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The last generator fired to life with a shower of sparks and a flash of white light. In the distance a siren blared, a signal that the exit gates were activated. The trapped survivors all heaved a collective sigh of relief. All except Meg, who couldn’t keep herself from frowning.
Bear traps, all unarmed, sat about uselessly across the dirt fields and scrubby grass patches. Many lay out in the open, their positions random and scattered without care. If it wasn’t for their presence, nobody would’ve guessed that the Trapper was the one assigned to hunt them. Although everyone was on high alert to avoid the killer, none had seen even a glimpse of him. But nobody minded that. In fact, they were relieved to be able to do their tasks without stressing about a killer finding them. With how rare it was to get a moment’s respite in the Fog, it was best to enjoy them when possible and not ask any questions. And so, without any interruptions, the survivors had made steady progress on the generators, burning away the oppressive dark of the MacMillan Estate with each one completed.
But Meg couldn’t shake away the unease gnawing at her mind, which only bit harder with each generator completed. She cast a glance at one of the traps near her feet. It was in a perfect spot, right next to the finished generator. Had it been armed, it surely would’ve caught someone in its cruel jaws. She scoffed before kicking it with the toe of her shoe. Its rusted jaws clattered together as it toppled onto its side.
The Trapper was the first killer she encountered when she arrived in the Fog. She knew him longer than anyone else, so she had grown familiar with how he liked to operate. Like a skilled huntsman, he preyed upon his targets with a devastating, single-minded focus. He’d set traps across the entire realm with meticulous care and wait for someone to get snagged. As soon as the steel jaws tore into someone’s leg, the Trapper would burst from the fog and be upon them like a tiger to its meat. If he ever seemed slow or uninterested in chasing down his prey, it was only to lull them into a false sense of security. He was a patient killer, always waiting for the most opportune moment even if it took hours.
That had to be what he was doing now. He was planning something devious, perhaps biding his time for the very end of the trial before unleashing his wrath. Sometimes the killers used hex totems, trinkets imbued with dark magic, to lend themselves secret strength and put the survivors at an even bigger disadvantage. Meg decided she should be on the hunt for any of those. Or, at least, that was the excuse she was telling herself as she set off into the woods.
She skulked about under the blanket of fog, siding along the walls of the central warehouse. The deteriorated building towered over the rolling mist. It was easily the tallest structure in the whole realm, so it gave her a good place of reference to keep from getting lost. She placed her hand on the warehouse, dragging her fingers over the crumbling paint and aged bricks as she moved toward the building’s front. Two rows of trees stretched out from the main entrance. The dirt between them was barren and well-trod, forming a natural path out to the edge of the realm.
Her heart thrummed in her chest as she followed the trail, beating against her ribcage with renewed fervor. She hadn’t been running or exerting herself, but that wasn’t why her heart was beating. This strange occurrence was a warning sign for whenever the killer was nearby, some kind of meddling by the Entity to give the survivors a fair shot against their foe. It was a sign to run away, but she only moved closer, letting the beating thunder within her eardrums.
Out in the distance stood a much smaller building, cobbled together with rotting planks and rusty sheet metal. She and the others called it the Killer Shack, since it’s where they presumed the killers would stay in-between trials. The heartbeat roared in her ears as she advanced. Instinctively she veered toward the pine trees bordering the path to give herself some cover. Once the shack’s entrance came into clearer view, she stopped behind one tree with a particularly thick trunk. She poked out her head, the tip of her nose grazing against the bark.
Looming out from the murk, the Trapper’s hunched outline was unmistakable. He sat in the shack’s doorframe, which provided barely enough space to fit his full body. His cleaver lay discarded at his side, half-hidden in a patch of dead grass. If he saw her approach, he made no indication of it. The hollow eye holes of his mask stared at the ground right in front of him. He made no movement except for the steady rise and fall of his massive shoulders every time he breathed.
Meg’s heart hammered away at her chest, threatening to burst out. She hugged her tree tighter, licking her chapped lips in between hurried gasps for air. If he decided to stand up and chase her, there was nothing she could do to escape. She was in the open, far from any walls she could jump over or wooden pallets to block his path. Her friends wouldn’t even be able to help her; she had no idea where they were, and they likewise wouldn’t know she was here.
Being this close to him was enough to send a fire through her nerves, screaming at her to turn around and run. But her muscles remained frozen in place, struck dumb by shock. With her mind sending signals her body couldn’t respond to, all she was able to do was stare at him.
Both figures remained glued to their places as the seconds dragged out into agonizing minutes. Once it became clear that the Trapper wasn’t going to move, the urgency to run waned. Meg’s base instinct quieted and she was better able to digest what she was looking at. She found it odd that this was the first time she had ever seen him sitting down. The Trapper only ever moved about at his full, towering posture, chasing her through the Fog or standing over one of her friends as he hacked them to bits. Now his heavy shoulders were slumped, rounded in on himself. At full height he was gargantuan, but now he was the smallest Meg had ever seen him. Silent and defeated, he had given up before the trial started.
Could she be… feeling sorry for him?
Meg shook her head, her braided pigtails slapping against the tree trunk. How could she feel sympathy for him? This was a monster that had snared her in more bear traps than she could count. His mammoth silhouette stalked her in both the trials and the nightmares that kept her from sleep. The wooden mask he always wore was imprinted in her mind. It was carved to look like a giant grin lined with jagged teeth. That smiling face always loomed over her when he scooped her out of a trap or hung her on a hook. It was like he was eternally taunting her.
Not even the mask’s sadistic smile could cover up the despondency of the man behind it. Its visage remained fixed on the space directly in front of its wearer. The Trapper’s arms were slung over his bent knees, the knuckles of his dangling fingers brushing against the shack’s floor. Every ounce of strength in those hulking muscles had been sapped away, leaving behind a deflated husk.
Could it be possible that the Trapper was a man once? A monster wouldn’t be sulking like this, but a man would. Meg always viewed the killers as soulless beasts that only existed to spill her blood. If he really was human, maybe a part of that man still existed inside this monstrous form.
Curiosity forced Meg out from behind her tree and she made her advance. Each tenuous step crunched the dry, loose soil underneath. The Trapper wouldn’t respond to these loud cues encouraging him to leap up and strike. For a moment Meg figured he might be asleep. But as she got closer, his rigid posture told her that he was awake; just refusing to acknowledge her.
She closed the distance to a few feet, keeping close to the wall on his right. The only times she would ever be this close were when he threw her over his shoulder. Meg gulped down the anxiety balling up in her throat. He wouldn’t hurt her. She had to keep repeating this to herself and pray that it was true.
Even sitting down, his head just about reached the same height as hers. Her eyes roamed the massive expanse of his squatting form, all while he continued to stare straight ahead. She settled on the wicked hooks and barbs protruding from his right arm and shoulder. Blackened and bloodstained, they stuck out from his flesh like needles in a voodoo doll. They had to be causing him pain. Maybe they were to blame for his hoarse and labored breathing. Why can’t the Entity pull them out? If it could grant its killers ungodly strength, it should be able to ease their suffering too.
Or maybe it was the one who put them there in the first place.
Meg shuddered with realization. The relationship between the Entity and its killers might not be as clear as she once assumed. What if the Trapper only killed not from a willingness to serve, but only under further threat of torture? He’d be a prisoner here. Just like her.
She circled around the front of the Trapper to his left side, facing his uninjured shoulder. Her hand fell on top of it. A wince rocked his entire frame, like he’d just been pricked, and his head swiveled around to meet her. The mask’s evil grin cut through her and she pulled her hand back. Her muscles tensed, ready to bolt away in case he decided to stand up. But he remained still, waiting for her to make her next move. The only sounds he continued to make were his husky, guttural exhales. She placed her hand back upon him, forcing her shivering arm to stay put.
He was a patchwork of brutalized flesh. Meg struggled to find an inch of him that wasn’t carved with scars. She rubbed her palm across his shoulder in a small circle, her touch gentle against his body. It was like caressing heavily damaged leather, not human skin. The Trapper’s breathing slowed with every movement of her palm. The labored grunts dissolved into more natural sounding sighs. She kept her movements steady and delicate, taking great care not to agitate him.
Fingers ran across ruined tissue, never having known a loving touch. Meg lowered herself to a crouch to get more comfortable. She was much too close to him than she would’ve cared to be before, but now she didn’t mind. The image of him as a soulless monster faded from her mind with every reassuring stroke. In this state, hunched over and sighing at her touch, he was almost human.
It did surprise her when his hand cupped her chin. Rugged calluses scraped against her cheek, his fingers quivering in their attempt to be as gentle as possible. His hand was large enough to circle her whole face. If he wanted, he could squeeze down and choke the life out of her. Her body froze as she struggled to keep calm, to stop her raging instinct from telling her to run. She blew a deep breath from her nose, relaxing her tense muscles and letting her face sink against his palm. The roughness of his skin balanced against his light caresses.
It had been ages since someone last showed her affection. Nobody’s touched her like this since her mom, weak and bedridden, reached up to stroke her cheek. She told her to stay safe during her jog, not knowing it would be the last time she’d see her daughter. Meg let loose a shuddering sigh and clamped her eyes shut. She didn’t want to think of her mom, the life she left behind, or the hell she was trapped in. Nothing mattered except for the hand currently warming her face. The reassuring touch was enough to tell her that everything was fine, if only for this moment.
No breeze blew through the lonely woods. No crows, no other survivors, no generators. Just the two of them huddled together inside the shack’s dingy, ramshackle walls. Touching, comforting, telling each other in a silent way not to worry. For the first time since she entered the Fog, Meg felt at peace.
“Meg!” someone’s voice echoed from the far edge of the realm, shattering her trance. “Where are you, Meg? Come on, the gates are open!”
The Trapper removed his hand from her face and she had to keep herself from grabbing hold of it. She wanted to stay like this, if just for a little while longer, but she knew she had to leave. She had to go join the others, preferably before they started looking for her. She didn’t want to answer any awkward questions if anyone found her, found them, like this.
She turned to the Trapper, who matched her gaze. Without any words exchanged, he seemed to reach the same agreement as her. This had to be a secret between them. She could barely make out the eyes underneath the mask. Green, just like her mother’s.
With a sad smile and a half-hearted wave, she turned away from him and sprinted off into the Fog. As she placed a hand atop the cheek he had touched, she couldn’t keep herself from smiling.