“No,” gasped London. Antlers poked through Denver's torso, red, pointed and with a glossy shine, like lipsticks. “No.” She threw herself on Paris, suddenly spilling hysterical tears. She was still drenched in David's warm blood. “But why? Why, Paris? We did the sacrifice...Is Satan not pleased? Will he not help us? After all we've done?! It can't be...this can't be happening...”

Crash! One of the windows exploded inward as something was thrown through it, taking the makeshift barricade with it. London screamed as the dark, heavy thing hit the floor alongside broken glass and splintered wood.

Brooklyn's sleeping bag-swaddled body. The top was still unzipped, and Brooklyn's broken arm and obliterated face flopped out.

London wailed at the sight. At first, she couldn't look, turning away and continuing to clutch Paris tightly. Paris looked at Brooklyn over London's shoulder, then squeezed her eyes shut. Horrible. It was horrible. Her mouth felt dry and her heart was pounding. She was sure London could feel it.

Then, London pulled away from Paris and fell, sobbing, at Brooklyn's side. She picked up what remained of Brooklyn's head, cradled it in her lap.

“London, no...” said Paris, “Let...let her rest...”

But London didn't move. She sat there, weeping over the thing that was once a girl. “It can't be...Brooklyn...you were the most devoted of us all...I might have been the one who started all this, but your faith was...it was an inspiration...it kept me strong...” choked London. Her eyes were wide on her bloodstained face. “Why would Satan let this happen to you...He was supposed to help us...he was supposed to help all of us...Things were supposed to better...”

Crash! Through another window came Sydney's partly-eaten corpse. She landed directly besides London. London screamed again and scrambled away on all fours.

Paris grabbed her underarms and scooped her up onto her feet, half-dragging her to the pantry. Her mind was struggling to catch up to everything that was happening, struggling to accept it. She was still caught on the sight of the deer head. Denver, dead. Henry...dead. Poor Henry. Her Henry...That was when she started to cry.

They reached the ladder, and Paris forced London onto it. They heard another window break as London's head dipped below the pantry floor.

When London was out of the way, Paris climbed onto the ladder next. In the living room, footsteps crunched on broken glass. As the soles of her shoes beat the ladder rungs, Paris glanced out of the pantry at the kitchen doorway and saw Chase appear in it. The cheerleader walked calmly toward her, unhurried.

Panic rising in her chest, Paris pulled the trapdoor shut over her and dropped down the last few rungs of the ladder. Her feet stung from the impact.

London was standing before the altar, looking up at the goat painting. The moving candlelight made the image seem to dance.

In her hands was the wavy knife. She held it up.

“There is only one thing more I can offer you,” she said. “Please accept this, master...the ultimate sign of my devotion.”

It happened too fast for Paris to stop her. London closed her left fist, held it over the candles. With her right, she slashed the knife vertically up her wrist.

“No!” shouted Paris, rushing forward. What she planned to do to help, she couldn't say, but London would not let her do it. She shoved Paris away violently, causing Paris to sit down hard on the floor.

London's blood dripped onto the candles. The way the little flames flickered as the crimson rain fell on them, it almost looked like they were greedily lapping it up, dancing and celebrating at the nourishment London was offering. London's eyes matched those of the goat in the painting. Dark, empty, lifeless. “Master...will save me, or he won't...He'll make it all go away, or he won't...This wound, the cheerleader...my fate is in Satan's hands, no matter what...” she told Paris. “And if he doesn't save me...well...I'll be with him soon...Either way, I'm happy.”

Stomp. A sneakered foot punched through the trapdoor. Broken pieces of wood clattered to the concrete.

Chase jumped down, not bothering with the ladder at all. She looked at the altar, then at the dead David. Her face showed no emotion.

“This where you kill Beck?” she asked.

London charged at her with the knife. It was simplicity itself for Chase to disarm her, grabbing her bleeding wrist and twisting her hand behind her back. The knife hit the floor, and Chase forcefully discarded London into the altar.

The candles spilled across the floor, dozens and dozens of them. Some went out when they hit, others stayed lit. Seeing them tumble caused something to flare up in Paris, a sort of silly, inappropriate anxiety, given the situation. The fire could catch on something, the whole cabin could go up in flame. The feeling passed as quickly as it arrived. In the concrete basement there was nothing that could realistically be ignited. The candles came to rest, burning harmlessly, continuing their slow melt.

Chase calmly bent over and picked up the fallen knife. She turned to London, who was groaning and rolling over. Her wrist was pouring blood, and now her temple was too. She sat up, saw Chase, then backed up against the broken altar. Candles lay on their sides all around her.

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Chase saw her wrist, and wondered if she should just let London bleed out. It wouldn't take long. But no, she decided to be generous and extend a mercy killing. She grabbed the top of London's head with her free hand, then stabbed the knife into London's left eye. A spray of blood and eye fluid ejaculated from the wound, and London let out a guttural hiss that may have been intended as a scream.

It only took a few seconds for London's remaining eye to flutter shut, and for her to go limp, sitting up against the wall. What she saw in her final moments, if she was welcomed at hell's gates or if she saw nothing waiting for her but blackness, was only for her to know. With most of the candles extinguished, the painting of the demon was dim and dark, its dispassioned face barely visible, but its presence was felt. It hung over London's body as if to claim her.

Chase turned to Paris. Paris realized she had been transfixed, frozen, as if watching London's death play out from far away. Now, she changed from spectator to participant in Chase's deadly game.

“W-wait,” she said. “Not me. Not me. I didn't have a choice.” Chase walked toward her, and Paris took scrambling steps backward, voice rising in pitch. “Not me! Not me! They made me! Please!” Her back hit the wall as chase walked by David. The closer Chase got, the higher Paris' voice scraped, the faster her words spilled out. “Your friend! Your friend! I saved your friend! I let her go!”

Chase stopped. She frowned at Paris. “You let Cait go?”

“Cait! Caitlin!” Yeah, that was her name. “Yes! I let her go!”

“She's right, Chase.”

Caitlin's voice came from the ladder. Chase turned around to watch her climb down. “She let me go.” She looked at David and winced. “That probably would have been me if she didn't.”

“Why her do that?” asked Chase.

“Be, because...” said Paris, “Because I didn't think it was right! I wanted to save her!”

Chase narrowed her eyes. She took a step forward. “Was not right have dead Cait?”

“Y-yeah! Of course not!” yelped Paris.

“Then why not let Beck go?” asked Chase. “It right have dead Beck?”

“N-no!”

Chase took a few more steps. “It right have dead Court, dead kid, dead more of them?”

“No! That's not what I meant!”

Chase stopped. She was standing directly in front of Paris. “You let Cait go for me let you go. That why do. Right Cait?”

Hesitantly rounding the slab, Caitlin was conflicted as she responded. “It was more than any of the others did,” said Caitlin. “Chase, I think she was trapped. I think she's wanted out of this for a long time. I think the chaos of you coming, that was her chance to get away, to put this behind her.”

“Yeah! That's right!” agreed Paris nervously. “Please don't. Please...”

Chase looked over her shoulder at Caitlin. She thought about this. It looked to Caitlin as though she was seriously considering her words. Then, Chase looked back at Paris. “I not come, her let you die, Cait. A dead Cait if I not come. Cait mom find a dead Cait some place. Then this girl go on and kill more.”

Neither Paris nor Caitlin could raise an argument to that. So Paris raised a plea. “Don't. Please, I beg you, don't do-”

Saying nothing more, face emotionless, Chase grabbed Paris' head with both hands and twisted it. A few sickening snaps, and Paris was looking at the wall behind her with dead, unseeing eyes. Chase let go, and the body crumpled to the floor.

“God,” said Caitlin, covering her mouth. Chase turned, but did not look at her right away. She looked at the body reflectively. Her expression was not one of triumph. It was of creeping regret. Already, Caitlin could see her prediction was coming true.

“You tell me not kill,” Chase told her. “Did your part, Cait. Did what she ask you. Her die not your fault.”

Caitlin didn't know what to say. “I know. Sshh,” was the best she could come up with. She hugged Chase, and Chase hugged her back.

“Freeze. Freeze, Chase.”

Chase froze. Caitlin felt the blonde's arms stiffen around her. Her back was to the voice, with Chase looking at the speaker over her shoulder. Of course, Caitlin didn't need to see the speaker. She instantly recognized the voice.

Lara had her pistol pointed at Chase's face. Though her arms were steady, confusion was swirling in her mind. Fear was tearing her apart, had been doing so the entire fast, reckless drive up here. At the sight of her daughter, it took everything she had not to run to her and hold her. “Slowly raise your hands,” she said. Chase did so. “Take one step backwards.” She did this as well.

Caitlin was now free to turn around. “Mom, you're here.” She started to cry in relief. There had been moments when she wasn't sure if she would ever see her mom again.

She didn't run to her. Lara was grateful. If Caitlin touched her, hugged her, she would probably break down crying too, and wouldn't be able to stop. Right now she needed to concentrate, as difficult as it was.

“How did you find us?” Caitlin sniffled.

“Alicia and Lindsey told me they took you. And where.” Lara still had her gun pointed at Chase. The painting watched the standoff from behind her. “Tell me what happened here.”

“Voll girl take Cait,” said Chase. “Them bad, kill much kids to red guy. Want kill Cait.”

“I see,” said Lara. “And what...happened to them?”

Chase realized this was a bad situation for her. She knew enough about civilization by this point to know she'd done things that Caitlin's mom could not accept, even if Caitlin could. She looked down at her feet. “Stop voll girls.”

There was a long silence. “Are they all dead?”

“Yes.”

Lara couldn't believe she was even having this conversation, that this situation was real. She looked at the blood-soaked, wounded girl, the axe sticking out of her back, with utter disbelief. The image of the person who Lara thought Chase was had been obliterated beyond recognition. Who was Lara looking at? What was she looking at?

“Chase, I want you to turn around, keeping your hands raised,” she said nervously. She pulled her handcuffs from her belt. Chase did as she was told.

Caitlin interjected. “Mom, she saved my life.”

“She killed six people,” said Lara. “No, more.”

“She did it to protect me. She's on our side,” said Caitlin.

Lara glared at her. “Caitlin, I'm a cop. The only side I can follow is the side of the law. You know I have to do this.”

“Mom, please,” said Caitlin. She put her hand on her mom's arm, and it began to shake. “Please. I'd be dead if not for her.”

Lara stood for a long time, feeling her daughter's presence. Then, reluctantly, she lowered her weapon. “Go, Chase. Run. I'll work this out somehow.”

Chase looked back at her, surprised. Then, she jumped for the basement window, slipped out, and was lost in the night.