Chapter 13: The Last Stand
The world was cold mud, crushing weight, and the terrifying absence of air. Kate’s vision tunneled, the moon and the killer’s ruined face blurring into smears of grey and red. The roaring in her ears drowned everything except the frantic, useless hammering of her own slowing heart against ribs that felt like they were collapsing. His fingers were iron bands, grinding cartilage, shutting down the world. Her hands lay limp in the freezing mud. The knife glinted, impossibly far. Jace… The thought was a spark, dying.
The cold bite of the water had shocked Jace into a semblance of consciousness. He surfaced coughing, retching foul lake water, his shoulder a sheet of white fire where Kate had torn it open. Pain grounded him. He blinked, disoriented, head pounding, the world tilting. He was clinging to a piling near the boathouse entrance, the dark water lapping at his chin.
Then it cut through the fog – a scream. Raw, primal, echoing across the still lake. Kate’s scream. The sound drilled into his skull, colder than the water.
He forced his head up, water streaming from his hair, stinging his eyes. Down the narrow, rocky shoreline. Moonlight glinted on pale skin. Kate. Flat on her back in the mud. And the killer, a monstrous silhouette hunched over her, one hand locked around her throat, pinning her down. Even from thirty feet away, Jace saw the terrifying stillness settling over her struggling limbs.
"No." The word was a guttural rasp, torn from a throat raw from lake water and screaming. It wasn’t denial. It was ignition.
Adrenaline, thick and sour, flooded his veins, burning through the numbness, the pain a distant throb under the sudden, desperate urgency. Move! His boots found slimy purchase on the lakebed. He shoved off the piling, stumbling forward through the thigh-deep water towards the shore. Each step was agony, his wounded shoulder sending jolts down his arm, his waterlogged clothes dragging like lead weights. He fell onto his hands and knees in the shallows, crawling, scrambling, gasping. The killer hadn't looked up. Engrossed. Triumphant.
Jace lurched onto solid ground, the mud sucking at his boots. He needed a weapon. Anything. His gaze swept the shoreline – rocks, mud, reeds. Useless. Then it hit him. Not a smell he’d consciously registered before, overwhelmed by decay and lake stink, but sharp and acrid beneath it all. Gasoline. Stronger here, away from the water. His eyes snapped to the boathouse wall nearby. Leaking from a rusted can? Spilled from an old outboard motor long gone? Didn’t matter. It was here. It was fuel.
The killer shifted his weight, leaning harder over Kate. Her legs gave one final, weak twitch. Her hands lay utterly still.
Jace didn't think. He moved. On hands and knees, ignoring the screaming protest from his shoulder, he scrambled towards the source of the smell. A dark, viscous stain on the muddy ground near the rotting wall. He scooped frantic handfuls of the gasoline-saturated mud. It stung his cuts, reeked in his nostrils. He lurched to his feet, staggering the last few yards towards the tableau of murder.
The killer sensed him then. His head snapped up, the single good eye widening in surprise, then narrowing in rage. He didn’t release Kate’s throat. Just tightened his grip, his other hand lifting, maybe to fend Jace off, maybe to reach for the discarded knife.
Jace was already lunging. He flung the handfuls of reeking, muddy gasoline straight into the killer’s face and chest. It splattered across the ruined features, into the open eye, soaked into the dark jacket.
"Hey, fuckface!" Jace roared, his voice raw and cracking, but loud enough to shatter the killer’s focus.
The killer roared back, a sound of pure fury and sudden, stinging pain, reflexively releasing Kate’s throat to claw at his burning eye. Kate sucked in a ragged, whistling gasp, her body convulsing, but she didn’t move. Alive. Barely.
Jace didn't stop. His fingers, trembling violently, fumbled at the soaked pocket of his leather jacket. Please… His battered Zippo. Cold, wet, but hopefully sealed. He flipped it open with his thumb. Scraped the wheel.
Nothing.
The killer wiped gasoline from his good eye, murder blazing in it. He saw the lighter. Saw Jace’s desperation. A grimace that might have been a smile split his broken face. He started to rise, shifting his weight off Kate, reaching for Jace.
Jace scraped the flint wheel again. Harder. A spark flew. Died.
He stumbled back a step, fingers slick with gas and mud, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The killer took a step towards him, mud squelching under his heavy boot.
Jace scraped a third time. A tiny, persistent flame flickered to life in the cup of the lighter. Small. Fragile. Precious.
The killer paused, the flame reflected in his good eye. Recognition. Fear. He lunged.
Jace didn't aim. He threw the lighter, flame and all, straight at the killer’s gasoline-soaked chest.
Click. A tiny sound.
Whoomph.
The fire didn't just ignite; it erupted. A sudden, violent bloom of orange and yellow engulfed the killer’s torso and head. Fire clung to the gasoline-saturated mud on his jacket, his face, his hair. He screamed – a sound unlike anything Jace had ever heard, high-pitched, animal, full of pure, unadulterated agony. He staggered back, arms flailing wildly, beating at the flames that only spread, consuming the fuel.
The smell hit Jace instantly – burning fuel, burning leather, burning hair. Acrid, choking. The killer reeled, a human torch silhouetted against the dark lake, his screams tearing the night apart. He stumbled blindly, crashing into the rotting wood of the boathouse wall. Dry, ancient timber. Paint blistered. A tendril of flame caught a splintered board.
Jace didn’t watch. He dropped to his knees beside Kate. She was breathing, shallow, wet gasps, her eyes half-open but unseeing, glazed with shock. Blood, shockingly dark and wet, pulsed sluggishly from the wound below her ribs, soaking her grey shirt, mingling with the mud. Her throat was already bruising, deep purple finger marks stark against her pale skin. Her septum ring caught the flickering light from the burning man.
"Kate! Kate, look at me!" Jace rasped, his own hands shaking as he pressed them frantically over the stab wound. The warmth of her blood seeped through his fingers. Too much. Too fast. "Stay with me, come on!"
Her eyelids fluttered. A faint moan escaped her cracked lips.
Behind him, the screams had dissolved into horrific, wet gurgles. The fire at the boathouse wall had found purchase. Flames began to snake upwards, crackling hungrily on the dry, tinder-like wood. The light grew, casting long, dancing shadows across the muddy shore.
The burning figure by the wall collapsed, twitching violently, then lay still, a dark shape wreathed in flame. The fire began to spread faster along the boathouse wall, the ancient wood groaning as it caught. The acrid smoke stung Jace’s eyes, filled his lungs.
He couldn’t stay. Couldn’t fight the fire. Couldn't help the killer. He had to get Kate out. Now.
"Hold on, Kate. Just hold on," he muttered, the words tasting like ash. He hooked his good arm under her shoulders, ignoring the white-hot agony that flared in his own wounded shoulder as he tried to lift her. She cried out, a weak, broken sound, her body limp and heavy. Dead weight. The movement made fresh blood well between his fingers.
He couldn't carry her. Not far. Not like this. His gaze darted wildly. The fire was climbing the boathouse wall, illuminating the cracked ribs of the structure, the dark water beyond it. And then he saw it. Tucked deeper into the collapsing structure, partly hidden by shadows and weeds, but untouched by the flames… yet.
A boat. An old, wooden rowboat, paint peeling, half-filled with murky water, but seemingly intact. Their only chance.
Smoke billowed, thick and choking. The heat intensified. Time was burning away. Jace gritted his teeth against the pain radiating from his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Kate, under her shoulders and knees, pulling her against his chest. Her head lolled against his neck. Her breath was a faint, wet whisper against his skin.
He took a staggering step towards the water, towards the boat, Kate bleeding in his arms, the inferno at his back painting the night in hellish shades of orange and black. The rotting boathouse groaned again, a deep, protesting sigh as the flames devoured it. Embers rained down around them like fiery snow.
He took another step. The mud sucked at his boots. Kate murmured something incoherent, her body trembling violently against his. He adjusted his grip, the movement sending fresh waves of agony through his torn shoulder. He could feel the blood – hers, maybe his own – soaking through his clothes.
The boat was ten feet away, across shallow water slick with weeds. The heat from the fire pressed against his back. Was the killer truly dead? The thought was fleeting, irrelevant now. Survival was the only imperative.
He waded into the freezing water, holding Kate clear, stumbling towards the dark shape of the boat. The fire roared behind him, consuming the night, casting their desperate, blood-soaked flight into stark, flickering relief. He reached the boat, its weathered wood cold under his searching hand. Half-full of stagnant water, but floating. He had to get her in. Had to get them both in. Had to get away before the whole rotten structure collapsed or the flames found the fuel-soaked ground near the killer's body.
He lowered Kate towards the gunwale, his arms screaming, the world narrowing to the feel of her fragile weight, the roar of the fire, and the cold, dark water rising around his thighs.
The rotted wood of the gunwale scraped against Kate's hip as Jace heaved her limp form over the side. She landed with a sickening, wet thud in the bilge water, her head lolling against the damp ribs of the boat. "Stay with me, Kate, stay," he gasped, the words shredded by smoke and effort. He clambered in after her, the shallow water inside sloshing crimson around his knees, the old wood groaning under his weight.
He grabbed the single, splintered oar lying in the bottom. Shoving it against the collapsing dock with every ounce of failing strength in his good arm, he pushed them backward into darker water. The fire roared behind them, a hungry beast devouring the boathouse skeleton. Flames licked at the night sky, throwing monstrous, dancing shadows on the churning water. Embers rained down like malevolent fireflies, hissing where they struck the lake’s surface near the boat.
Kate lay curled on her side in the foul water pooling in the bottom of the skiff. Her face, illuminated by the inferno, grew frighteningly paler beneath the streaks of mud and blood. It lulled weakly to the side, pressed against the cold wood. Her breathing was a terrifyingly shallow flutter, barely visible under the torn, blood-soaked fabric of her shirt. The small tattoo on her inner right arm, a faded constellation, was stark against skin like chalk.
"Come on, Kate, breathe," Jace pleaded, desperation clawing at his throat as he fumbled with the oar, trying to steer them further out. "Just fucking breathe." His own shoulder screamed with each awkward stroke, the torn muscle sending nauseating jolts down his arm. The coppery tang of her blood mixed with the stench of burning wood and something unspeakably organic from the killer’s pyre.
A colossal groan echoed across the water, deeper than the fire’s roar. He looked back. The central beam of the boathouse roof sagged, consumed from within. Flames shot through gaping holes in the walls. The entire structure shuddered, groaning like a dying leviathan. Timbers snapped like gunshots.
It was collapsing. Now.
He dropped the oar, lunging forward to shield Kate with his body as best he could amidst the filthy water. He curled over her, bracing against the boat's ribs. A thunderous crash split the night. The boathouse folded in on itself with a roar of splintering timber and a massive gout of sparks and smoke. Debris rained into the water around them – burning planks, shingles, chunks of rotting wood. The shockwave rocked the small boat violently.
Water sloshed over the gunwales. Jace clutched Kate tighter, gritting his teeth as the cold lake drenched them anew. The sudden darkness, as the main fire collapsed inward, felt almost heavier than the light. Only the flickering glow from the burning wreckage and the smaller, stubborn flames clinging to the killer’s still-smoldering shape on the shore remained. The heat lessened as the wreckage settled, replaced by the choking pall of smoke hanging low over the water.
He was out. They were out. Barely. The boat drifted aimlessly, caught in the small currents stirred by the collapsing structure. Kate lay horrifyingly still in his arms, her breath a ghost against his neck. Her eyes were closed. The flickering light caught the silver of her septum ring, a tiny, cold point of light.
"Kate?" His voice cracked. He pressed trembling fingers against the pulsing wound below her ribs. Still bleeding. Too much. The freezing water in the boat soaked through his jeans, chilling him to the bone, mirroring the ice spreading through his chest. He scanned the dark shoreline, the burning ruin, the lake stretching into blackness. No other boats. No lights. Just them, adrift in the bloody water. "Hold on," he whispered, the words tasting like ash. "Just hold on." He dragged the oar closer, his wet, numb fingers struggling to grip the slippery wood. Where? He needed to get her somewhere. Now.
The oar felt like lead in Jace’s one functioning hand, the splintered wood biting into his palm already raw from the fire and the fight. Each clumsy stroke sent jagged sparks of agony radiating from his ruined shoulder, threatening to buckle his arm entirely. He kept his eyes fixed on the faint, wavering yellow light Kate had mumbled about before slipping back into silence – a smudge of hope against the vast, indifferent blackness of the lake, the only thing holding his own panic at bay.
"See it?" he rasped, his voice shredded and thin over the slap of water against the hull. "That light? Keep looking at it, Kate." He needed her to stay anchored, even if she couldn’t answer. Her stillness was terrifying, a deeper chill than the lake water sloshing around their legs.
No response. Only the shallow, wet rattle of her breath. He adjusted his grip, knuckles white, and pulled again. The boat inched forward. The acrid smell of smoke still clung to them, layered over the metallic tang of blood and the lake’s damp decay. Behind them, the burning boathouse was a shrinking pyre, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced wildly on the water before finally being swallowed by the distance. The killer’s dark shape was just another piece of wreckage now.
He rowed. Minutes bled into an agonizing blur defined only by pain, the rhythmic splash of the oar, and the terrifyingly faint sound of Kate fighting for air. His vision swam, dark spots blooming at the edges from exertion and blood loss. He focused on the light. It seemed no closer. He remembered her quiet intensity in the bookstore aisle, the way her fingers traced a spine embossed with occult symbols, unaware of his gaze. That felt like a lifetime ago, before this blood-soaked night.
Another stroke. His shoulder shrieked. Something gave, a tendon or a fragment of bone grinding, and a choked sob escaped him. He dropped the oar, clutching his arm, gasping as the boat drifted. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." The curse was a ragged whisper against the vast silence. Kate stirred weakly, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her voice was a ghost of sound, barely there.
He snapped his head towards her, hope flaring sharp and painful. "Kate? Hey. Yeah, it's me. We're almost there." He scrabbled for the oar, forcing his trembling fingers back around it. The light was closer now, resolving into the shape of a small, weathered cabin perched precariously close to the water’s edge, a single window glowing softly. Salvation looked like a shack. "See? Cabin. Gonna get you warm."
He rowed with renewed, desperate energy, ignoring the white-hot fire in his shoulder, the way his muscles trembled like over-tuned wires. They bumped against something solid – submerged rocks or a rotting dock. He fumbled, nearly losing the oar again. Shallow water now. He could see the dark line of the shore.
Abandoning the oar, he slid over the side into the icy shallows, the shock jolting him fully alert. The mud sucked greedily at his boots. He leaned back into the boat, hooking his good arm under Kate’s shoulders. "Gotta move, Kate. Now." She whimpered as he pulled, a sound that cut him deeper than the knife ever could. "I know, I know, hurts. Almost there."
He dragged her out of the boat, her legs trailing uselessly in the water. Her weight was immense, pulling at his injuries, threatening to send them both sprawling back into the freezing depths. He stumbled, fell to one knee in the shallows, water surging up to his waist, Kate a dead weight against his chest. He could see the cabin door now, maybe thirty feet up a rocky, weed-choked incline. Thirty feet felt like miles.
"Come on, Hayes," he growled to himself, the words tasting of blood and lake water. He heaved them both upright, locking his knees. One step. Then another. The mud released his boot with a sucking gasp. The wound in Kate’s side brushed against his arm; fresh warmth bloomed against his soaked sleeve. Her head lolled against his shoulder. He focused on the yellow glow spilling from the cabin window, a beacon in the suffocating darkness.
They reached the rough, uneven ground beyond the waterline. He staggered, nearly falling again, his breath sawing in his chest. He adjusted his grip on Kate, shifting her higher, her cold cheek pressed against his neck. Just the slope now. Jagged rocks bit into his soaked boots. He could smell woodsmoke from the cabin chimney, a mundane, almost cruel counterpoint to the reek of blood and burnt flesh they carried with them.
His foot caught on a root. He pitched forward, throwing his weight back desperately to avoid crushing Kate, landing hard on his side on the rocky ground. Kate cried out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed horribly in the stillness. He lay there for a second, gasping, the cold earth leaching what little warmth he had left, staring up at the indifferent stars. Kate’s breathing hitched, wet and shallow beside him.
"Get up," he whispered, the command aimed at his own failing body. "Get. Up." He rolled onto his knees, ignoring the grinding pain everywhere, and hauled Kate towards him again. He got one foot under him, then the other, swaying like a drunk. The cabin door seemed impossibly far, yet tantalizingly close. He took a step. Then another. Gravity fought him.
He reached the small, rickety porch. The single wooden step groaned under their combined weight. He stumbled against the doorframe, the rough wood scraping his cheek. He raised a shaking, blood-smeared fist and hammered against the door, the sound unnaturally loud in the predawn hush. Once. Twice. He slumped against the frame, holding Kate upright only through sheer, trembling will, his vision tunnelling. The yellow light from the window spilled onto Kate’s pale, blood-streaked face, glinting dully off her septum ring. He heard movement inside, a shuffle, the scrape of a chair.