JV Hampton-VanSant

Maybe you can arm yourself.

Arrows won't do much damage against zombified psycho slashers in masks,

but it's the only plan B you've... slam.

You smack face-first into the back of the theater, and the illusion of summer camp crashes to black.

Starbursts dash your vision.

Blood trickles from your nose.

You barely notice.

Nearby, the emergency exits hallway sits at an angle untouched by your watcher's light.

This is your chance.

You start to limp down the dim prefab hallway, only to balk.

He barred the door at the other end with chains.

A trap if you go down there without a key.

And the only key you knew...

is still lodged inside the shackles you abandoned in the top row.

You stagger back into the theater.

Nearing the front row now, your watcher angles his light your way.

The maniac woods return, a 35mm mirage superimposed on the seats.

Butchered moviegoers hang pinned to trees, while overhead, the message on the silver screen changes.

You can barely read it through the blur of greasy, dizzy tears.

Exits aren't an option, I'm afraid.