Disclaimer: I don't own The Hills Have Eyes.

Okay! Here's the latest chapter. I totally took a break off of schoolwork to relax and write this. Originally there was going to be a different chapter four, but it felt more like a chapter five, so here this is. I really wanted to write a bit more on Missy before we got back to Lizard and the rest. Anyway, my Chameleon is a bit different than the one we see in the movie. Basically the same beast I wrote in "Sandstorm". Anyway, I really hope that y'all enjoy this chapter and I will try my best to update soon! Thanks so much for the reviews and support from last chapter, I really appreciate it! So, please enjoy!

Edge
Chapter Four: Catacombs

She screamed.

The figure clamped his hand down on her mouth, and she bit as hard as she could, tasting blood. He didn't stop in his movements, though. Whoever this person was, he was adamant in getting her further into the depths of the cave. He had her legs locked in the hold of one of his arms after he had realized that she wouldn't walk along willingly with him.

He cursed at her, but instead of flinging his hand away from her mouth, he pressed his palm tighter into her mouth, as if trying to get her to choke.

Missy released him from her grasp before coughing and hacking. He was crushing her to his chest in a possessive kind of manner. She couldn't escape. For such a lanky, unassuming person, this guy was strong.

She still tried to struggle, though. Some facets of her personality didn't waver when faced with a crisis. She tried kicking him, but he had her securely bound to him. Her arms were pressed into her side. Shrieks tried to escape from her throat but his fucking hand was covering her mouth. Rage enveloped her, almost masking the fright she felt.

Almost.

They weaved through a corridor. She had yet to see his face, but she at least knew he was a man. Missy was shocked at how tightly he held her, possessive to the extreme, almost.

The strangest thing was, these corridors were deserted.

There was no one else in sight. However, it was rather hard to see when being pressed so tightly against another being's chest, their hand muffling your every sound. What was more perplexing was the fact that she was being so easily restrained. It was as if this man, as wiry as he was, had more muscle mass than anyone she remembered encountering. But she knew that wasn't true.

It frustrated her.

The strange tunnels went on for what seemed like forever. Though Missy's limbs grew tired of struggling, she did not falter in her attempts to get this man to let her go.

Somehow, she ended up elbowing him upward, as if she was trying some avant-garde way of giving him the Heimlich. He sputtered and dropped her, the wind knocked out of him. He started coughing, and this was the only chance Missy got.

She sprung to her feet, only a bit wobbly after having been dropped on her backside. Missy started running clumsily, a rare feat for her. She felt the hard-packed dirt against the soles of her boots. Her army jacket was a hindrance, but she couldn't afford the time to get rid of it.

She wouldn't trip, she vowed. She would not be like those girls in horror movies, falling over themselves in attempt to get away from the villain.

Missy made good on her promise. Her strong legs propelled her forward like there was nothing blocking her way. She jumped over large clumps or rocks, dodged fallen beams of wood, crawled underneath a pipe of some sort. There was a puddle of water that she leaped over in a desperate attempt to get away.

She hadn't realized that she had been making an odd, whining noise in the back of her throat and cursed herself. She mustn't show weakness, especially not at a time like this. Missy bit the side of her lip, hating the fact that she allowed those weak sounding whimpers escape her.

She kept running.

Moments passed - they seemed like hours and seconds at the same time, going by so slowly yet as quickly as if someone had blinked. All the passageways looked the same. Dank and dingy, dirty and dark. Everything melded together. In a moment of dizzying horror, she thought she was going in circles.

But that couldn't be…could it?

She was surprised she was able to dodge recapture for this long. A part of her knew what to look for - a bright light, a whiff of fresh air. None of those things greeted her, and she felt her panic begin to rise.

Her legs were starting to tire. How long had she been running? The only sounds she could hear were her boots pounding on the ground and the occasional dripping of water. She hadn't even noticed that the front of her uniform was soaked until she looked down and realized she had stomped through a rather deep puddle that had back-splashed on her.

Her eyes were stinging, but she would not cry. She would not show weakness. She was not a victim. She wouldn't allow herself to be a victim.

"Dammit," she whispered as she turned a particularly sharp corner and banged into the side of a protruding beam. The wood didn't tear through her jacket, but she was certain she would have a hell of a bruise to deal with. Maybe a cut, she thought, feeling a small trickling of liquid down her arm.

Pushing the stinging pain to the back of her mind, she darted ahead, forcing her screaming muscles to be silent. Forcing the fatigue out of her limbs. She knew that she could keep going for as long as she needed, due to her training, but…

How long until she eventually gave out? The human body could only take so much…

It was then she turned a corner and he appeared.

Standing in front of her, the lanky and strangely strong man from before was looking at her as if she were a particularly interesting object. His icy blue eyes were vivid against strange, rocky skin, the texture of the very rocks of the hills. He licked the corner of his mouth, and she saw that his tongue was an unnatural shade. A chill went up and down her spine while a grin fell across his face.

He tilted his head to the side, those strangely calculating eyes seeming to bore right through her, and said one word, simple and unaffected by her stressed state.

"Pretty."

Missy found that her hands were trembling. She balled them into fists. No weakness. No weakness. The mantra she had repeated throughout her marathon through the twists and turns of this odd place was now the only thing she was thinking. She couldn't allow herself to think of how he got in front of her, why he had caught her in the first place, why he hadn't killed her yet…

If the hunger in his eyes was any indication, she didn't want to know.

There was an odd thing about the word, as well. She had expected the person to be hardly literate, someone grunting and groaning random words without knowing their meaning. This man knew what that word meant, and if the look in his eyes was any indication, he knew many more, clearly educated.

Missy turned to run.

He was quicker. Her tired muscles had weakened considerably in the time she had allowed herself the small break. He grasped her wrist, which was his first mistake. She reared back her leg and kneed him in the stomach. The predator let out a sharp exhalation of breath and let her go.

Again, she ran.

This time she didn't get far. The man recovered quickly this time and grasped her ankle, tripping her. A vague sense of déjà vu overwhelmed her as she was dragged back beneath him. She squirmed in his grasp, flipping herself over so that she was face to face with the monster.

He leaned over her, eyes quizzical and curious, yet seeming to stare lewdly at her at the same time.

She contemplated her course of action. What could she do? He had her arms and legs pinned. Spitting? No, that would only piss him off more, and not do any damage in the long run.

Bracing herself, Missy knocked her head against his. There was a hard, smacking sound as their skulls met. Missy herself felt dizzy, but the man released his hold on her arms, using his slender hands to grasp at his forehead. This allowed her time to wriggled out from underneath him - she had only just realized how close their bodies actually had been - and started to stand.

She lurched, feeling the effects of the headbutt on her own body as well. Missy fell forward into a puddle, the murky water splashing over her sweat-covered face, soothing as well as sickening. She started to drag herself forward, digging her blunt nails into the dirt, using her elbows as if they were her last method of escape.

The instinct to flee was strong, so strong that it almost overrode the panicked thought that she didn't know where to flee to.

Missy kicked the side of the man's head with her boot before clawing forward. It was still too quiet. This man couldn't be the only resident here, if her former thoughts and assumptions were correct. There had to be others…there had to be…

"Wait!"

Was that…what was that psycho telling her to wait for?

Missy turned to look back at him, the strange cadence of his voice far from soothing, but instead of looking back at him, her eyes were distracted by something even more sinister looking.

A pair of worn boots had situated themselves right in her line of vision. She tensed. Those were definitely not the feet of the man behind her. She gazed further, studying the boots...army boots? A hysterical sense of hope penetrated her subconscious.

A strange cackling met her ears. It sounded vaguely familiar, like the laughter of the person from before…when she had heard the gunfire…

There was a rustling, shuffling sound from behind her as the other person rose to his feet. Missy looked up at the person stopped in front of her - if this was how it was all going to end, her attacker could at least look her in the face as he killed her.

The creature was grotesque, even more bizarre-looking than the one who had kidnapped her. Bumps and knobby growths adorned his body. He wore army attire, to Missy's shock. It was a mockery of the uniform - she felt her blood boil just by looking at it.

Defiance set in her shoulders, making her muscles feel stronger than they had before. She rose to a crouch, and just as the newcomer was poised to strike at her with a pickaxe, she maneuvered herself to kick in the kneecap of her would-be murderer. The man crumbled, the pickaxe falling to his side.

Weapon, she thought, delirious. Weapon.

But just before her shaky fingers could clasp around it, the only salvation she had was yanked up by the lanky man. The one that wore the army uniform was still on the ground, holding his injured knee.

Missy looked up at him, her eyes feeling far too large and far too frightened. He was going to kill her…of course he was. He was going to murder her and then all of her friends. She rose to her feet, as if to say, "Do it, then," and tried to formulate yet another escape plan.

The lanky man looked odd with the pickaxe in his hands, almost as if he weren't suited for a weapon. In the short time that Missy had been around this guy, it seemed as if he used his stealth and cunning to get things done, not brute force and blunt objects. But the pickaxe was far from blunt, she knew. This was made even more apparent when he took the weapon and placed it - strangely, gently - underneath her chin, lifting her face up so that she could get a better look at him. It was strange, how she hadn't noticed how tall he was until now.

"Do not run," he spoke, and the very tone he used sent shivers down her spine. "You will not run. If you want to survive, you will do as I say."

There was something very serious about his tone, something that Missy knew she should not trifle with. The groaning man on the ground was lifting up his pant leg to examine the damage done to his knee.

"Letch, go do something more productive. She is not yours to have."

"Shut the fuck up," the one revealed as Letch complained. "Kill that bitch! Kill 'er."

"You know that is not an option." The words were weighted with meaning - meaning that Missy didn't want to figure out. "There are plenty others you can amuse yourself with," he drawled, "on the surface."

The pickaxe was cold and solid against her chin. She felt it digging into her jawbone. Somehow, she kept her position, looking for an opportunity.

"Go." The singular word had enough power to it that the other man, as rash and hotheaded as he seemed, rose and limped away, cursing the latter all the while.

Missy stood rigid, all her muscles locked into place, her fists balled at her sides. The man was observing her now, icy eyes foreboding but still having the overt curiosity she remembered from before, as if he had never quite seen anything like her. There was a moment in which the tension was so thick it seemed as if it could be cut with a knife. There was a flicker across his impassive gaze - something that she instantly took notice of. There was the change in his gaze, and then the action occurred.

In one swift movement, he flipped the pickaxe over so that he gripped just above the bladed portion, and hit her in the temple with the handle so hard she saw stars.

He had never actually laid a hand on her in such brutal violence, so this was doubly shocking as well as unexpected. Missy collapsed to the ground, ears ringing, head pounding, clenching her skull with trembling fingers.

Suddenly the man was behind her, as liquid and smooth as anything she'd ever been aware of, and had her by her neck, pressing down on her windpipe with the crook of his elbow as his other hand restrained both of her wrists.

She knew what this was…why hadn't she thought of it? Sleeper hold…sleeper hold…

Her thoughts were muddled, black spots entered her vision, and she felt herself unable to struggle as he pressed harder. Her body grew slack against his, leaning against the lean musculature of his form.

Before she lost conscious, Missy's only thought was that she had been bested.

End Chapter Four.