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Content Warning: Violence, Gore


More blood than Lachlan had ever seen poured from Sam’s hand, soaking his clothes and dripping down the woman’s face as she pulled back, crunching.

What the motherfuck?

“Mmmm,” she said with her mouth full. “Delicious.”

What the fucking motherfuck?!

Lachlan felt a surge of panic course through him as the other two women advanced on him. Oh fuck no, they were not getting his precious, guitar-playing fingers. Not over his dead body.

He shoved one of the women backward, but she hardly seemed to notice. He swung his fist blindly and felt it collide with something, then felt a hand grip his wrist.

Oh, fuck. Oh no, no, no, no, no.

He wrenched his hand free and kicked at one of the women’s shins. It didn’t seem to hurt her, but it threw her off balance enough that he was able to push past both her and the other woman cornering him.

Lachlan grabbed the woman’s shoulders from behind, pulling her away from Sam. The two boys ran from the room, the women’s footsteps pounding behind them.

“That’s okay! We’ll just work up an appetite!” One of them called from behind.

They ran through room after room, turning left and right in hope of losing the women, but they still followed, never more than two or three rooms behind. Lachlan’s hurting leg screamed at him to stop, but he ignored it. Drops of Sam’s blood splashed onto him as they ran, soaking into his work uniform.

They came to a room with a gaping hole in the ceiling and deep groves and gouges in the nearest wall.

They weren’t having any luck getting away from the women by turning instead of going straight, but maybe they could get away by climbing.

Lachlan scaled the wall, digging his hands and feet into the gouges, and Sam followed, climbing surprisingly quickly considering his injury. Lachlan reached the top, then offered his hand to Sam. Sam ignored him, attempting to pull himself out of the hole with both hands, leaving broad smears of crimson on the wall.

Stubborn fuckhead.

Sam stumbled, nearly falling backward, and Lachlan caught him by his arms and pulled him onto the concrete, trying to ignore the feeling of Sam’s blood-soaked sleeve sticking to his hand.

They climbed to their feet and continued running.


“Uh, Sam? Samurai?”

Sam continued running ahead.

“Samurai, we’ve–” Lachlan paused to catch his breath. “We’ve been running for at least five minutes and we haven’t seen the fucking Donner sisters since we climbed out of that hole. I think you can stop now.”

Sam slowed to a stop and turned around, walking with labored, unsteady steps back toward where Lachlan stood catching his breath.

A fine sheen of sweat covered Sam’s face, and his normally brown skin had taken on a grayish pallor. His shirt was almost completely saturated with his blood.

“Fuck, you don’t look so good,” said Lachlan. “Let me see the hand.”

Sam stepped closer, holding up his right hand, and Lachlan carefully took it.

He tried to fight the wave of sickness that rose in his throat at the sight of Sam’s hand, but he couldn’t stop himself from gagging.

“Sweet, holy mother of fuck,” he said.

Lachlan had expected Sam to be missing a chunk of flesh, but this was much worse. The index finger down to the knuckle and the tip of the middle finger had been severed clean through the bones. Blood–so much blood–gushed relentlessly from Sam’s hand soaking his clothing, and yellow stuff exploded from the site of the injury.

Blood dripped onto Lachlan, streaking his arms. The cloying, coppery smell was overpowering. He gagged again.

What was he supposed to do? When people lost fingers in movies, they always put them in plastic bags in coolers until they could be re-attached, but when the fingers had been eaten, that wasn’t exactly an option.

“Is it bad?” said Sam.

“Is it bad?” Lachlan could only repeat incredulously. “Is it bad?

Sam looked down at his hand.

“Oh, no,” said Sam. “Look at that.”

Sam didn’t look or sound like he was in any state to take care of himself, and as irritating as he was, Lachlan couldn’t just let him stand there with blood pouring down his body.

Okay, think, Lachlan.

The wound probably needed to be sterilized, but there wasn’t anything around he could use for that. What else could he do for Sam?

As much as Sam got on his nerves, he didn’t want the guy to bleed out and die or anything.

“Oh, God,” said Sam. “My hand.”

Could someone bleed out from losing fingers? He wasn’t sure, but there was a lot of blood.

Stop the bleeding. Right. He needed something to stop the bleeding, some kind of gauze or cloth, but there wasn’t any of that around.

Wait a minute. Clothes. Clothes had cloth.

He shivered as he peeled off his Chaz’s Chicken Hut shirt, realizing how cold this other reality was. He tore strips from the back of the shirt, feeling a small amount of satisfaction as he tore through the stupid grinning chicken’s face.

Good riddance. He hated that fucking shirt.

He wrapped the strips of cloth around Sam’s hand, trying to make the makeshift bandage tight, but not too tight. He secured the strips by tying them around Sam’s wrist. The pressure seemed to keep the bleeding in check, as the blood didn’t immediately saturate the cloth as it had Sam’s clothing.

“There,” he said. “That should, uh, stop the bleeding so you don’t die, maybe.”

“Oh my God,” said Sam.

Lachlan had never been good at reassuring people.

“Okay, uh, fuck. Let’s see,” he said. “You’ve probably lost a lot of blood. Shock. That’s probably a concern, right? Okay, let’s see. You should probably lie down? That might help?”

Sam stared at him as though he hadn’t registered a word. Then his legs wavered, his head fell back, and he slumped to the floor.

Lachlan lunged forward, reaching to catch Sam just before he hit the floor. He caught Sam at an awkward angle and fell backward, his right shoulder and part of his back scraping against cold, rough concrete. He gently pushed Sam off of him and laid him on his back.


Sam lay motionless, his eyes open but glassy and fixed.

“Sam? Oh, fuck. Sam?”

Was he dead? Could you die from losing fingers? Lachlan didn’t think so, but looking at the amount of blood soaking Sam’s clothing made him less sure.

He leaned over Sam, shaking him.

Fuck. Please wake up. I don’t want to be alone in here.

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5 thoughts on “3.4

  1. Happy New Year. Hmm..maybe the sisters avoid the upper level, except for the more transformed ones like the one that chased Chelsea. Well, now the boys have a chance to run into her, or Chelsea and her bat friend. or the transformed brother, or Nancy the plane wreck survivor. Who will it be first?!

    Liked by 1 person

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