Page 4 of Delicious

He’s holding afucking chainsaw.

Chapter

Three

Without realizing what I’m doing, I jerk away from the man behind me and the weapon he holds. It’s like something out of a horror movie, and with my eyes glued on the chainsaw, I don’t stop until I’m off the trail and sitting in wet grass that seeps water into the fabric of my shirt and pants.

Oh, my god.The thought circles in my head over and over again, not letting any logic come through, no matter how I try to think of something—anything—else.

Fingers wrap around my arm, and the chainsaw man’s face contorts into frustrated disbelief as I’m jerked painfully to my feet, a yelp leaving my lips before I can stop it. “Kill her,” the man hisses, the tremor obvious in his voice. “Just killher. Anyone will do for you, right?”

“What?" I whirl toward him, eyes wide in the darkness and the stark light cast from my phone in his hand. “How dare you?—”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he goes on, his eyes glued to the blond man’s. I realize, finally, that the dark stains on his face are a mixof mud and blood, mostly the latter, and recoil from his bloody hands that clutch at my arms. “Just kill her instead, and?—”

I kick him. Hard enough that his knee buckles and he nearly goes down. The grip on my arms slackens, and I try to pull away, only for his hands to tighten again.

“Stupid little girl,” he snarls, nails digging like knives into my skin. “What the fuck is wrong with you,huh?”His eyes roll wildly, and blood stains his teeth when he bares them at me, shaking me in his grip like a dog. “C’mon,” he cajoles, attention back on our impassive audience member. “She’s a much better victim than me. Even you can see that, right?”

“You’re actually trying to bargain getting out of this by sacrificing someone else?” I whisper, not looking back at the armed man. I can’t. I don’t have the guts to do it; I’m too afraid of what I’ll see.

I’m afraid he’s going to take this crazy man up on his suggestion. The bloodied man shakes me again, harder this time, sneering at me as he replies, “Yeah. You’d do the same if you weren’t such a fucking wimp. You think I want to be cut up by that?” I don’t need to follow his nod to know he’s gesturing toward the weapon in the man’s hands.

I don’t want to be cut up by it either. God, I want anythingbutthat, but with my heart pounding in my chest so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape, I have no idea what to do except kick the man again.

So I do.

This time he shoves me, harder than I would’ve thought possible for someone in his condition. My knees buckle and I stumble, feet finding an uneven place on the ground before I slam down onto the hard-packed earth once again on my hands and knees. My scraped up palms burn, and this time my knees join in on the fun.

But more importantly, my camera hadn’t escaped impact this time. The lens cap pops off as I gasp, hand darting out to search for the rolling, elusive cap like that’s the most important thing right now.

But to my fragmented, confused brain, it is. I can’t afford another camera. Hell, I’m still paying off this one, and I need it for my job.

When beat up sneakers appear in my vision, however, my shaky breathing stops and I stare at them, too terrified to look up. I can’t. If this is how I die, by the hands of a chainsaw-wielding crazy person, I can’t look.

Ican’t.

But then he kneels, and one hand comes up in front of him to show me the lens cap I’d stupidly been looking for. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing it to my fingers where I clutch it on reflex. “But I’m sorry you got involved in this.” A rueful smile crosses his face, though I can only see bits of it in the darkness. “That’s why I hoped you’d left before the sun went down.”

I don’t answer. My eyes dart down to his other hand, the one still holding onto the chainsaw, and I swear his smile turns…almost shy.

All I can really do is look from him to the lens cap, and I watch as he looks me over, as if searching for some sign. Then he leans forward, our faces close enough that I can feel his breath ghost against my skin.

I need to run.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his free hand coming up, then falling.

He doesn’t need to know my name. I shouldn’t tell the man who’s probably going to murder me anything. But before I can stop myself, my lips form the familiar syllables and I’m whispering, “Saylor,” into the air between us.

“Close your eyes, Saylor. No matter what you hear.” He reaches out, his knuckles brushing the skin of my cheek so softly I can barely feel it. “You won’t like what comes next.”

He’s going to kill me. And yet, even though that thought is clear in my head, my legs are paralyzed. My palm feels glued to the dirt, and I watch him stand in front of me, a sigh leaving his lips when he does. With a numb, detached feeling, I wait for him to do it. I wait for him to lift the chainsaw, pull the cord, and start cutting me into pieces as easily as if I were just a bunch of wood.

“It’s rude of you to involve someone else in this,” he tells the man who, for some reason, hadn’t run away while he had the chance. I turn around when the man with the chainsaw strides past me, still holding the terrifying weapon loosely in his grip, like it’s nothing more than a toy. “It’s rude. You’ve ruined her night.”

With my phone light pointed downward, towards the other man’s legs, I finally see why he isn’t running. There are cuts along his thighs, probably from the chainsaw, and blood drips to the ground, soaking the leg of his pants all around his left ankle.

From the way he’s standing, he can barely manage that much. My assumptions are proven right when he moves, trying to take off again, and his leg crumples under him. He can’t run any more than I can, but for him, it’s nothing to do with the fear I can see in his face and in the sweat beading on his skin.

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