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It all happened in less than a second, and suddenly the monster lunged at Ella with outstretched arms. She squeezed the trigger, firing off a deafening gun blast that heralded the smashing of glass. The killer knocked her wrist to one side, and so Ella’s bullet had flew off to the side, breaking the structural support of one of the cabinets. Glass shattered, raining shards as horror relics scattered across the floor. Ella struggled to keep her footing on the slick, polished ground now littered with broken glass and scattered props, and the gun flung from her hand, across the room, out of sight.
The monster was upon her, having withdrew a butcher’s knife from his apron and was now slashing wildly at the air. Ella toppled backward, away from the attacks, narrowly avoiding swipes to her abdomen.
The final game was on, she told herself. It ended here on this film set, and she was going to ensure the good guys won.
Ella backed herself into a corner – something her FBI trainer would have killed her for. Searching for an advantage, she grabbed one of the mannequins and shoved it at the masked murderer. He swatted it aside easily, but it bought Ella a crucial moment to scramble to her feet and seize Kirsty Cotton's figure next, throwing it in his path. This was followed swiftly by Ginny Field's, each one creating a temporary barrier between her and the killer's frenzied advances.
The next few moments were a cacophony of grunts, glass shattering, and the hollow thuds of the mannequins as they met the floor. Seizing a moment of opportunity, Ella lunged for a mock-weapon from one of the displays – a chainsaw prop that looked all too real. As she gripped the handle, to her surprise, she felt the familiar purr of an engine.
It wasn't a prop. It was real. She pulled the starter cord, and the chainsaw roared to life, its serrated chain gleaming.
If this guy – whoever he was – wanted a climactic ending, he was going to get it.
Ella steadied herself, her grip tightening on the chainsaw's handle. She swung it, creating a buffer zone between her and the assailant. The blade gnashed through the air mere inches from his mask, and he stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding Ella’s attacks.
Tables turned. Ella pressed forward, using the chainsaw's menacing hum to drive the killer back. The hunter now became the hunted. Every step she took, he retreated two, desperate to avoid the relentless advance of the whirling blade. He took long strides backward, pulling down glass cabinet in his wake as Ella stormed across a glass runway towards her target.
Ella's heart thudded loudly in her chest, resonating with the roar of the chainsaw. Each slash she made with it was a measured assault, her muscles straining with the weight and the kickback of the machine. The smell of gasoline mixed with the acrid stench of sweat, filling the air as Ella's arms ached from the vibration. Her every movement was met with the unyielding resistance of the chainsaw, but she pressed on, determined to end the nightmare.
Every swing, every lunge, made the chainsaw's chain bite the air, the sharp teeth cutting through the thick tension. The raw power of the tool reverberated through her bones, giving her an adrenaline surge that numbed the pain and fatigue. The room echoed with the clash of metal on metal, the roar of the chainsaw, and the screech of glass underfoot. Ella's feet moved in a dance of desperation, each step meticulously calculated to maintain her advantage. Her balance was constantly tested as she navigated the debris, her boots occasionally sliding on shards of glass and slick patches of fluid from the broken displays.
Then, the killer reached a dead end. He was cornered against the wall, chainsaw-wielding Final Girl blocking his exit. She knew that she wouldn't be able to talk the man into backing down, and so far, he'd remained perfectly silent – not even a grunt of rage.
Ella raised her chainsaw high, searching for any emotion in those hollow eyes behind the mask. She saw none, and made the only decision she could.
‘I take no pleasure in killing,’ she said, channeling her inner Leatherface. ‘but there’s just some things you gotta do.’
The killer became frenzied, arms out, desperate for a way out. Then, right as Ella was about to cut the man, weaken him, subdue him – the revs of the chainsaw died out.
Ella glanced at her weapon, pulled the cord again, tried to shake it back to life.
Dead.
The brief pause was all the killer needed. He lunged at Ella, his butcher’s knife at the helm. Ella threw her dead chainsaw in his direction, but the man elbowed it out of the way as he thrust his blade towards Ella’s stomach. She sidestepped, landed a knee to his midsection and took the opportunity to take him off his feet. She swept her foot around to the back of his legs as she pushed him down, sending the masked man down to the glassy floor spine-first.
His frantic attacks persisted, but Ella managed to clutch his wrist and drop her knee down into his stomach. She was on top of him, controlling the battle, breathing ragged but her eyes filled with a fiery resolve. She was ready to end this nightmarish game.
With her free hand, Ella reached for her cuffs, but in the brief second it took for her to summon her strength, the killer's eyes - dark voids behind his mask - darted around rapidly, seeking an advantage.
Using a sudden burst of strength and the element of surprise, he twisted his wrist out of her grasp. Ella barely had time to register the movement when she felt the piercing pain in her arm. The cold steel of his blade had found its mark, sinking deep into her flesh. Blood immediately welled up around the wound, soaking her sleeve and dripping onto the killer’s dirty apron.
The pain seared through Ella's arm, her muscles reacting instinctively by contracting. The split-second lapse in her strength and attention was all the killer needed. With a powerful surge, he bucked his hips and thrust his shoulder upward, leveraging Ella off him. In a tangle of limbs and a whirl of movement, the positions were suddenly reversed. Ella found herself on her back, her bloodied arm throbbing in agony. And cold glass shards pressed to her skin.
The masked murderer loomed over her, his ominous leather mask evoking memories of the slasher films Ella once loved. His breathing, rapid and deep, suggested he felt nothing but exhilaration in the moment. The butcher's knife, now slick with Ella's blood, reflected orange beams of light as he summoned it high.
Numbed by the pain, Ella concluded she couldn’t overpower him in her current state. Any attempts to block would be futile.
Physicality was out of the window.
That meant she needed to use the mental approach.
‘We know you’re not Harry Faulkner,’ Ella spat. ‘He’s safe, innocent. You won’t get away with this.’
The masked man froze, then shoved one hand around Ella’s neck.
If she destroyed his ego, she could destroy him.
‘Slasher villains always lose in the end,’ she laughed. ‘Michael, Jason, Jigsaw, all of them. Dead.’
