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He doesn’t respond, just breathes raggedly against my neck. Each exhale is a small, pained wheeze that makes my chest tighten. I try to keep his broken arm stable, but it’s impossible while carrying him. Every jarring step must be pure agony for him, even unconscious.

I pause, lowering him gently to prop him against a tree. In the faint pre-dawn light filtering through the canopy, his injuries look even worse. His lip is split and swollen, crusted with dried blood. Cuts and scrapes cover his face and neck. His left arm hangs at a sickening angle, and dark bruises peek out from the tattooed skin where his black shirt is torn. There are also the bruises on his nose and jaw from… my defense at the start of this crazy night.

I don’t look much better, but the cut to my side no longer hurts as I look at Andy.

“You didn’t have to fight so hard,” I whisper, pushing a strand of his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. “You could have run.” But I know he wouldn’t. Not when he thought I was in danger.

I dig into my pocket for my phone, the screen lighting up my face with its white glow. 6:27 AM. Fucking hell. Andrew kidnapped me around 11 PM during the afterparty, which means we’ve been running, fighting, and barely surviving for at least eight hours.

“Fucking Halloween,” I mutter, pocketing the phone again. “I knew I hated this time of the year.”

I hook my arms under his and start dragging him backward, his boots leaving trails in the dirt. It’s not elegant, but it’s all I’ve got. My stamina and adrenaline are the only things keeping me upright at this point.

I change direction, heading away from the cabin, hoping to find some kind of outpost or road. Every few minutes, I check over my shoulder, making sure I’m not about to back us off a cliff or into another psycho’s lair. Who knows how many more of those insane people are roaming these woods?

“When you wake up,” I tell Andrew’s unconscious form, “we’re going to have a long talk about appropriate first date activities. Hint: they don’t include chloroform.”

A beam of light cuts through the trees ahead, and I freeze, my heart instantly jackhammering against my ribs. Not again. I can’t handle a third killer. I start to lower Andrew, ready to position myself between him and whatever new threat is approaching. My hand rests on the hilt of the knife I’ve managed to hold at my belt.

“Hey! Who’s there?” a gruff voice calls out. The beam sweeps closer, illuminating us in harsh white light. “This is Park Ranger Robertson. You’re trespassing in a restricted area. Identify yourselves!”

Relief floods me so intensely that my knees nearly buckle. “Help!” I call back, my voice cracking. “Please, we need medical assistance!”

The light approaches quickly, and a man in a forest-green uniform emerges from the trees. Behind him, through gaps in the foliage, I catch glimpses of flashing lights—police cars.

“What in God’s name...” The ranger trails off as he takes in the sight of us—me, filthy and exhausted, struggling to hold up an unconscious, bloodied man nearly twice my size.

“He’s badly hurt,” I manage, my throat raw from hours of running and fear. “Broken arm, maybe ribs, too. He’s not dead but I can’t wake him up.”

The ranger is beside us in an instant, taking Andrew’s weight from the other side. He smells of coffee and pine, so normal it’s almost jarring after the night we’ve had.

“What happened to you two?” he asks, helping me lower Andrew gently to the ground. He pulls out a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Robertson here. I’ve got casualties—man and woman, both appear to be in their thirties. Man needs immediate medical attention. Woman has minor injuries. Approximately half a mile east of checkpoint three.”

“We were attacked,” I say, not sure how to begin explaining the insanity of the past eight hours. “There were two of them. Men with weapons. One had a knife and a camera. The other had a baseball bat and wore a mask with blue crosses for eyes.”

The ranger’s expression shifts, alarm replacing confusion. “I don’t know about the masked guy, but you two are lucky to be alive,” he says, his voice suddenly grave. “There were two serial killers on the loose. Escaped from Swansea Prison three days ago. They’ve been using these woods as their hunting ground; we’ve closed all communication lines to isolate them and had ‘no trespassing’ announcements at each entrance to this forest. You shouldn’t have been here tonight.”

Something bubbles up inside me—a pressure building in my chest that I can’t contain. I start laughing, the sound high and unhinged even to my own ears.

“What the fuck,” I gasp between fits of hysterical laughter. “What the actual fuck.”

The ranger stares at me, clearly wondering if I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.

“Miss? Are you alright?” he asks cautiously.

I wipe tears from my eyes, trying to compose myself. “Yes, but... those men who chased us in the woods? Your serial killers? They’re really out of practice.” I take a deep breath, reality settling over me like a heavy blanket. “And they’re dead now.”

The ranger’s mouth falls open. “Dead?”

I nod, suddenly bone-tired. “Self-defense. Andrew was protecting me from the masked one. I... dealt with the other one. The wannabe photographer slasher. I… used his knife to defend myself,” I say, pointing at it. “He then fell down a slope near the river. Broke his neck. There’s a camera there. I took this SD card from it, it has many photos of what seem to be his victims.”

The ranger’s hand flies back to his walkie-talkie as he takes the SD card from my hands. “Robertson again. Possible 10-79 times two in the woods. The escapees. Victims claim self-defense and are armed with a knife allegedly belonging to one of the perpetrators.” He pauses, listening to the crackled response. “Yeah, they’ll need to show us where.”

He turns back to me, his expression a mix of shock and grudging respect as he glances at Andrew’s battered body. “Looking at the state of your friend here, I’d say self-defense is pretty clear. He took a hell of a beating.”

“He saved my life,” I say simply.

Minutes later, handing the knife over to them and after several instances of pointing to a map to tell them where the bodies are—thankfully I only need to walk past a place once to memorize it and that river was one hell of a landmark—voices approach through the trees—more rangers, police officers in tactical gear. They flood the small clearing, some kneeling beside Andrew, others questioning me with rapid-fire efficiency. I answer automatically, my mind floating somewhere outside my body, watching this surreal scene unfold.