The tunnels finally opened into a brighter chamber, sunlight filtering through cracks in the ceiling. Emily sprinted toward an icy slope leading upward—freedom so close she could almost taste it.
She scrambled up, fingers clawing at the slick surface—only to slide right back down, landing hard on her back at Arthur's feet.
He looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. "You done?"
Emily groaned. "Shut up."
As she stood, something caught her eye—a boot, half-buried in the snow.
"Wait. This is Matt's shoe." She picked it up, frowning. "How did this get here?"
Arthur studied the boot, then the slope. "Reckon he tried the same damn thing you just did."
Emily's stomach twisted. "And he didn't make it either."
They pressed on, finding a photo of Hannah's tattoo—that same butterfly—along with her glasses, lenses cracked.
Emily moved aside wooden planks, revealing marks carved into the rock.
"That's... exactly a year ago..." She traced the date with trembling fingers. "What does this mean...?"
Arthur didn't answer. Instead, he knelt, picking up Beth's cross and Hannah's locket, the metal cold in his palm.
******
Arthur shoved aside a rotted door, revealing the elevator shaft. Emily latched the gate and pulled the lever.
The machinery groaned to life, lifting them upward.
"Yes! Finally!" Emily grinned, slapping Arthur's hand in a triumphant high-five.
Then—CLUNK.
The elevator stopped, just shy of the surface.
"NO!!" Emily kicked the gate in frustration.
They climbed out, only to freeze—
The Stranger stood ahead, silhouetted against the snow.
Arthur yanked Emily back, pressing them both against the rocks.
For a moment, they held their breath—
Then Emily bolted.
"Emily—GODDAMMIT!" Arthur cursed, sprinting after her.
"GET BACK HERE!" The Stranger's voice boomed behind them.
They raced across a crumbling bridge, leaping over gaps as wood splintered underfoot.
"Oh shit—" Emily gasped as they reached a dead end.
"Emily!" Arthur grabbed her arm.
They turned—
The Stranger approached, his voice eerily calm. "Shh, shh...shh..."
Emily fell back, terror in her eyes. "No! No, stay away!"
Arthur stepped in front of her, hand hovering over his revolver.
Then—a shriek.
The Wendigo emerged from the shadows, its frame horrifying.
The Stranger kicked open a wooden door behind them. "Go there, you two."
Arthur didn't hesitate—he shoved Emily through, then dove after her as the Stranger tossed his bag of flares after them.
"USE THESE!"
They tumbled down a wooden slope, Arthur landing hard on his back—just in time for Emily to crash on top of him, knocking the air from his lungs.
The flare bag bounced onto her stomach.
"Whoa! What?! Oh, shit! Oh shit..." She clutched it, wide-eyed.
Above them, the familiar roar of a flamethrower erupted—the Stranger holding the Wendigo at bay.
Arthur stared, breathless. He helped us.
Emily grabbed her torch, flare bag slung over her shoulder. "Alright... alright Arthur, let's go..."
But the question hung between them—
Who the hell was that man?
(Emily POV)
The mines were a maze of shadows and echoes, every creak of wood making my skin crawl. Arthur and I moved carefully, our torches casting flickering light on the damp walls.
Then—a gap between the rocks.
Where else?
I squeezed through first, the cold stone scraping against my arms.
CRACK.
A monstrous hand burst through the boards beside me, claws raking the air just inches from my face.
"SHIT!"
I didn't think—just ran, Arthur right behind me.
Another slash—this time, pain seared across my arm.
"What is that?!" I gasped, clutching the wound.
Arthur didn't even slow down. "Oh, just a friendly miner offerin' a handshake."
"FUCK YOU!"
Ahead, a broken bridge, the gap too wide to step over.
I jumped first—landed hard, knees hitting the wood with a painful thud. Arthur didn't stop; he grabbed my arm and yanked me forward before I could even steady myself.
Asshole.
But I didn't complain. The thing behind us wasn't stopping either.
A sign pointed left: ELEVATOR.
Arthur veered that way, dragging me with him.
We reached it—rusted, ancient, but there.
Arthur pulled the lever, and the elevator groaned to life, lifting us up.
I finally looked at my arm.
"Oh, God, this better not be fucking infected... Oh, God."
Arthur grabbed my arm, inspecting the scratch. Then—without warning—he poured whiskey over it.
"AGH! FUCK, ARTHUR!" I jerked back, but he held firm.
"Quit squirming," he grunted. "Ain't got time for pretty bandages."
He checked his revolver, then his satchel. "Still got some shots left. Lucky us."
The elevator stopped.
We bolted, me tossing my torch aside. I was faster—way faster—but Arthur caught up quick.
He pulled a chain, sending rocks crashing behind us. Then tipped a barrel, oil spilling across the floor.
Oh, smart.
I lit a flare and tossed it.
WHOOSH.
The flames roared to life, blocking the thing's path.
We jumped down, landing on a conveyor belt. I pulled the lever, and the belt jerked to life, carrying us upward.
"Oh, come on..." I muttered as we crawled, the machinery groaning under us.
At the top, we jumped to another belt, then sprinted to the end.
"This way!" I yelled, darting into a wooden building.
I whipped out the flare gun, spun, and fired.
The Wendigo screeched, flames licking its emaciated frame as Arthur slammed the door shut.
We barely took two steps before—
CRASH.
The Wendigo burst through, sending splinters flying.
We grabbed the zipline, the apparatus snapping on impact as we hit the ground hard.
I scrambled up, heart pounding.
The Wendigo screeched again, closer now.
I looked back.
Arthur's revolver was already drawn.
"Run," he said.
And I did.
(Arthur POV)
Emily was already running, her boots kicking up snow as she sprinted for whatever cover she could find.
Then—movement.
A blur of gray flesh and bone, moving faster than anything had a right to. The Wendigo didn't run at me—it leapt, covering the distance between us in one terrifying lunge.
Time slowed.
Or maybe I just forced it to.
The world bled into shades of amber, the edges sharp, the air thick as molasses. My fingers found the trigger before my mind even registered the draw.
Six shots.
The Cattleman roared, each bullet finding its mark—chest, throat, face. But the damn thing barely flinched.
Then time snapped back into place.
The Wendigo crashed into me, slamming me onto my back in the snow. The air left my lungs in a rush, my ribs screaming from the impact.
Before I could even suck in a breath, its claws raked across my cheek, hot blood splattering the white ground.
"Goddamn—!"
It shrieked in my face, the sound like nails on glass, like a dying animal, like hell itself. I twisted, bucking under its weight, but it was like trying to throw off a boulder.
My knife was in my hand before I remembered grabbing it. I stabbed upward, burying the blade in its neck.
But the thing didn't even seem to notice.
Then its hand closed around my wrist.
Pressure.
Bones ground together. If it squeezed any harder, they'd snap.
I kicked, thrashing like a wild animal, and by some miracle, the Wendigo's grip slipped—just enough.
I rolled free, scrambling to my feet, my wrist throbbing. My revolver was already in my other hand, fingers working the loading gate, bullets sliding home.
The Wendigo turned, its too-long limbs twitching.
I didn't wait.
Six more shots, each one punching into its chest, its skull. It staggered—just for a second—but a second was all I needed.
I ran.
Emily was waiting, her face pale, eyes wide. When she saw me, she lunged forward, arms wrapping around my neck so tight I almost choked.
"You're alive—oh my God—"
I patted her back, breathless. "Ain't got time for this, darlin'."
She nodded, pulling away, and we ran.