Chapter Text
The Washington lodge is bathed in a flurry of snow and flames when the rescue helicopter arrives, making its quick descent to Blackwood Pines, the sound of its rotating blades persistently knocking on her eardrums and the sheer force of the wind nearly knocking her off balance.
“They’re here,” she hears Emily sob, mouth covered with trembling and wounded hands. “Oh, god, they’re actually here a-and we’re safe and they’re here—”
They’re here.
“J-Jess?” Mike calls out, tone unsure yet hopeful as he stumbles to his feet, eyes squinted at the two approaching figures who are covered in multiple cuts and bruises, whose skins are smeared with dirt and tears and blood just like the rest of them. “Matt? Jess… Jess!”
We’re safe.
“Help us!” Chris cries beside a hysterical Ashley. She’s cradled in his chest like a porcelain doll – too fragile, on the brink of shattering into a million tiny fragments. “Hey, Ash? Ash, they’re here. We’re gonna be okay,” he whispers reassuringly, planting a chaste kiss on her forehead as she finally allows the dam to break, crying into Chris’ jacket with her hands balled up into fists and emotions stretched out too taut like a wire.
We’re gonna be okay.
“Sam?”
They’re here. We’re safe. We’re gonna be okay.
“Josh.”
Josh is here. Josh is safe. Josh is gonna be okay.
“I-I think she’s in a state of shock.” Emily kneels in front of her and cradles her chin in her cold, weathered palms. Her blue eyes look distant yet alarmed, as if she’s in a daze. “Sam? Can you hear me?”
He’s here. He’s safe. He’s gonna be okay.
“Where’s Josh?”
Emily pulls away like she just got scorched and takes Matt’s outstretched hand to help her up, fighting the sob that’s lodged somewhere in her throat as she watches Sam shakily stand up and do a 360, searching for something – someone – that’s not there. There’s another chopper in the air, hovering in circles like a hawk prowling the area for potential prey. The first one is parked a good distance away from the burning cottage with four medics and two police officers piling out of it.
Sam is finding it extremely difficult to breathe as the medics approach, carrying a bunch of medical supplies that make her feel uneasy, unsafe. She looks around and sees Chris and Ashley with another medic, Matt with his arms protectively wrapped around Emily as one of the police officers usher them inside the helicopter, Jess on a stretcher with Mike’s fingers twined tightly but comfortably with hers. Everyone except him is here and accounted for, and a third chopper joins them when she bolts towards Mike, screaming his name like some kind of prayer, an answer to her question.
Then she briefly remembers Mike arriving back to the lodge alone.
He’s not here.
Mike releases Jess’ fingers and catches Sam just in time before her knees buckle – in exhaustion, in fear, maybe both – then he watches her cry.
He’s not safe.
“Mike, we have to go back there!” Sam practically screams, clawing at his jacket, trying to grab onto something to keep her grounded to reality. “Please, please, please, we have to find him. We have to find Josh.”
“You know we can’t do that,” Mike replies, throat closing in, grabbing her shoulders and looking straight into her eyes. “You know we can’t go back there, Sam. You and I both know what those… those things are capable of. We barely survived just a few minutes ago.” He doesn’t give her the chance to protest before adding, “He’s… He’s probably already dead.”
He’s not gonna be okay.
“I’m not leaving,” Sam exclaims, swatting his hands away, drying her tears with the filthy sleeve of her shirt. “If you won’t come with me, fine. I’ll do it alone.”
“Are you fucking crazy?” Mike pulls her aside, anger and sadness and frustration pumping through his veins like some kind of fucked up adrenaline shot. “Samantha, listen to me,” he instructs, his brown eyes boring into her cerulean ones with the intensity of a thousand megawatt lightbulb. “Josh is dead, okay? He’s dead and going back there would be suicide. For fuck’s sake, Sammy, we’re finally safe. I’m sure Josh would’ve liked it if you made it out of here alive.”
“Don’t tell me what Josh would or wouldn’t have liked, Michael!” she spits venomously, tears welling up in her eyes again. She’s shaking in a combination of anger and exhaustion, trying her hardest to stay on her feet. “I can’t believe you have the fucking nerve to say that. You know what he would’ve liked? His sisters alive, not dead or turned into a fucking Wendigo, so I’m not leaving until we find Josh.”
Mike doesn’t say anything after that, only shakes his head ever so slightly to tell her no, we’re not going back there to rescue a fucking corpse.
He wishes they can, though, because the hatred and helplessness that ignite in Sam’s eyes a second later are enough to push the last piece of his resilience off a cliff, enough to reveal a fissure on his brittle façade of bravery and strength and some other pretentious bullshit he picked up along the way.
He doesn’t notice Sam breaking down by his feet until Chris comes to her aid, doesn’t notice the tears streaming down his face until he tastes the saltiness on his chapped and bleeding lips. He’s tired and scared and guilty and oh, god, I should’ve done something, should’ve saved him, should’ve distracted the Wendigo and he would’ve been here with us and oh god oh god oh god. It’s a vicious, never-ending cycle of what ifs and regrets and guilt and he could’ve saved him, could’ve saved the boy who lost his twin sisters in one night because of a stupid prank that wasn’t funny at all if he wasn’t so selfish and concerned with saving his own skin.
He’s on his knees and his bloody palms are making crimson imprints on the snow and he’s crying, sobbing, weeping.
“Mike.” He glances up and, with bleary eyes, sees Chris trying to comfort Sam. “Mike, what happened back there? When you guys found Josh.”
“I-I don’t know,” Mike stammers. “We found him and he was talking to himself, like he was hallucinating or some shit, and he–he told me not to hit him and, god, Chris, we were crossing this pool and we were almost there, so fucking close, and this fucking Wendigo came outta nowhere and t-took him and, fuck, I should’ve saved him, I should’ve killed that fucking monster, I should—”
Sam emits a pained shriek so loud, the nearest medic drops the roll of gauze he’s methodologically wrapping around Ashley’s injured hand. “I’m not leaving!” she protests into Chris’ chest. An officer comes rushing towards them, looking alarmed. “I’m not leaving until we find Josh!”
“Josh? As in Joshua Washington?” the female officer queries. The name tag stitched onto her uniform says H.L. SHEPPARD. “He’s here? Where is he?”
“In the mines,” replies Mike, sobering up a little bit. “He’s down there in the mines with some Wendigos and he’s probably dead and, fuck, it’s all my fault.”
“A Wendi-what? And how’d he get down to the mines? That place has been closed for years,” Officer Sheppard questions, sparing a glance at Chris who’s seemingly the only one who isn’t crying or thrashing around or stunned in shock – the only one who’s got his shit together.
“I-I don’t know. I wasn’t with them when they found Josh but I—”
“You have to save him.” Sam clambers out of Chris’ grasp and practically crawls towards the officer. “He’s down there. Josh is down there in the mines and he’s alive and he’s waiting and please,” she cries, “I am begging you, please go down there and save Josh. He’s the only one Mr. and Mrs. Washington have left.”
He’s the only one I have left.
The look Officer Sheppard gives her is one tethering between pity and doubt, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they’re not going down to the mines and they’re not going to save Josh and they’re not going to rescue the only one the Washingtons have left. They lost Hannah and Beth and now they’re losing Josh and Sam can’t take the crippling fear and guilt that have embedded themselves into her soul, permanently etched onto the back of her eyelids. She can already tell his desperate please and distant gazes and terrified screams are going to haunt her dreams every single night for the rest of her life.
The last thing Sam manages to say before she feels the sharp stab of a needle on her forearm is he’s not here, he’s not safe, he’s not gonna be okay like a mantra, and it doesn’t take long for the sedatives to kick in as she collapses into Chris’ arms and hesitantly, unwillingly lets the darkness consume her for God knows how long.
“Well, fuck me.”
Mike’s teeth chatter as he wades into the icy waters of the mines, a shotgun carefully slung over his right shoulder. “Goddamn, this shit’s cold,” he grits, flicking as much water as he can off his hands.
“Keep it down,” Chris scolds, his eyes flitting from one spot to another as he tightens his grip on his gun, ignoring the wave of nausea that washes over him. “I get that Wendigos only hunt at night but we can’t risk it.” They’re halfway across the pool now, with aching bones and frozen limbs and sleep-deprived minds hindering them from making their journey quicker. “Besides,” he continues, looking over his shoulder and mentally taking note of all four officers and a medic in the water behind him, “I’ve heard enough of your screams to last me a lifetime, Munroe.”
Mike rolls his eyes as he hoists himself out of the water, holding his arm out for Chris to take. He pulls him up and signals the officers to follow his lead, cocking his shotgun and slowly making his way deeper into the mines. The place smells of coal and wood and rotting flesh, and it’s almost enough to make him vomit right then and there.
“We have twenty minutes to find your friend – no more, no less,” Officer Sheppard informs, keeping her weapon poised and ready to fire. “After that, we’re out of here.”
“We’ll find him,” Chris guarantees as they round the corner. “We’ll find Josh, I know it. He’s around here somewhere.” Alive, he wants to add but decides against it. He doesn’t want to jinx anything.
“We better,” the officer with a scraggly beard adds. “I can’t imagine losing any of my kids, much less all of them. Can’t imagine what the Washingtons are going through right now.”
“Tell me about it,” another one agrees. Mike tries to tune them out and focuses on the scraps of wood scattered on the ground instead. He angrily kicks a pebble away with the heel of his worn-out boots.
“You okay?” Chris asks softly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Just… don’t pay attention to anything they’re saying, yeah? Let’s just focus on finding Josh so we can finally get out of this shithole.”
Mike offers him a small, genuine smile that, in a way, makes both of them feel slightly better.
The next fifteen minutes of searching descends into tense silence. The slightest creak or shift in the air often ends with guns pointed to random crevices and several warning shots aimed at nothing but thin air. Chris belatedly tells them not to shoot anywhere near the ceiling or any unstable-looking beams and columns when Sheppard’s bullet pierces through the torso of a headless corpse hanging on a hook from the ceiling.
The screams that follow are shrill and almost deafening, and it takes Chris all his willpower not to laugh at the bearded officer who’s clinging onto Sheppard for dear life.
“Proof enough for ya?” Mike smirks. It doesn’t stay on his face for too long at the sight of what’s left of the stranger with the flamethrower.
“What the fuck happened down here?” Sheppard prods the cadaver with the barrel of her gun, her nose wrinkling in utter disgust at the putrid stench of decaying organs. “These Wendigos, what exactly are they?”
“We already told you, they’re supernatural cannibals who will literally rip you apart piece by piece once they get their hands on you,” Chris repeats in exasperation. He looks at the stranger’s overalls and sighs in sadness and guilt. “And Hannah Washington turned into one of them.”
Sheppard doesn’t get the chance to ask when or how Hannah Washington turned into a Wendigo because Mike and Chris start screaming like mad men, sprinting towards a heap of charred wood and blue overalls on the ground.
“Move, move, move!” she instructs as she breezes past her colleagues to keep up with the two boys. Her gun is loaded and ready to fire and her hands are trembling and she couldn’t stop the gasp from escaping her lips when the blond kid in glasses kneels down and, with a grunt, rolls the unconscious boy – unconscious or dead, she doesn’t know, but she decides to be optimistic and considers the former – in filthy overalls on his back.
“Shit,” Mike hisses, watching Chris press two fingers on the befallen boy’s neck. He’s checking for a pulse. “Chris—”
“Shh.” His eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, fingers trembling slightly as he tries so hard to feel the pulse, feel the throbbing underneath his fingertips that’ll indicate that maybe it’s not too late.
Officer Sheppard doesn’t move, doesn’t even dare to inhale as she holds her breath and watches two teenagers lose their minds over an unconscious boy who’s surrounded by burnt pieces of wood, who reeks of gasoline and smoke and dust, right arm profusely bleeding like a chunk’s been bitten clean off. She’s paralyzed on the spot, watches a medic in a blank shirt and cargo pants usher Chris and Mike out of the way as he starts performing CPR on his barely breathing body. There’s gauze and antiseptic on the ground and one, two, three pumps to his chest.
Chris doesn’t know how long the medic has been trying to resuscitate his best friend – he stopped counting after twelve seconds – but the tears come before he can even stop them and the last sliver of hope left in him is slowly beginning to dwindle away. His knees buckle and he latches onto Mike’s good shoulder for support, hoping and praying that they weren’t too late and his best friend is going to be fine and he’s going to come home with them and forget last night ever happened. They’re going to come over to each other’s houses over the weekend and play video games and just forget, forget, forget.
A shrill, bloodcurdling screech echoes in the bowels of the cold, dark cavern and everyone except Chris and Mike freezes. The wind shifts, now clouded in something akin to terror and suffocation and every horrible thing imaginable. Chris cocks his gun and Mike points his right ahead, towards the shadow-filled corner where the sounds seems to be resonating from.
“Go,” Chris commands in a tone so soft it’s barely audible, no longer looking helpless. There’s a certain fire that flickers across his eyes. “Get him out of here. Now.”
No further questions are asked as Sheppard instructs her subordinates to lift him up, ignoring the ringing in her ears as shots are fired one after another in quick successions. The screeching gets louder and louder along with Mike’s crazed shouting and Chris’ indignant battle cries as they furiously shoot at someone, something only they can see. Sheppard’s in the middle of pulling their unconscious rescuee out of the water when barrels start clanging onto the ground, clear liquid spilling out everywhere as gunshots continue to rattle the mines like some fucked up carnival music.
“Shit, I’m out!” Chris yells over the noise, hurling his gun at the fanged monster that’s scaling the wall on all fours.
“Go!” Mike fires another shot that hits the Wendigo square in the chest. “I’ve got enough bullets to hold it off. Just get everyone out of here!” The blond nods and sets off, tipping two more barrels of gas over before jumping into the pool to join the rest of the search and rescue party. With gritted teeth, Mike falls back and shoots at the Wendigo two more times. “Come on!” he jeers, fishing a lighter out of his pocket. “Is that all ya fuckin’ got, ya sack of shit!”
Then he sets the place ablaze by throwing the tiny, rectangular object towards the thin veil of gasoline on the ground, blindly emptying the barrel of his shotgun and making a run for it five seconds later, ignoring the chill that seeps into his clothing, his weak knees, and the erratic pounding of his heart as the Wendigo in the mines slowly but surely burns to death.
Chris pulls him up and practically drags him out the mines by the collar of his jacket, and the relief that washes over both of them at the realization that they are never, ever setting foot into that godforsaken place is unbelievably liberating.
They don’t speak. Don’t have the energy or emotional stability to utter a single word. They just hold on to each other, hobbling over to where the medic’s hunched over, attempting to keep their friend’s lungs breathing and heart beating in what seems like an eternity.
And in a helicopter flying thousands of feet in the air lays Sam, completely dead to the world with the sedatives still infiltrating her bloodstream as the first of three helicopters flees from Mount Washington, unaware of the ineffective resuscitation and the cries of pain and grief and the almost-dead boy down below.
Sam wakes up to the smell of fresh linens and antiseptic twelve hours later.
A kick of light-headedness makes her head pound as she blinks the grogginess away, trying to shove the last ounce of sleepiness and exhaustion out the door.
“Sam?” Matt, she thinks, but she can’t be too sure since the stampede in her head insists on getting louder and louder with each passing second. “Sammy, can you hear me?”
“Hmm,” she hums. Her mouth is dry, lips chapped with cuts that sting like hell. She can practically hear every bone in her body scream in agony.
She hears him laugh in relief. “Can, uh, can you sit up? Em’s on her way to call a doctor.”
“Are you – I mean, is everyone, just – Matt, are you okay?”
There’s a pause. It stretches for about four seconds before Matt clears his throat, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I’m fine, I guess,” he replies. The exhaustion in his tone is overwhelming. “Only got minor injuries that needed stitching and icing. Same goes for Em and Ash but, uh, they had to put Ashley to sleep since she couldn’t stop crying.” Sure enough, Ashley’s fast asleep on the bed to her immediate right, her blood-stained clothing replaced with a crisp hospital gown.
“And Jess?” Her elbows dig into the mattress as she heaves herself up with assistance from Matt. She leans on the headboard with a groan, face crumpling in pain and, fuck, why does my back hurt so bad?
“Stable,” he says. “They had to operate on her since she fractured her rib and foot. Said I did a good at assisting her back to the lodge – or what was left of it anyway – without rattling her ribcage any further. The broken bone would’ve punctured her lung.”
“That’s…”
“Yeah.”
There’s another stretch of silence. It’s tense and sad and really fucking uncomfortable. Matt sighs, heads over to his bed – right across hers, sheets crumpled up, a folded and unused hospital gown by the foot of it – and picks up an unopened bottle of water on the bureau. He twists the cap open and hands the drink to Sam who takes it without hesitation. Grateful, she smiles at him before taking a swig.
“W-when did we get here?” she inquires. There’s a total of six beds in the ward, three lined up against the wall on each side of the room with the same white sheets bathed in that familiar hospital scent. The bed to her left is undisturbed, the one to the right of Matt’s laden with bags upon bags of clothes – Em’s parents must’ve been here. “And where’s—”
Chris and Mike.
Her meltdown at Mount Washington suddenly replays in her mind – she remembers crying and begging and hating Michael Munroe for being a coward – and she freezes, various emotions crossing her tired features all at once. Anger, hurt, confusion, regret, guilt. Her thoughts start hurtling like a bullet train speeding towards a chasm at a hundred miles an hour, repeating the same sentence over and over again: He’s not here, he’s not safe, he’s not gonna be okay, he’s not here he’s not safe he’s not gonna be okay not here not safe not gonna be okay.
Josh.
“Fuck,” she grumbles, breath shuddering, head pulsating. She fingers the hospital bracelet bearing her name and age clasped around her left wrist, trying to steady her breathing and blinking the tears welling up in her eyes away. Angry, hurt, confused, regretful, guilty.
“She’s over there.”
Emily marches into the room with two doctors hot on her heels, bearing clipboards and stethoscopes and other medical paraphernalia Sam doesn’t care enough about to know what they’re called and used for. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t know when she ceased to give a fuck as the doctors instruct her to lie back down, inhale and exhale slowly.
She bites back a scream when they say she’ll have to stay in this dim, depressing ward for two more days for further observations. Knowing all of them have to stay for 48 more hours in the hospital does nothing to comfort her, not when she knows they’ll all be waking up screaming and thrashing around in cold sweat at some point in the night from a nightmare so vivid and horrific. Sam’s not looking forward to hearing Ashley’s shrieks or Emily’s sobs or Matt’s pillow-muffled cries.
“…and that’s about it,” Dr. Koffman – as what the engraving in her gold name tag says – concludes, ticking off some things on her clipboard. “We’ll come back in six hours to check on you again. Your meal will be here in half an hour. In the meantime, get some rest, Samantha.”
Sam nods, groaning as she shifts to her side and throws the covers over her heard, listening to the rhythmic tapping of footsteps on the tiled floor. She hears the door close, a long, deep sigh from Emily, a bed creaking under its occupant’s weight. Sleep comes fast and her eyes flutter close within seconds, and Sam doesn’t really dwell on the doctor’s words too much even though they repeat in her head like a broken record: The Washington boy’s gonna be okay.