Whitney.
His throat is beyond screaming and his mind is beyond crying out. It is just a thought - his only thought for the past six weeks, his only reason for not giving up for the past day.
Whitney.
Screaming, struggling, tearing, bleeding – her mind is so numb, only adrenaline and instinct fuel her actions. But deep down there are two buried, whispering thoughts.
Scratch, rip, blood.
One, I am going to die.
Crunch, break, darkness.
Two, run, Clay, please run.
He heard the crack, head the new silence. But he couldn't let go.
Whitney.
No. Please. Don't. Stop. Anything.
Whitney.
His body flung backwards like a toy. The pain didn't seem to be registering anymore. He could feel the hot, sticky redness but outside of that, nothing.
Whitney.
Clay looked up without fear as the monster lumbered towards him. Then he looked down and snapped.
Whitney was gone. Soon he would be, too.
Kill. Stop. Kill.
Go away. Mine. Stop noise.
Girl dead. Boy now.
… Mommy?
Sweater, burnt – Mommy?
"Yes, Jason. Mommy's back. Don't hurt the boy…too much. Do something for Mommy. Yes, just like Daddy. Do it now, Jason!"
Clay's limbs felt heavy and stiff as if he had been sleeping. Was it over? His eyelids were almost too heavy to open.
Whitney, Whitney, Whitney – he'd open his eyes and see her.
No. No Whitney. Why wasn't he dead? What was the thing doing, standing there? Was he looking at him? Clay couldn't tell. He opened his mouth to shout out, encourage him. Just finish it. Come on. Not even a whisper came out. He had lost the ability to speak, the will, really.
Then, it came closer. He could feel the ground shifting and the chilling presence. Whitney. Soon. So close.
His eyes were closed again and he preferred it that way. Just let it be quick. Like- Like Whitney. Eyes wet, throat dry, Clay was ready. He was ready to sleep.
A cold, wet hand clamped tightly on his shoulder.
Whitney.
It pulled him up roughly and threw Clay back down on the muddy earth, facedown.
Like this. Can't see, can't feel. Please.
His hair was torn at and shoved, his face smearing in the mud. Another hand came down to his hip, brutally cracking something.
He thought about Chewie. The kid had been really funny. All of them had been okay. And now, everyone was gone.
The hand drew back and started fumbling around his hip again, as if searching for something.
Would he see them all again? Were they waiting for him?
It grunted and then ripped down his pants, scratching at the reddened flesh of his side. He must have broken something.
Almost there. Wait for me, guys.
Then more was pulled down and he was completely- Clay coughed on mud as his head was shoved harder down into the ground. A firm weight pressed down onto him, something piercing him.
Whitney.
"No…"