Chapter 7: Chapter 7: The Last Stand of the Wild Child

The morning after Nicole’s confession dawned gray and unnaturally still, as if the sky itself was holding its breath. The three girls and Nicole sat in the bunkhouse, a tableau of grim resignation. Nicole hadn’t slept. She had spent the night staring at the ceiling, waiting. The secret was out, a poison gas released into the air, and she knew the town would answer. Her confession hadn't been an act of rebellion; it was suicide by truth.

Ash watched her, a hollow ache in her chest. She saw the full, tragic scope of Nicole’s life—a lamb raised in a wolf’s den, taught to fear the other sheep. Every timid glance, every stammered apology, was now cast in the horrifying light of truth. She hadn't been weak; she had been tormented.

Mary Beth was a different story. The raw, unfiltered horror of the truth had burned away her fear, leaving behind a core of pure, incandescent rage. She paced the length of the small bunkhouse like a caged tiger, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

“So we just sit here?” she hissed, her voice a low growl. “We just wait for that smiling psycho to come and collect her? To come for us next? No. No way. I’m not dying on my knees so some… some thing in the ground can have a good meal.”

Her words hung in the air, a declaration of war against an enemy they couldn’t see. But how could they fight? They were surrounded, trapped in a place where the rules were written by a malevolent god.

It was mid-morning when the change happened.

The usual routine was broken. There was no booming “Morning, campers!” from Peter. No assignments to scrub, paint, or clear. The camp was utterly silent. Ash crept to the window, peering out. The clearing was empty. The door to the main lodge hung slightly ajar. The infirmary, where Grant had been locked away, was a silent, windowless box. Peter’s small cabin was dark.

“Where is everyone?” Ash whispered.

“It’s a trap,” Nicole said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “This is the part of the game where they give the prey a head start. It makes the hunt more exciting for them.”

Mary Beth stopped pacing. A wild, dangerous light sparked in her eyes. “A head start is still a head start,” she said, her voice dropping. “Trap or not, it’s an open door. It’s the only one we’re ever going to get.”

She looked at Ash, then at Ginger, who stood near the door, her headphones off, her face an unreadable mask of concentration. The question hung unspoken between them. Do we take the bait?

“She’s right,” Ash said, her heart pounding a frantic, terrifying rhythm against her ribs. She looked at Nicole, who was still sitting on her bunk, resigned to her fate. “Nicole. Come with us.”

“There’s no point,” Nicole whispered. “They’ll find me. They’ll find all of us.”

Ash crossed the room and grabbed Nicole’s arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Maybe. But you’re not going to let them have you for free. You told us the truth. Don’t let that be for nothing. You make them work for it. You make them hunt.”

For the first time since her confession, a flicker of something other than despair appeared in Nicole’s eyes. A tiny, defiant ember. She looked at Ash, at Mary Beth’s furious determination, at Ginger’s silent resolve. Slowly, she stood up.

Their plan, if it could be called that, was brutally simple: run. Run for the main gate, for the gravel road that led away from Camp Blackwood, and never look back.

They burst out of the bunkhouse, their feet pounding on the packed earth of the clearing. The silence was deafening. The empty camp felt like a stage, the towering pines like an audience of silent, judging giants. The air was cold, heavy with anticipation. Every sense was screaming trap. They ran past the mess hall, past the cold fire pit where they had summoned Grinny Grin, past the archery range with its rotting targets. The main gate was a hundred yards away, a promise of freedom that seemed to recede with every step they took.

Fifty yards. The sound of their own ragged breathing was loud in the silence.

Forty yards. A crow cawed from a high branch, a sound like a starting pistol.

Thirty yards. The main lodge door, which had been ajar, swung open with a loud, deliberate creak.

Peter stepped out onto the porch.

The jolly camp counselor was gone. The mask had not just slipped; it had been incinerated, leaving behind the true face of the zealot. His smile was still there, but it was a terrifying, ecstatic rictus. His eyes burned with a cold, holy fire. The folksy charm had been replaced by an aura of absolute, murderous authority. And in his right hand, he held an axe. It wasn’t a rusty tool for chopping wood. It was pristine, the steel head gleaming in the pale sunlight, the hickory handle smooth and polished. It was an instrument of sacrifice.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice was no longer booming and cheerful. It was soft, almost gentle, which was infinitely more terrifying. “But the final activity is just about to begin. It’s a town favorite. We call it The Harvest.”

He took a step down from the porch, his movements fluid and unnervingly graceful for a man his size. He was blocking their path to the gate.

“Nicole,” he sighed, a sound of mock disappointment. “You broke the rules. The deepest rule. You tried to spoil the feast. The Entity does not like spoiled food. But it will forgive. It will take you first. An honor.”

He advanced on them, slow, deliberate, savoring the moment. Ash felt her legs turn to lead. This was it. The game was over. They had run right into the slaughtering pen.

But Mary Beth had never been one to follow the script.

While Ash and Nicole were frozen in pure terror, Mary Beth’s eyes darted to the side, to the small, ramshackle tool shed they had been forbidden from entering. Its door was unlocked.

“Ash,” Mary Beth said, her voice suddenly calm, a terrifying stillness at the eye of her personal hurricane. “When I say run, you run. You grab Nicole and you don’t stop. You hear me?”

“Mary Beth, no!” Ash choked out.

Peter was ten yards away now, raising the axe slightly. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, his voice filled with rapture. “To serve a purpose so much greater than yourselves. To become a part of the story.”

“My story ends with me kicking your teeth in,” Mary Beth snarled. In a flash of motion, she spun away from them and sprinted towards the tool shed. She wrenched the door open, disappearing inside for a heart-stopping second.

Peter paused, momentarily confused by this unexpected move. It was all the time she needed.

A deafening, guttural roar ripped through the silence of the camp. Mary Beth emerged from the shed, heaving a heavy, gas-powered chainsaw. She yanked the pull-cord again, and the engine screamed to life, the chain blurring into a circle of vicious, hungry teeth. She held it in front of her, her knuckles white, her face splattered with grease and dirt. Her wild, infectious grin was back, but now it was a terrifying battle snarl.

“RUN, ASH!” she roared over the engine’s scream.

The command shattered Ash’s paralysis. She grabbed Nicole’s arm and yanked her towards the only escape route left: the forest. Ginger was already moving, her silent form a blur of motion at the edge of their vision.

Peter’s ecstatic smile faltered, replaced by a flash of pure fury at this blasphemous defiance. He let out a bellow of rage and charged. But Mary Beth met his charge head-on.

“COME ON THEN, YOU FAT BASTARD!” she screamed, revving the chainsaw. “LET’S SEE WHOSE GOD IS STRONGER TODAY!”

Ash plunged into the treeline, dragging a stumbling, sobbing Nicole behind her. The last thing she saw as she looked back was the explosive, impossible clash: the shining, holy axe of the zealot meeting the screaming, profane teeth of the chainsaw, held in the hands of the wild child who refused to be a sacrifice. It was the last stand of Mary Beth, a final, furious act of defiance against the oppressive, crushing darkness of Sleepy Falls.