Page 121 of Primal

My ribs scream every time I breathe.

But pain’s merely noise. I’ve been counting Derek’s steps, Pigface’s tells, the exact distance to that scythe near the altar—because when this goes down, I only need one opening.

For now? I let my shoulders slump. Let Derek think I’m half-dead already.

I shift, just enough to brush Payton’s arm. A signal. I’m still here. Still counting.

What’s the alternative? A zip-tied suicide charge? Yeah, that’d end with my brains on the pews—and Payton’s throat slit before I hit the ground.

Not happening.

I scan the chapel again—same exits, same bodies, same dead ends.

“Thirteen …” Derek’s knife drags along the pew. “And thirty-one. Perfect.”

Just numbers. Like inmates.

Payton stiffens beside me. I don’t look at her. Can’t. If I do, I’ll lose the cold focus keeping us alive.

Derek’s knife scrapes the pew again—that same nails-on-chalkboard whine—and for half a second, I’m back in my sagging couch, nine hours ago, Max’s sneakers kicking my thigh as he channel-surfed past some slasher flick.

‘You gonna hang out with me in the garage later or brood in your cave like Batman?’

I was watching through the window. Watching Payton carry the backpack to her car, wearing that ridiculous ‘Property of Ghostface’ hoodie and a fuck-me denim skirt.

‘Not my scene.’

Max, sighing like I kicked a puppy. ‘Boring.’

Now? I’d take boring. I’d take the smell of Cool Ranch instead of blood and piss. A thousand nights of microwaved dinners and Payton’s shitty playlist blaring through the feed over this—Pigface’s snuffling behind me, Derek’s knife hovering near Payton’s knee like he’s deciding where to carve first.

The bastard gestures with his blade. “Up.”

Payton moves first, chin high even as her fingers flex against the zip ties. I follow close enough that our shoulders brush—a silent I’m here—and take stock of the carnage.

The dead keep watch from their pews.

Mia in the front row, the antler headdress tilted at that same reckless angle when she made her last stand. Her remaining eye stares ahead, fixed on some distant point beyond this hell.

Eight gone. Seven of us still breathing. And we’re far from done.

Derek gestures to the altar. “Let’s give the audience something to remember.”

Pigface—Amanda, whatever the fuck we’re calling her now—shoves Payton forward.

The scythe leaning against the altar is four steps away. Two if I’m fast enough. Zero if I die trying.

Only one shot. Make it count.

Derek fists a handful of Payton’s hair, yanking her toward Mia’s corpse. “See what happens to girls who play hero?”

She glares up at him. “I see what happens to cowards who need masks.”

The taser prongs hover behind me—close enough to feel the static lifting the hairs at my nape. Amanda. Right.

If I dive for the scythe, can I reach it and use it in time?

Not without Payton paying the price.