that! Let's get inside! There might be some nut running around out here, remember?”

Denver stacked up a couple pieces in the crook of her arm. “Hey, I'm just taking a couple. There's no point surviving a crazy cheerleader if we end up freezing to death.”

Brooklyn gave a brisk laugh, one which was stunted by the cold. “I guess you've got a point. Make it quick, though, I'm halfway frozen to death right n-”

She was interrupted by the far off sound of a girl's scream. Both girls whipped their heads toward the woods.

“Venice?” Brooklyn called out into the darkness. “Sydney?”

“Hmm,” said Denver. “It didn't really sound like either of-”

Brooklyn took off running into the forest. “Hey! Wait!” Denver shouted. She dropped the firewood and was three steps into chasing after her when she thought of something. She turned back, grabbed the axe, and resumed pursuit.

Blowing snow buffeted Brooklyn's face as she ran. To the devout girl, its chilly, ominous bitterness was like the presence of Satan himself. Her lord was with her. He (or she) would protect her. And her teammates. “Venice! Sydney!” she called. “It's okay, we're here! Shout again!”

And then she saw a shape through the trees. A girl's body curled up on the snowy ground. As she grew closer, she recognized her as Venice.

“Venice! Venice!” shouted Brooklyn, dropping to one knee at her side. “You're alive!”

Then, Brooklyn turned even paler than usual. As soon as she saw Venice's grinning skull, she realized she'd spoken too soon. Brooklyn had seen a lot of death in her life. She had reveled in it. Even so, this time, she looked away in horror. However, also out of horror, she found she couldn't look away for long. She saw that Venice's face was not the only thing the killer had desecrated. Hunks of flesh were cut out of one of Venice's thighs and one of her biceps, like she was a carved turkey.

“Brooklyn!” called Denver, lumbering over. “Get away from her! Get away-”

Her warning didn't come fast enough. Suddenly, the snow around Brooklyn exploded in a cloud of white powder. Something beneath her, concealed by the snow, flew up around her, trapping her. A snare, a sack of some kind.

No. A sleeping bag.

Denver watched Sydney's sleeping bag swallow Brooklyn like a giant worm emerging from the earth. Brooklyn let out a long scream, which quickly rose up into the night with her as the bag took to the air with her in its stomach. The moon caught a thin rope, tied to the top of the sleeping bag. Denver's eyes followed it up into a tall tree, over a branch which acted as sort of a pulley, and into the hands of a shadowy female figure. She was pulling the rope quickly, hand over hand, hoisting Brooklyn up and up.

It was her. The cheerleader. It must have been.

Once the sleeping bag was close enough, Chase reached down and dragged it up onto her branch with Brooklyn inside. Brooklyn fought and shouted for help as Chase quickly zipped the sleeping bag shut, cut the rope, and jumped off through the trees with the bag slung over her shoulder.

“Brooklyn!” cried Denver. She followed Chase on the ground, running as fast as she could, neck craned at the trees. But on the ground, there were brush and branches she had to fight through. Chase could move a lot more quickly through the air, even with her flailing, shrieking burden. A couple times Denver lost them, but was able to relocate them with the help of Brooklyn's cries. It didn't take long for Chase to recognize and deal with this, however. Denver saw her stop on a tree branch, heave the sleeping bag down off her shoulder, and swing the end of it heavily against a tree trunk. With a deep, solid thock, Brooklyn went silent in mid-scream. Denver's stomach lurched.

Chase fled again, and Denver lost her again. This time, it was several minutes before she located her. The bag was lying on a high, thick branch. Faint moans indicated that Brooklyn was still conscious. Denver slipped as she approached, but caught herself; the ground there was rocky, and the snow made the stones slick and wet.

Chase crouched over the bag, and something metal glinted in her hand.

Denver did the first thing she could think of. She reached down and picked up a rock. It was cold and damp in her hand.

“Get away from her, bitch!” she shouted. Chase looked at her, and Denver hurled the rock.

Chase jumped out of the way. When the cheerleader landed, Denver quickly realized she'd made a huge mistake.

The weight of her landing shook the entire tree branch. Shook it enough to move the sleeping bag. In slow motion, both Chase and Denver watched the sleeping bag slip off the branch and fall.

Brooklyn may not have been able to see from inside the bag, but she must have felt the sensation of falling, because she began screaming again. Denver stood frozen in place and watched her plummet. If she'd been close enough that she might have caught Brooklyn, she might have done so. But no, all she could do was be a voyeur to her friend's fall.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

After fifty feet or so, the sleeping bag hit the rocks with a wet thud accompanied by a sickening choir of cracks, crunches and snaps. These were sounds a empty sleeping bag would not have made. The scream abruptly died again, and the silence in its absence seemed, to Denver, deafening. And brief. The sound of blood rushing in her ears soon drowned everything else out.

Denver stumbled to the dark, crumpled shape. She fell to her knees. Her hands reached out impulsively, then stopped as though she encountered an invisible force field. She wasn't sure if she should touch her. It might not be safe.

“Brooklyn?” she asked in a nervous voice. “Brooklyn? Say something.”

For a few agonizing moments, the bag was still. Then, Brooklyn moved inside and moaned. Denver breathed a sigh of relief. “Denver?” asked Brooklyn in a pained voice.

“Yeah. It's me,” said Denver.

“It hurts...”

“What hurts? Did you break something?”

“My arm hurts...and...my head...there's blood...My back...”

“It's okay. I'm here. We'll get you help. You're going to be fine.”

Brooklyn was silent for a moment. “I...There's something wrong, though...I can't feel my legs...”

Chase dropped down from the tree. Denver stood up and positioned herself between her and the bag.

The two girls stood in silence for a moment, sizing each other up as the wind blew their hair and clothes. The axe was steady in Denver's hands despite the torrent of anger rushing through her.

So this was the one. The badass Caitlin mentioned. She'd seen this girl around school before...Was she really that tough?

“You fucked up, bitch,” Denver finally said. “You fucked up big time, coming here and screwing with us.”

The cheerleader tilted her head to the side. “Fuck up?”

“Yeah. You made a big mistake. These chicks are my friends. Family. The only family I got. And if you fuck with them, you fuck with me.”

Chase thought about this. “That what I could say.”

Denver frowned. “That so?” she replied.

“You fuck up when kill cheer. Not good to kill cheer. Them much nice, good fam for me,” said Chase. “When you fuck at them, fuck at me. And that not good for you.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Denver, unimpressed. She tightened her grip on the axe. “Prov-”

A sprig of pain blossomed on her thigh. She grunted and looked down. A metal tent stake was buried in her. Her slow mind tried to process it. Where did it come from? The cheerleader must have...thrown it? But Denver didn't even see her hand move.

Chase charged at her. She jumped up and did a flip in the air, swinging a foot down at Denver's head.

Denver dove forward into a roll, escaping beneath the flying cheerleader. She winced as she came up. The rocks did not feel good on her head and back: hard and unforgiving, and protruding high enough out of the ground to provide a very uneven, difficult surface. She wouldn't be doing that again.

Chase landed between Denver and Brooklyn. She spun around, another tent stake in her hand, stabbing it towards Denver's face. Her hand was a blur.

So was Denver's. She smoothly took one of her hands off the axe handle and whipped it up, catching Chase's wrist. The cheerleader's eyes widened in shock.

Denver slammed the head of the axe into Chase's stomach. Chase gasped and dropped to her knees. Without hesitation, Denver cranked Chase's arm behind her back. Crying out in pain, Chase's grip weakened. The stake fell from her fingers, hitting the rocks with a ping.

“Surprised? Didn't think I'd be that fast, did you?” asked Denver calmly. “When I was in juvie, every day I spent my free time boxing in the gym. The chicks in there learned not to mess with me. Some of them learned slower than others, but they all learned.” She let Chase go with a hard toss onto the rocks. She kicked her in the kidney for good measure.

She raised the axe over her head and brought it down hard. Chase managed to throw herself backwards out of the way. One of the stones she'd been lying on bled an arterial gush of sparks when the axe head smashed against it.

Chase found herself near the sleeping bag. She didn't like this. Denver was faster than she expected. She'd feel a lot better about facing her if she had a weapon. So she picked up the only thing in arm's reach.

“No!” shouted Denver, as Chase grabbed the sleeping bag in both hands. Brooklyn cried out in renewed pain just at being moved in her present state. Chase ran at Denver, raising the sleeping bag over her head. She swung the heavy bag downward. Denver leapt out of the way, causing the sleeping bag to slam against the ground.

Brooklyn wailed in pain. Images flashed in Denver's mind of bones breaking, of Brooklyn's delicate body contorted in pain. She couldn't see what damage was being done to Brooklyn, and her imagination was having a field day filling in the gap.

Chase swung Brooklyn again. Denver moved her axe to one hand and tried to catch her, but the only thing she got for her effort was to be bludgeoned with a 100+ pound club. She doubted she'd even provided much of a cushion for Brooklyn either, based on the way she screamed when they collided.

Denver was knocked painfully to the ground. Chase slammed her with Brooklyn again, and this time both of them cried out. As Chase raised the bag again, Denver rolled out of the way, finding her feet.

Another swing, this one horizontal. Denver dodged again, quickly stepping to Chase's right, closing the distance between them as she did. This time, Brooklyn hit a tree. Her form bent limply around the sturdy trunk. She didn't make a sound.

Mad with fury, Denver drove the axe into Chase's shoulder. Blood sprayed from the wound. Denver felt the snap of bone being wedged apart reverberate up the axe handle. It surprised her how much the feeling satisfied her. It was like Chase's body was an outlet for her rage, and she was now plugged into it. It was electrifying. Chase cried out in pain.

She tried to wrench the axe free to hit her again, but it wouldn't come easily. Denver helped her along by putting a shoe on Chase's ribs and pushing at the same time as she pulled on the axe's handle. The axe came loose with a flood of crimson. The canvas of white snow was painted in a way that would have made Jackson Pollock proud.

Pushed, slipping on the rocks, Chase fell to her side on the snow. She scrambled to push herself up-

Shunk. Denver buried the axe's blade in her back.

Denver watched as Chase slumped to her stomach on the snow. Her eyes struggled to stay open for a moment, before finally fluttering closed. Her body relaxed. Snow quickly began to collect on it.

But Denver was not yet ready to breathe a sigh of relief. A sense of dread was growing inside her that killing Chase had not alleviated. She turned her eyes to the sleeping bag, lying at the base of the tree, then slowly approached it.

She knelt by its side. Brooklyn's body was outlined inside the sleeping bag. The position she was lying in didn't look quite natural. “Brooklyn?” whispered Denver. “Brooklyn?”

No answer. Denver looked at the zipper of the sleeping bag. Her fingers reluctantly took it and pulled, feeling like she was opening pandora's box.

Blood began to flow out of the sleeping bag as she opened it, through the teeth of the zipper. It reminded Denver of videos she'd seen of a tidal wave hitting a coastal town, the teeth like trees and buildings standing tall and resilient as water flowed around them.

She pulled back the top of the sleeping bag, and felt a knot form in her throat. It was the only thing that kept the vomit down.