Chapter Text
Tara crouched in the tall stalks of corn, gently rustling the stalks. A finished generator dinged across the map, the lights piercing the darkening sky.
Only one generator left!
Dwight screamed from the other side of the horrible farm. She knew it was Dwight by the sound of his scream alone, which Tara conceded was somewhat morbid. Dozens of times she has heard him and her friends shriek in pain and desperation. She knows them all by heart, by now, each one wrenching her soul to pieces.
The impossible choice- save herself or save Dwight, potentially screwing them both in the process. She chose to work on the generator a couple steps ahead in the tall, waving corn, hoping the altruistic Claudette would take the unhook.
Tara lost herself in the generator repairs, focusing intently. One mistake could cost her a world of pain, and eventually death. She wasn't exactly a good evader. Normally she was highly skittish, relying on her stealth to get by in the trials.
I'm not exactly gifted in the running department, Tara thought wryly. She wasn't slim like Meg, or leanly muscled like Nea, built strong from a lifetime of athleticism. No, Tara had been the studious type before one out-of-character adventure landed her here, where her skills were suited to hiding and repairs and not so much speed.
She was so focused on the repairs that she almost didn't notice him until it was too late. A branch snapped somewhere in the cornfield and Tara immediately dropped to the ground. Her heart felt like it was about to pound out of her chest. The wave of fear and panic hit her like a brick. When it hit-the fear of knowing a killer was hunting you just steps away-it hit her like a train. Tara could hear the slight jingle of those blasted metal traps, coming closer and closer.
She knew then that he had saw her, but the Trapper was a patient man, unlike the voracious Ghostface or the maniacal Clown. He was massive, a muscled human mountain, and swiftness was not his preferred method of killing. He might not outrun her, but he would keep pushing her closer and closer to what would be a trap hidden in the grass.
Tara had been corralled into such traps a dozen times. She never got used to the feeling of the metal teeth slicing into her calf, slicing through flesh and embedding into bone. At that point, she always wanted to be dead, and she never wanted to come back to life.
Tara ran anyways, knowing what would eventually happen. Hopefully, Dwight would've been unhooked and the final generator almost finished. She maybe wouldn't mind dying so much if her friends got out. Tara leaped over a window sill into a dilapidated shack, then crouching into the room below.
The basement hooks were terrifying in their implication- a monument to fear and pain. Most survivors avoided it like the plague, and Tara hoped that the Trapper would assume that she would too. Slowly, she crept towards the far corner to hide within one of the bright crimson lockers.
Snap!
The trap shredded through her calf. Hot fire burned its way up her leg and into her throat, bubbling into a shriek. Tara couldn't stop herself from screaming, trying to muffle her cries into her elbow. She sobbed as she tried to pry the trap open, but the blood was making the metal slick and she couldn't manage it.
I might as well hook myself, Tara thought angrily. All thoughts emptied out of her head as her focus narrowed to the heavy footsteps coming down the basement stairs. She stopped struggling. It was over. The last generator dinged. Her friends would most likely be opening the exit gates to find their way back to relative safety, but Tara was still trapped in the basement, the Trapper rounding the bottom of the stairs to where she was caught.
I really thought I would make it this time, she thought as tears flowed down her cheeks. Being a newer addition to the trials, she didn't often survive. The other survivors assured her that eventually she would get the hang of it, that it was normal to die a lot at first. But Tara had only made it a few times over the span of dozens of trials. She felt a tiny piece of her soul get eaten away every time the entity took her, and that hurt more than any amount of traps or hooks or weapons could.
The Trapper was an imposing figure, towering over Tara. His mask was garish and frightening, the teeth gleaming pale in the darkness of the basement. His machete was bloodied, probably from Dwight.
"Please," Tara begged. "Please just let me go this one time. I won't run next time, I swear, but please just let me go." The Trapper sighed heavily. He didn't move, just watched. Her heart pounded, the adrenaline numbing the pain in her leg somewhat.
The tears flowed down her dirt-stained cheeks. "Please," she said again. "I just can't do it today. I can't take it today, I just can't." The dread settled in her stomach as he knelt down silently and pried the trap open. A heavy boot slammed into her chest, knocking the breath from her lungs and keeping her on her back.
"You know I can't do that," he growled. The Trapper's voice was rusty from disuse- the words sounded like they were being forced out and not so much spoken.
He...talks?
The killers never talked. Tara had wondered if they were even able to, or if the entity muted them inside the trials. They growled, snarled, howled, laughed, but never spoke. It made him human, more than she would like. Oh, and how she hated him, and she hated how he was drawing her death out. The Trapper just gazed quietly at her face, searching. He seemed uncertain.
"Why not?" She croaked out. His boot felt like it was crushing the life from her chest. Tara knew she had made a mistake when he stiffened and the pressure of the boot increased.
"You fucking idiot," the Trapper snarled. "Do you truly think you are the only captive here?"
He reached down, and then with one practiced move he hefted her up and onto one of the basement hooks. Tara felt it pierce her shoulder. She didn't have the energy to fight or even scream as the entity pierced its spiderlike legs into her chest. The last thing she saw was the Trapper, machete hanging low by his thigh. His eyes met hers, and she could've sworn she saw a quick flash of sadness in them. Then she was gone.