The Dark Somnium - Ten Little Scumbags

Episode Date: June 24, 2025

This Creepypasta scary story was written by T.W Grim, make sure to check out their new book here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D8KK8S98/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See https://pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Every story has to start somewhere, and this one begins with the doorbell ringing at a house party. This isn't any ordinary house party, however, not by a long shot. There is a lot of talk floating around about options and distribution rights, setups, and screenplays. Some of the guests would look very familiar to the general public. The rest of them are responsible for the rising fame of their on-screen counterparts. No, this is definitely no ordinary gathering in an ordinary home. This is a Hollywood party. Most of the attendees are notable players in the film industry, and the location is a luxury condo in an exclusive neighborhood.

Although some of them came from relatively humble beginnings, all of the partygoers are now quite wealthy. Most of them are notable figures in the highly competitive world of television and feature films. Their current existence is encased in a wondrous bubble of splendor and comfort. The average person can hardly imagine what it would look like to live among the world. them to move in their circles and experience the marvelous pleasures they enjoy on a daily basis. They dwell in the upper tiers of society, far above the relative squalor of the masses below, and that crystalline bubble is about to burst with the ringing of the doorbell. Lights, camera.

Seth Harwood happened to be the closest person to the door when the doorbell rang. He yelled, I'll get it! And wandered over to take a bleary glance through the window. There was a camera facing the front porch, but no one was monitoring the feed. If someone had been watching, they would have seen a figure lurking behind the man who was standing at the door. However, the host had sent all of his staff home for the evening, and now it was just Carmine and his guests. Most of them had a decent buzz going on, and none of them were even remotely prepared for the events that were about to transpire.

This includes Seth Harwood, the actor who opened the door. He turned around and called out, Hey, Terry's here. Hey, someone tell Carmine that Terry Schultz is here. He drunkenly wobbled up the short flight of stairs to the main floor, followed closely by the new arrivals. Seth was too inebriated to notice the man who had followed Terry Schultz inside. He also failed to see the thin trickles of blood that were leaking down the side of Terry's face.

There was a dazed look in Terry's eyes, and for a good reason. He'd just been struck on the side of the head with a pistol shortly before he rang the doorbell. The intruder locked the door behind him, and then he ushered Terry up the stairs. Terry ascended the staircase on wobbly legs. There was a scream caught in his throat. He could feel the barrel of the pistol pressing into his back. As soon as he got to the top of the stairs, the man with the pistol shoved him aside for a clear shot at Seth. The discharge was deafeningly loud.

Seth stumbled and collapsed onto the floor. Blood pumped out of a hole in his skull in a stuttering wave, rapidly pooling on the marble tiles beneath him. The intruder fired another shot into the ceiling and bellowed. Everybody got on the floor! There was a moment of stunned silence. The only sounds were the ringing in their ears and the hushed murmur of music in the background. Then the reality of their situation penetrated through their shock,

and pandemonium broke out. Some of the guests dropped to the floor where they stood, but the rest scrambled for cover. The gunman shot a woman who was trying to open a window, and then he casually put a bullet in Terry Schultz, who was attempting to crawl his way down the stairs to escape through the front door. As Terry rolled the rest of the way down, the intruder pulled the trigger twice more, aiming for a woman who was running up a spiral staircase to the second floor. The young woman screeched in pain, but she continued to struggle her way to the top. She collapsed at the top of the stairs and crawled out of sight.

I said get your asses on the floor! The rest of them promptly complied. He pulled a handful of zip ties from the side pocket of his grimy backpack and growled. If anyone messed around, I'll blow their brains out. I don't give a shit about any of you people, you understand? Not one single shit. So don't even think about trying me. The gunman went from person to person and tied their hands behind their back.

He also emptied their pockets and confiscated their cell phones. After he was done with this particular task, the gunman locked all the windows and closed all the blinds. When he was satisfied no one would be able to see inside, the intruder pulled a battery-powered compact driver out of his pack, followed by a paper bag full of screws. He proceeded to seal the doors shut by screwing them into their frames. When he was finished, the intruder helped himself to the bar. He poured a generous amount of vodka into a crystal glass and took a deep swallow.

Even the good stuff tastes like battery acid to me. Oh, that's rough. With his drink in one hand and his gun in the other, the intruder forced the remaining party guests to shuffle over to a corner of the room that Carmine referred to as the conversation nook. It consisted of two luxurious couches placed directly across from each other. The couches were separated by a glass top table, and the area was tastefully illumined. dominated by recessed light fixtures in the ceiling.

When all the party guests were seated on the couches, the gunman held up his glass of vodka and said, Cheers, assholes. Are we having fun? No? Honestly, I mean either. I haven't been having any fun for a very long time. The gunman smiled and dumped some more booze down his throat. He grimaced and tossed the glass onto the carpet beside him.

Oh, that's hard. Well, longs in some orange juice, am I right? The gunman glared at his circle of captives as he swapped the magazine in his pistol. He pointed at himself and demanded, Does anyone know who I am? Come on, folks, take a wild guess. Everyone looked around at each other with bright, watery eyes. No one wanted to either confirm or deny anything,

because either choice might result in a one-way ticket to the pearly gates. They all stayed silent and waited. for whatever might come next. Okay, we'll come back to that in a bit. Let's see if I can name all of you shitheels instead. How's that? Okay, let me see. Ah, I think we've got Carmine Montello

sitting here beside me. You're a producer. Terry was your business partner, right? Okay, so beside Carmine is Elizabeth McKay, and beside her is Jeremy... Um, Jeremy Reeves, is that right? She's an actress and you're a screenwriter. I saw one of you on those late-night talk shows. You're a funny guy, you know that?

You've got a really sharp sense of humor. Jeremy tried his best not to cower beneath the intensity of his gaze. Yeah, that's me. Thanks. And then we've got this guy sitting beside Jeremy. I don't recognize him. You're you, my man? The party guest in question shifted uncomfortably in his seat and stammered.

I'm not really a public figure. I work in real estate. The gunman nodded thoughtfully and asked. What's your name, real estate guy? The gunman gave him the side eye. It's Ken Rysdale. I'm not a celebrity or anything. Like I said, I sell real estate.

I'm not sure if that's the whole story, but... Okay, sure. Doesn't matter. Either way, you're here, if you get what I mean. Ken shrank back into the couch. Why are you here? Is this a robbery? None of us ever did anything to you.

Oh, that's not true at all. They did plenty to me. They wrecked my life. Ken blinked to him and shook his head slowly. No, that didn't happen. You're not in reality right now. You have a sickness in your mind, okay? You're sick.

Please, listen to me. The gunman was already on the move. He loomed over Ken and snarled. You know what? I actually do recognize your name. Yeah, I saw it on a billboard. Ken Reesdale Estates, something like that. You're one of those greaseball developers.

You crank out subdivisions full of shitty McMansions. You buy up a shitload of farmland, and then you slap together a bunch of cookie-cutter houses that'll fall apart before. the mortgage gets paid off. And you get filthy, rich while you do it. You people are utter trash. Did you know that?

I've never harmed you or bothered you in any way, shape, or form. This is the first time I've ever laid eyes on you, for Christ's sake. You're doing a bad thing right now, mister. You're sick. You need help. The intruder lashed out and hit Ken in the face with the barrel of the pistol. Everyone gasped at the flat, meaty thud as the barrel bounced off Ken's cheekbone. His skin split open and blood ran freely over his jawline, dripping onto his shirt and drops and splatters.

Ken gaped up at the intruder in shock. He stared back at his prisoner and murmured. Oh, that hurts, doesn't it? Yeah, I've got 50 more lined up and ready to rock, so keep your stupid mouth shut. You think I'm sick? Me? I'm the only sane person in this whole room. You people are sick.

Not me. The intruder moved on to the last person on the couch and regarded him with the grimace of distaste. Speaking of low-life pieces of garbage, here's a prime specimen. A corporate lawyer. How are you, Theodore? Oh, you don't look so good. Feeling a bit tight in the chest, are you? He poked the ashen-faced man in the chest with the pistol and grinned.

Come on, Ted. Have yourself a heart attack. Oh, it's okay, man. Just like go and waddle your ass over to the other side. Do the world a favor and stop breathing. Leave me alone. Ted stammered. His broad, quivering face was wet with tears. This is crazy. You're crazy. There's that C word again. Didn't we already go over this, Ted?

I'm not crazy. You know exactly who the hell I am. Come on. Say my name. Say it out loud. Ted looked up at him mutely. His lip drawn together in a tight little line. The intruder chuckled.

You'd rather take your chances with a crazy guy and say it out loud. Holy shit. Okin-okie then. How about this? He pulled something out of his hip pocket and flicked it open. It was a spring-loaded knife with a five-inch blade. It looked wickedly sharp. Ted's eyes zeroed in on the glittering business end of the knife.

He cowered back as far as possible into the couch and squealed. Don't stand me! Just like a piglet. And he jabbed the tip of the blade into Ted's meaty thigh. The lawyer screamed at the top of his lungs, setting off a chorus of horrified wailing from the other hostages. One of them heaved himself to his feet. His face distorted into a mask of terrified determination. He found himself staring into the barrel of the pistol, and he froze like a statue.

What do you think you're doing, sir? Were you about to screw around? What did I say about screwing around? The would-be hero took a shuffling step back and croaked. I wasn't doing anything. I just wanted you to stop, okay? Don't hurt anyone. Just stop it, man.

Please? No. Sit down. and shut up. He turned his attention back to Ted, the lawyer. Damn, that leg is bleeding like a bastard. Did I poke an artery? I can't remember exactly, but I think there might be an artery there.

Ted looked like he was ready to faint. I have a wife. I've got kids. Please don't kill me. For God's sake, don't do it. The intruder leveled his pistol dead center into the lawyer's forehead, his eye glinting in the muted lighting. What's my name?

Say my fucking name, Ted. Say it! The young woman who was sitting beside the would-be hero stomped her feet and shrieked. Stop it! Don't hurt him anymore. Everyone's scared to say anything, okay? He told us that we... Um, he said we can't. She trailed off. Her face, a crumpled Kleenex smeared with dripping makeup, and she gave Carmine an uncertain look. He very slightly shook his head. Ted no in return.

He said you can't do what exactly? The gunman asked quietly. He was still staring at Ted, his finger on the trigger. The young woman cleared her throat and croaked. I don't know. I don't know. The intruder turned and favored her with a mummified corpse of a smile. Never mind what anyone else told you.

They're not in charge here. I am. Me. The guy with the gun. Go ahead and finish what she were saying. Carmine glared at her and hissed. Carla, shut up! Stop talking!

No, no, and no. You don't make the rules here, partner. She could say whatever she wants. He gave the terrified girl a stern look and said, Go on. It's for the best. He told us to never mention your name. She weased and a fresh batch of hot, salty tears started running down her face.

Carmine and Ted the lawyer both groaned out loud at the same time. Carmine's face flushed a deep, ugly red. He uttered a guttural curse under his breath and gritted his teeth. And who said that? Who told you to never mention my name? The girl shook her head violently and started to sob. Tell me who said that and tell me why. She clenched her lips together in a tight line and shook her head again.

The gunman gave her a long, considering look, and then he, hit Ted with the pistol. Ted flopped back into the couch with a strangled groan. It doesn't sound like in the movies, does it? And there's no big dramatic bang when you hit someone in real life, but a good, hard slap across the face. Ah, that's different. Here, I'll show you. He shoved the knife back into his pocket and held up his hand for everyone to see. He then proceeded to whirl around and deliver a resounding slap across Ted's jawline. The sound of the impact echoed off the walls. The lawyer immediately slumped over and let out a gurgling snore.

The intruder looked around at his horrified audience, and he asked, Do you get it now? This is real, folks. No lights, no cameras, no microphones. This blood is real. I'm real. Swipe that stupid look off your faces and wake up! He looked over.

Carla and gave her a sly wink, as if they were about to share some particularly juicy bit of gossip. It was Ted over here, wasn't it? I know it was Ted. Just give me a yes or a no, Carla. You don't have a choice. Yes, it was Ted. We were told to never mention your name, not even in private.

He said they would come after us for breaching our non-disclosure agreement. Carmine twisted in his seat Stuff a sock in it You already screwed yourselves a while ago It just took a little time to catch up with you, that's all Stop pointing fingers and admit you screwed up He turned to the young woman and gave her a puzzled look You know, I don't recognize you either

Are you an actress or something? I'm not Well, yes, I'm an actress But I've been working as a production assistant I'm not. You know, I'm just an assistant. A production assistant got invited to a gathering like this. With these people.

Why? The intruder let the question hang in the air. He turned to the man who tried to sneak up behind him and asked. How about you, Mr. Hero? Are you the key grip or something? What's your story? The man looked down at his lap and muttered. My name's Trent Young.

Oh, I'm a cinematographer. I'm just going to refer to you as Mr. Hero because I'm an asshole. Anyway, last but definitely not least, we have the esteemed director, Ron Kersey. Director, producer, visionary, all that shit. You make good movies, sir. Oh, you really do. You're kind of a dickhead, though, aren't you? I have nothing to say to that.

Ron answered carefully. He was striving to look neutral. but he was sweating in the air conditioning. He hesitated and then added, What do you want from us? I want my life back. But that's not going to happen, is it? So now we're going to do this instead.

He looked around with a frown of concentration. Okay, so I've got, let's see, eight of you sitting here. There's one upstairs and there's me. That makes ten of us in total. If I could write a story about what's happening here tonight, I'd call it ten little scumbags. Do you get it? You know, like that Agatha Christie novel with the really off-color title? What? Nobody gets it?

Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Who the hell is reading Agatha Christie these days, am I right? Ron swallowed a lump in his throat and repeated. What do you want from us? Why are you here? The intruder stood there and looked down at him with a smooth, blank expression, not talking, hardly even blinking. He just stood there and stared at him. And then he took in a long, measured breath and leaned in close.

The publisher ended up changing the name of the book to, and then there were none. And I guess that's your answer, Mr. Cursey. This is insane. Come on, don't pretend this isn't completely insane. You need to stop this right now before. The director's words faltered in his mouth. The look in the intruder's eyes was murky and strange. There wasn't any light glimmering behind that flat, hopeless gaze.

There was only darkness. Oh, hell no. It's too late to stop. It's way too late to stop. Ron shook his head and breathed. That's not true. Listen to me, okay. You don't have to do this.

We'll get you some help. The intruder abruptly hauled off and punched Ron in the stomach, making him double over. He gave the wheezing director a feral smile. I don't gotta listen to you, champ. I don't gotta listen to nobody, and that's the truth. So screw you and screw me and screw the rest of them too. There's no stopping, my man. We're heading towards the end of the line.

Ron took in a tortured breath and forced himself to sit up straight. The intruder stopped smiling. For a few seconds, he looked like a frightened child, alone and lost in the wilderness. He took in a deep, shuddering breath and said, There's no point, Ron. The time for arguments is long gone. I'm doing this because you killed me, you son of a bitch. You people destroyed my life and now I'm going to return the favor.

The intruder abruptly walked away from his hostages and head. for the spiral staircase. As soon as he was gone, Carmine hissed. Carla, run to my office and call 911 quick before he comes back. Go! Carla blinked back tears and sniffed. How? My hands are tied behind my back.

Have a pencil with your teeth and press the buttons, dumbass. Go on, hurry up. Elizabeth McKay glared at him and spoke up for the first time since the beginning of their horrifying ordeal. Why don't you do it, Carmine? I mean, it's your house. As far as I'm concerned, it's your fault this nutcase got inside. Where's your security team?

Carmine made a rude noise with his lips. What? My security team? I'm not Stephen Spielberg over here, Liz. I don't have a security team. I can't afford that shit. Come on. Yeah, I think that's bullshit, but whatever.

We can talk about that later. Go call the cops. The producer gave her a look of disbelief. Hell no. She's the idiot who. couldn't keep her mouth shut, not me. Carla, why are you still sitting there? Get going, for Christ's sakes.

What are you waiting for? Ted opened his eyes and let out a soft groan. The side of his face was swelling up rapidly, making him look like some kind of grotesque, half-man, half-chimpmunk hybrid. My jaw hurts. It hurts to talk. Then stop talking. And turned back to Carla.

He jerked his head in the direction of the office and hissed. I'm not asking over here, sweetie. I'm telling. Get up and get moving. Everyone jumped in their seats. They were followed by a third shot, and then there was silence again. Who was it? Was it Grace?

I think she ran upstairs when he started shooting. I think he just killed her. Who cares? He's up there and not down here. So get off your ass and make the fucking cold. Elizabeth bumped him aggressively with her shoulder. Eat a bag of shit, Carmine. You're an asshole.

Did you know that? The producer glared at her. You don't get ahead in this business by being nice, Liz. You of all people should know that. Elizabeth's eyes smoldered with a deep, long-standing animosity. I'll let me tell you something, Carmine. If I get out of this alive, I'm going to spill the beans on you. And I'm not talking about what's happening right now.

I mean all of it. The whole shebang. Carmine's entire head flushed in ugly shade of crimson. He looked away from her and muttered. You better watch your mouth, Liz. Who the hell do you think you are? Hey, if you're so full of piss and vinegar, maybe you should make the call. Go ahead.

Ken thumped his foot on the floor to get everyone's attention. He jerked his head at the stairs and whispered. He's coming back. They all watched with bated breath as the gunman ambled down the spiral staircase, his pistol dangling at his side. He was cradling something in his other arm. It was a gold-plated sculpture of a figure holding some kind of stringed instrument, looking at peace and smiling at nothing in particular.

He stopped in their midst and announced. And then there were nine. He saw the disgusted expression on their faces and added. Just some gallows humor, folks. Gotta lighten the mood every now and then, right? Carla made a soft choking noise in her throat. Why did you kill Gracie? She was one of the nicest people I've ever known.

Because she was here. I gotta say, you have a lot of really cool shit lying around, Carmine. How much is this thing worth? Maybe $4 grand or so. I don't know for sure. The market value and stuff like that goes up and down. I'm holding a $4,000 knick-knack. Huh.

You just happen sitting on the table beside your bed getting all dusty and shit. Is this a Hindu deity? You don't really strike me as a spiritual guy. I'm not religious. She's a goddess of creativity, so it seemed appropriate. The gunman plunked the sculpture down on the coffee table and scornly shook his head. So you think you're creative, do you? That's fucking funny, my man.

You've never created a goddamn thing, and that's the truth. Your company is just a glorified bank. You finance other people's work in exchange for a big slice of the profit. I fail to see how that makes you an artist. Unless you were talking about being a rip-off artist, because that's exactly what you did. You ripped me off. You used my intellectual property and made tens of millions of dollars. And what did I get?

Nothing. Not a, not a single dime. He poked himself in the chest and said, I'm the one who creates, not you. I should have this overprivile. price paper, which sitting on my table, not you. That's not how it works. Now, people like me, we don't even have a bed.

Let it on a goddamn nightstand. Nope. No gold statue for me. That's not how it worked out. You know what really happened? Carmine wisely kept silent. The intruder gave him a considering look and said, I'll tell you what really happened.

I wake up one morning and see a DM from someone. someone who's a fan of my work. I mean, I don't really have a ton of fans or anything, but they do exist. Anyway, they sent me a link to a movie trailer on YouTube. I watched the trailer and said, What the hell is this? Because the plot seemed to be an awful lot like one of my short stories. Do you want to guess what happened next? His hostages remained silent. The intruder smiled at all of them in turn, one by one. a nicotine-stained grin crackling with dreadful fury. At first, I was in denial, as I'm sure you can imagine.

I couldn't believe my own eyes. I mean, surely, fucking surely this wasn't happening, right? How would a Hollywood movie studio ever become aware of my work in the first place? I wasn't famous. I wasn't even well-known. I was just another self-published idiot who occasionally does some work online. It didn't make any sense. I couldn't wrap my head around it.

He paused for a moment to stare at Carmine, who avoided his eye and shifted nervously in his seat. The intruder shook his head at him and continued. You know, when this shitstorm hit the fan, I was working as a janitor in a factory. I was making minimum wage, mopping floors and scrubbing toilets. To be very frank, it was a bad place to work, and a lot of the folks who worked there, They were bad too. Bad, bitter, shitty people. Every now and then, someone would fingerpaint the toilet stall with their own shit.

I wish I was making this up, but I'm not. Sometimes the shit graffiti would say something offensive about me, the janitor. Can you imagine that? No. No, I don't think you can. You don't have any imagination. You're as dull as a butter knife, Carmine. Dull and greedy and fucking useless.

Anyway, I was pretty broke. Minimum wage is virtually nothing. That money would have changed my life completely. Not only that, but think of the doors it would open. If I had a screenwriting credit for a big budget movie, that's a hell of a thing to have on your resume. Most writers would kill for something like that. It basically never happens.

I mean, even if I had a really good literary agent, it would still be a one in a million jets. The intruder fell silent. He stared at the wall for a while, then abruptly whirled around and headed for the bar. He poured himself another glass of vodka and called out. Here's the thing, folks. I didn't have an agent. I didn't have a manager, a publicist, none of that shit. I was just floating around by myself on the fringes.

A really small fish in a giant ocean. I was minding my own business like a good little fishy, scrubbing my toilets and selling maybe 15 books a month online. Don't get me wrong, it absolutely sucked, but at least it was something. You get me? It wasn't a good life. Hell, it was hardly even adequate, to be honest, but it was something. It was better than nothing at all.

The intruder marched back to the conversation nook with his drink in hand, his eyes watering from the booze he poured down his throat at the bar. He raised his glass and said, A toast to our dreams. Beautiful, fragile dreams. They only become reality for the rich and powerful because those shit bags have the cash to make it happen. And they also have a team of lawyers.

Isn't that right, Theodore? Ted made a small sound in his throat, and he began to tremble all over. Everyone could feel a thunder cloud of explosive tension building in the air. The other hostages looked at Ted with wide eyes and racing hearts. He was going to be next. The intruder stopped in front of him and drawled. Theodore! You're not Ted when you sign a threatening email, are you?

No, sir, you go by Theodore when you're out for blood. I didn't do anything wrong. I was doing my job. It was nothing personal. Nothing personal? Oh, don't you remember sending me that email on Christmas Eve? You were pretty hot under the collar when you said that baby along, weren't you? Christ almighty, that thing was friggin' ten pages long.

You wrote an essay about how much I'd regret my action. if I didn't disappear. Man, you were mad as fuck, weren't you? Why is that, Theodore? Is it because you knew I was right? I didn't... I mean, yes. I did send that email, but you threatened us first.

I sent a very clear and professional response to your baseless claims. Maybe my tone was a bit too... A firm, I suppose, sure. but frankly, you're lucky I didn't launch a lawsuit of my own. You have no right to... The intruder kicked the couch between Ted's legs and screamed. You better shut the hell up, douchebag!

What did you just say to me? Baseless? Where the hell have you been for the past 20 minutes? The cat's out of the bag, moron. We all know that it happened! For crying out loud, fucking Jeremy over here didn't even bother to change the name of the antagonist. What are you?

A freaking robot! Look at you! Your shit's bleeding all over the place and your hands are tied behind your back. This is where you're at right now and you're still coughing up some pre-recorded lawyer talk. Fucking incredible. Carmine was looking at Ted with narrowed eyes. What's he talking about? You didn't say anything about an email and you responded to him without consulting me first? A slow smile spread across the intruder's face.

I think someone was overstepping their bounds. Tell him what happened, Theodore. Tell him everything or I'll break your teeth. Ted crumpled back into the couch, looking diminished and immensely miserable. We got an email from this guy about a year after we first heard from his lawyer. He said if he didn't get the confirmation that Ron was aware of the incident, he'd go after us on social media with his accusations. Carmine's face was becoming redder by the second.

Through gritted teeth, he snarled. Do you know what kind of shit storm this is going to block down in my head? Why didn't you call me? This goes for you too, Ron. You never said a single word to me about this shit. He told me, I'm a nobody. The intruder interjected. His angry smile abruptly collapsed, leaving a vacant and haunted look in its wake.

He said I'm delusional. He wrote ten pages. of bullshit to explain why I was wrong, and then he threatened to screw up whatever was left of my existence if I didn't go away. I sat there at my kitchen table on Christmas Eve and read this pompous horse shit while my wife tried to pretend everything was normal. You know, sort of buzzing around the house and moving the ornaments around, messing with the tree, just pretending to be busy. Just trying to ignore me as I sat there, getting angrier and angriest. I was angry or just trying her goddamn this to make Christmas happen. And then I jumped up and I threw my phone across the room and I yelled,

You're full of shit and you know it, motherfucker! The gunman paused and looked around the room with a bewildered expression, as if he wasn't sure where he was anymore. He let out a shaky breath. My wife, she turns to me with tears in her eyes and she yells back. Why can't you just let it go? I can't take this anymore. Just let it go and move on.

The gunman took another deep drink and gasped at the burning in his throat. He motioned at Ted with the pistol and said, You were scared people would find out. The audience, the people who line up to watch Carmine's crappy movies. Can you imagine the response if I went public? People love to hate the players in Hollywood. No matter how much they adore you, They're always secretly waiting for an excuse to shove you off your pedestal.

The rest of you dumb shits might don't understand this, but Ted understands it just fine. He knows the power of public opinion. He pointed the gun at Ted. What's your job, Theodore? What does Carmine's company employ you to do? Ted gave the intruder an uncertain look. I'm the head of their legal team. Yeah, sure.

But what is your specific function? What do you do?" Ted blinked to him and said nothing. It was obvious he was having difficulty moving his jaw. The left side of his face looked like a Halloween mask. It was tacky with drying blood, and his cheek was swollen to balloon-like proportions. The stab wound in his inner thigh was no longer bleeding, but it throbbed with a fiery heat that made him want to pass out.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and said, I don't know what you want me to say. The truth! asshole! Your job is to protect the company from losing money. That's what you do. Being called out for stealing from a working man, oh, that wouldn't look very good. Something like that has the potential to hurt ticket sales and drain their bottom line. It could be a problem, yes. But I investigated your claims and they were bas- Um, they were untrue. I answered all of them in great detail. The intruder's eyes were wide. his saucers. His breath was puffing in and out of his chest and grunts and snorts. You stupid motherfucker! Drop the innocent act, for Christ's sake. You thought I was going to crawl into the sewer and never returned, didn't you? But then I came back and you got mad because I wasn't supposed to do that.

Carmine interjected. I want to see this response you got from Ted. You have access to email on your phone? The intruder wince at the sound of his voice. He bent down to look Carmine directly in the eye, and he said, I don't have to show you shit-all, my man. The time for verifying and examining the evidence? Oh, that time is long gone. Just be quiet and let me say what I have to say.

He pointed at the director and ruefully shook his head. I didn't think Ron even knew. But apparently he did, and he just didn't care. You're a special kind of asshole. Did you know that? You talk all that shit online about how you're a regular salt of the earth kind of guy, and it's a bunch of lies. You're another pampered shitbag in the back of a limousine.

You direct movies about the struggles of regular people, but I doubt you even know any regular people. You're ten times worse than Theodore over there, because he doesn't try to hide his true identity. He's a vulture, and he knows it. You, you, however, you live entirely up your own ass. We have absolutely nothing in common, you and I. You live up in the clouds.

Hell, you wouldn't even notice one of us regular people. Not unless we took you hostage and forced you to notice. Carmine appeared to not even be aware of the exchange between the intruder and Ron. He was too busy. glaring at the head of his legal department. He suddenly yelled, God damn it, Ted! Why didn't you come to me when you got the email? I would have cut him a deal for Christ's sakes. What would it cost? 20 grand? Maybe 40? Who gives a shit? Now look at us. You goddamn idiot, you stupid son of us! The shot was deafening in the narrow corner of the room,

a chunk of Carmine's head sprayed on the wall behind him, followed immediately by a crimson gush of blood. He choked out a gurgling groan and fell sideways. His head landed in Elizabeth's lap. She screamed and jumped up from the couch, only to be immediately shoved back down by the intruder. She fell on top of Carmine and squirmed away, crowding up against Jeremy with an expression of hysterical disgust. Nobody gets up from the couch. Don't even think about it. He is bloody. I don't care if you're drowning in it, lady. You keep your ass on that cushion. This isn't fair. I didn't do anything to you.

I starred in a movie and got a paycheck. That's it. That's all I did. The intruder took another big gulp of vodka and wandered away into the middle of the room. He looked around at the opulence of his surroundings with a mixture of contempt and wonder. Stop whining about it. I don't care about you. Get him off the couch.

Get him away from me. The gunman started. stormed back to the conversation nook and pulled the body off the couch. He tucked his firearm in his waistband and dragged Carmine to the other side of the room. And then there were eight. Tell me something, Ron. Why are you people gathered here tonight? It seems like a coincidence that everyone here worked on the same movie.

It's a bit late for a rap party, so what's the occasion? A fleeting look passed between the remaining hostages. Ron licked his lips. and answered with a question of his own. How did you find this place? Carmine's address is in public knowledge. Oh, I've been doing my research. I guess it's time for the second act of my story.

That's what I do, isn't it? I tell stories. I tell him, and you steal them. Isn't that right, Mr. Cursey? No, that isn't right at all. Go ahead and tell your story, sir. Here goes nothing. We'll call this Act 2, The Aftermath.

Anyway, after Ted sent me that charming email on Christmas Eve, I gave up on trying to contact anyone. I was worried I'd have to defend myself against you shitty bastards in a libel suit. And I was terrified I'd lose. I didn't have a lawyer anymore, so I was pretty much screwed. I guess I kind of plunged into a downward spiral. I started drinking again. I couldn't sleep without it.

I didn't care about anything. All I could think about was the theft of my work. Writing takes a lot of time and concentration. You don't just shit out a novel in a month and call it good. Research, edits, rewrites, more edits, it never ends. On top of all of that, you still got to work and make ends meet. I kept going through the motions for a while, but it wasn't good anymore.

I couldn't lose myself in the story. The magic was gone, and that really fucked me up. Losing the ability to slip away into my own imagination, that was even worse than getting ripped off. It was almost like losing my hand or something. I wasn't whole anymore. I got frustrated, and then I got angry. I started being an asshole to everyone around me at all times.

No chill, as the kids say. No chill at all. I hated everything, but I hated myself the most. I was almost at my breaking point, and then I quit my job. What happened? Why? The intruder removed his filthy baseball cap and ran a hand through his balding hair. Well, I used to be a nobody with a dream, and then I was just a nobody.

I couldn't pretend to care anymore. I gave him two weeks notice, and that was that. I told the wife I would look for another job, but I didn't. She tried her best to be understanding, but how long is that shit supposed to go on? When she started to get on my case about it, I told her, I'll devote all my time to writing, and I'll make it work, I promise. But promises for me apparently don't mean jack shit, because that didn't happen either. I just sort of wandered around and brooded all day. He ran his hand over his thinning hair again and favored his captive audience with a crooked smile.

Look, I've got a record, okay? Drugs, petty theft, some shit like that. Poor people's crimes. I paid my dues, but that doesn't change anything. People always think that having a criminal record doesn't matter when you're looking for a job, but of course it does. Why take a risk on a guy like that if you could just hire someone with a clean background? Let's face it, most people have never been arrested, let alone convicted of a crime.

If you've got that kind of baggage, it limits your opportunities. That's not fair. I'm sorry it's like that. Me too. In my experience, the best you can hope for is temp work at a factory or a way. warehouse, and that isn't saying much. I remember working at this one place, a warehouse. It had a conveyor belt that was so long you couldn't even see where it started. The conveyor was jammed full of boxes at all times every minute of the day. There was an endless line of boxes

stretching as far as the eye could see. I would stack eight of these heavy bastards on a wooden pallet, and then a guy on a forklift would take them away. I had no idea what was inside the box, and neither did any of my coworkers. The intruder looked at Ron and asked, Do you know what struck me most about that place? No one ever said my name. Not once. They'd just point and say,

Hey, you. I was out on the floor day after day doing all the heavy lifting in the summer heat, but no one ever came up to me and said, thanks for getting our shipments ready on time. No. No, all the praise went to the area manager, a guy who never left his air-conditioned office. He literally never stepped onto the floor in the entire time I worked there.

Do you see the parallel here, folks? Huh? The intruder was starting to shake like a leaf in his filthy sweatshirt. You people somehow managed to find the one thing that was sacred to me! My stupid little ambition! My wonderful little day! You found it and you took it from me. I did all the heavy lifting so you can take it and make millions of my work.

What did you say when I dared to speak out? You told me I'm a nobody, an odd entity, no one, nothing at all. Well look over here, you shitty little coward. Here I am in the flesh! I didn't say that. I didn't say that. didn't say that. Stop getting yourself worked up and listen to reason. Who cares if I'm getting worked up? Huh? After all, I'm nobody, right? Right!

The muzzle of the pistol flashed and let out a deafening bang, and everyone screamed. Ted, of course, screamed the loudest of all of them. He fell off the couch and landed on his back. Still screaming, Ted began to pull himself along the floor with his good leg, gibbering nonsense words of terror as he slowly warmed his way across the carpet. The intruder stood passively and watched the lawyer's futile attempt to run for his life. His lower lip started to quiver as if he were about to burst into tears, but his eyes were dry and hot with the fires of vengeance. They had already scorched his soul, and now the flames would also consume his enemies.

Tonight they would all burn together. The intruder grabbed Carmine's gold statue and followed after his hated nemesis. He stopped the lawyer's agonized escape with a kick to the ribs. The intruder pinned the weeping man with his knee and grunted. Unreal, you son of a bitch. The statue bounced off the lawyer's forehead once, twice, and then a third time for good measure. The intruder rose to his feet and brandished the blood-splattered statue at the rest of the hostages. He screamed.

Do you see that, cocksuckers? Ted was already finished, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. The intruder growled like a rabid dog and battered the dying man with a primal savagery, droplets of blood and bits of flesh splattered across the ceiling, the walls everywhere. The intruder didn't stop until the lawyer's entire head was completely destroyed. When the intruder was finally satisfied, he dropped the statue and rolled away from his victim. He lay on his back for a few moments, panting from exertion and covered in blood.

He sat up and gasped. There's not much time left. That lady upstairs was on the... phone with 911 when I shot her. The cops probably had this place surrounded by now. Trent gave him a furious look and snapped. You sick, twisted piece of shit. Do you imagine that was somehow justified?

I hope you rot in jail forever. The intruder climbed to his feet. We haven't heard from you in a while, Mr. Hero. You're going to deliver your big hero speech now? Go on. Say your peace. Make it quick. Trent grinned right back at him and said,

You've already killed the people who are directly responsible. What do you want now? Some more attention? Is that it? You want us to say your name? You don't deserve one. You're just a big man with the gun. Keep hiding behind your gun, you pathetic bastard.

The intruder gave him an incredulous look. The gun is just a lump of metal. It can't do shit unless I squeeze the trigger. Do you want to see something? Really dangerous? He stomped over to Carmine's wall-sized TV and grabbed something off the end table. It was a TV remote. The intruder seized a handful of Trent's hair and waved the remote in his face.

Now this thing right here, this thing is incredibly dangerous, Mr. Hero. This thing is the motherfucking A-bomb. I couldn't possibly do more damage. Not in a thousand lifetimes. opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn't think of anything to say. At that instant, a man's voice began blaring from a bullhorn outside. The voice bellowed. Attention. This is Sergeant Hernandez of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department. In approximately one minute, you will receive a phone call on the landline that's registered to the homeowner. Please answer this phone call.

Yep, the cops are here. The intruder murmured. His face was pale and drawn. That look of being Lost and Afraid passed over his features again like a dark shadow. Elizabeth exclaimed, "'Waitheless! You don't have to die tonight and neither do the rest of us. You need help.' The intruder gave her a sharp look. "'I know why you all came here tonight. You came here to talk about a sequel.'

No one answered him, but the guilty expressions on their faces was enough. The intruder nodded to himself. A sorrowful gesture, and he shook his head. Terry Schultz spilled the beans. You know how I got to him? I catfish the dumb old bastard with some stock photos. I actually googled blonde bimbo stock photo and used them in my profile. Yeah.

It was that easy. I tied him up and kept him locked in the trunk of his car for a while. When I finally let him out, he was more than willing to cooperate. The gunman dug into his backpack, and he pulled out his script for the proposed sequel. He waved it in the air and said, Original screenplay by Jeremy Reeves. Ah, you did all this by yourself, did you? Or maybe you were just taking all the credit for someone else's worked again.

That would be par for the course, wouldn't it? A telephone started to ring inside Carmine's office. The intruder said, Excuse me for a second. And jogged over to answer it. The hostages strained to hear his side of a conversation. It was very brief. Hello?

Yeah, that's me. Okay, be quiet for a second. I don't have a list of demands. It's not like that. No, I'm not going to tell you why. I'm sure you'll figure it out later. It's just something I need to do. That's all.

I'm sorry, can you repeat that? No, absolutely not. You're not understanding me, officer. I don't want any of that. I'm going to do what I need to do, and when it's over, you can go ahead and blow me to pieces. I honestly don't give a shit. He listened for a while and then made an impatient sound. The intruder came back to the conversation, Nook, with an irritated expression on his face.

He glared at his hostages with bloodshot eyes and croaked. The cops want to negotiate. They don't get it. I don't want money or recognition. I don't have a noble cause or manifesto. I just want to kill you, motherfuckers. Let us go. Killing us won't make it right.

It'll just make you wrong. The intruder zeroed in on her with a shell-shock stare. Why are you even here, lady? You never gave me an answer. Carla flushed deep red. She muttered something inaudible and stared at the floor. The intruder nudged. her leg with his foot.

I didn't hear you. Speak up. Elizabeth interjected. She was screwing Carmine. That's why she's here. He liked him young and vulnerable. That was his thing. The intruder wrinkled his nose at Carmine's corpse.

You were sleeping with this guy? Oh, that had to be rough. Don't get me wrong, though. I get it. You do what you got to do in this world. I wasn't screwing him. But thanks. We were actually seeing each other.

for almost six months. We were in a relationship. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and asked. Do you really think so, hon? Look, I knew Carmine for many, many years. Believe me, he was going to get bored and toss you out like a bag of trash. It happened to me too. It happened to a lot of us.

And he didn't take no for an answer. If you said no, he'd just do what he wanted anyway. Once again, It happened to a lot of us. Anne, look where you are now. I'm sorry if that happened to you, but... Look, I don't know what I'm trying to say here. But I do know one thing.

I'm not a production assistant. I'm an actress, Liz. I belong in front of the camera, just like you. Everyone needs a break at some point. You got yours, didn't you? I was just trying to get mine. Elizabeth gave her a pitying look. I'm sure you're a damn fine actress, but here's the problem, Carla.

There's a lot of damn fine actresses out there. And if you do manage to succeed, you won't belong to yourself anymore. They'll use you up, and then they'll tear you down, and when there's nothing left, they'll throw you away. The intruder sat down on the couch beside Ken, unmindful of the blood on the cushion. There's a parasite waiting on every rung of the ladder. all the way up and all the way down. Speaking of which, I want to ask Ken here the same question.

Why are you here, fella? You're not a Hollywood guy. You're a real estate tycoon, correct? Or maybe that's not the full story. Caught in the spotlight, Ken's face rapidly drained of blood. He looked down and mumbled. I've known Carmen since college. I'm an investor in this.

production company, lending him money and hoping for a good return. That's the full extent of my involvement here. It was just business. That's a really swell thing to do, Ken. Helping your friends realize their dreams, that's very noble. I used to have dreams too. It was nice to have those dreams. Oh, it really was.

And it would have been super helpful if I would have. paid for the use of those dreams. Oh, you betcha. But that's not how I played out, my man. So now we're here. A light went on behind Ken's eyes. I'll give you a million dollars if you let me walk out that door. Hell, I'll give you two million.

Just let me walk out of here, and it's yours. The intruder looked darkly amused by the real estate mogul's offer. He cracked a grim smile and chuckled. What about these other people? I bet you're probably the wealthiest person here, living or dead. Are you going to offer to pay for them, too? I don't care about these people. I hardly even know them for Christ's sake.

If they did something to you, go ahead and deal with them. I don't give a shit. Just let me live. A shadow passed behind the intruder's icy gaze. He studied Ken's battered, miserable face and said, Of course you don't care about them. They aren't fat stacks of money. There are other people.

Here, come with me. The gunman grabbed Ken by the shirt and hauled him to his feet. He ushered him down the steps to the front door. Take a peek out this window and tell me what you see. The intruder steered him in front of the door and pulled up the blinds. Ken gave him an uncertain look and the intruder said, Go on. Tell me what's happening out there.

Here, just a second. Put this on first. He jammed his baseball cap onto Ken's head and pushed him in front of the window. A few seconds later, a sharpshooter put a round through his forehead. A splatter of red burst from the back of his skull as he fell in a shower of glass. He was dead before he hit the ground. The intruder quickly reached over and dropped the blinds again. A split second later, another shot blasted through the slats and embedded itself in the staircase.

He ejected the magazine from his own pistol as he hurried up the stairs, fishing another one from his pocket as he studied the dwindling ranks of his hostages. He vaguely motioned at the door with a bitter grin and announced, And now there are seven. Ron twisted in his seat and glared at the intruder with a look of disgust. Do you think that was funny? Huh? Is this funny to you? Nothing is funny.

And he shot Ron twice in the chest. Carla screamed as the director tumbled onto the floor. The intruder grabbed him by the leg and dragged him into the open space of the living room. He bared his teeth in a furious smile and repeated. Nothing is funny, not even close. In fact, everything is awful. He proceeded to punctuate his words with a series of kicks to the head and body. Ranting and raving has spit went flying in all directions. You screwed up, Ronnie, you're screwed up, you are screwed up so bad. You destroyed me.

You destroyed my marriage. You destroyed my entire life. You pissed down my neck and you told me it was raining, didn't you? You fucking destroyed my life! The intruder stopped to catch his breath, panting and wheezing, and that bitter grin was still pasted on his face. At that point, Carmine's business line began to ring again. The intruder answered it on the third ring. It's still me. I'm still alive.

You made a mistake? Oh, hell yeah. You definitely made it. a mistake. He's just killed the real estate guy. Good work, dumbass. He paused, then quietly said. If you come in, I'll blast the whole condo sky high. I've got the doors ripped to blow, and I'm wearing a vest with... What was that? No, it's not... For Christ's sake, listen to me, man. Is that something you could ever give me? It isn't yours to give. Look, I don't think we have anything to talk about, No more phone calls.

Stay the hell out until it's over. The gunman hung up on the negotiator, and then he shot the phone off the desk. It jumped into the air with a loud pop and spray of plastic. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, squeezing the pistol between his hands and a sweaty death grip as he filled his lungs to capacity. He let it out slowly, bit by bit, and the trembling in his hands almost ceased. Not completely, but almost. the hell is going on?

And a sudden curtain of tears blurred his vision. He wanted to fade away and disappear, but that wasn't possible. He was doomed to finish what he'd started. There simply wasn't any other course of action. The intruder wiped his eyes with his sleeve and hurried back to the conversation nook. Looks like we're in the final act, everyone. No more foot-dragging. The hostages looked around at each other with panic in their eyes.

What does that mean? What are you saying? In response, he racked the slide and loaded around into the chamber. Carlo let out a whimper and started to hyperventilate. Jeremy glared at him and snapped. Do you understand how many lives you've completely shattered tonight? Over what? 60 grand, maybe?

How long do you think that money would have lasted? The residuals aren't going to make you rich. Believe me, it isn't good money. In screenwriting credit isn't some sort of golden ticket to fame and fortune either. You threw your life away And for what? Why? Do you really think you were robbed of your success?

Because here's the harsh reality, okay? I can almost guarantee you wouldn't have gone anywhere. One and done, never to be repeated. How do you think you would have handled that tough guy? Would you have taken your little gun and killed the entire industry? You're an idiot. The intruder gave him a bewildered look.

Oh, screw you jackass! You stole from me! You people made tens of millions of dollars from my fucking story, and you didn't give me anything! Not one red cent! No recognition! Not even a pat on the back! Are you trying to make yourself look like you're the good guy right now? Do you think you're the only one who's ever been ripped off?

Because it's happened to me too. Several times. And it sucked really bad each and every time. So I get it, man. I do. It sucks. And it makes you want to light the whole world on fire. But it's just another harsh reality for this business.

Yeah, okay, you wrote a damn good story, so what? They're not going to invite you into the studio and give you a job. Are you kidding me? You're an outsider, get it? You're just another average show with a pinch of talent. You're not one of them, and you never will be. Do you think they want something like you hanging around the writer's room? You don't belong there.

They probably wouldn't even let you sweep the parking lot. You just... You don't... The look on the gunman's face made Jeremy stop talking. He loomed over the screenwriter and repeated in a strangled whisper. I'm an outsider, an interloper, an intruder, if you will. Okay? I won't argue that.

You're right. I'm not one of you sold this shit heels. Fuck, no. Before this happened, I was a deep... decent person. And I don't give a shit about money or recognition. Not anymore. I don't care about starting your career either. I don't even care about dying. Just between you and me, I'm pretty sure there's no heaven or how. There's only hope on one side and death on the other." The screenwriter opened his mouth to say something and the intruder promptly popped him on

the chin with a left hook. Jeremy's head snapped back, and he looked up at his tormentor with a dazed expression. Keep your mouth closed and listen. I'm talking here, not you. I'm talking about hope, shithead. Let me tell you about the nature of hope, okay? It's like a tiny little candle out there in the void. It's so small, you know?

It's so small and it's, you know, it's so goddamn fragile. And beyond the light of the flame, there's so small. There's darkness and sorrow, just nothing. Nothing at all. And then you morally bankrupt bastards, you came along and you pissed out the flame. You didn't have to do that, but you did. And now there's only the void. Jeremy mutely shook his head.

His eyes were glimmering with tears. I'm sorry, okay. It wasn't my fault. The intruder prodded him. He prodded him in the chest with the pistol. He leaned down and breathed. The light is gone. And now it's time to go to sleep.

Elizabeth twisted in her seat and screeched. Gave up and quit. Loser! Loser! Do you want to hear another truth, you whiny little bitch? You don't have what it takes to make it in this business. You get eaten alive. You're right.

I wasn't made to swim with the sharks. I was just a dreamer with my silly. little dreams. And then you destroyed them. Your dreams can get fucked too! She spat at his face. The intruder wiped his face with the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt, and then he was suddenly looming over her.

His hand drawn back to knock her senseless. She hissed. Don't you touch me! And lashed out with both feet, driving both her heels into his shins. He let out a shrill cry and stumbled back. Elizabeth screeched in triumph and bicycle kicked her legs at him with Desperate intensity, by sheer accident, one of her feet knocked the gun out of his hand. It spun away into the air and disappeared beneath the opposite couch.

Get him! Elizabeth screamed and launched herself at the gunman like a battering ram. Her head slammed into his stomach and they both fell into the coffee table, smashing the glass top into a thousand glittering shards. He threw her aside and tried to stand up, but he was booted back to the floor by Trent, who immediately lost his balance and tripped over the table. He rolled across the broken glass and flound. popped onto the top of the intruder, pinning him down with his body weight. Jump on him! Hold him down! Trent shouted.

Jeremy leaned forward in his seat and twisted his arms against the rigid grasp of the zip tie, fighting against it with all his strength. There was a horrible flare of pain as his skin tore open beneath the plastic teeth, and then the zip tie snapped in half. My heads are free! And he jumped on the intruder's back, pummeling him with his arms that were completely numb from lack of circulation. Carla and Elizabeth both dropped their weight across the intruder's flailing legs. He roared in fury and squirmed like a snake beneath them.

Elizabeth yelled. Jeremy got the gun! The intruder managed to heave himself onto the table and Trent squealed. He squirmed away from the brawl with blood pouring from a deep cut across his abdomen. The intruder twisted around with wiry strength and slashed Jeremy across the neck. The screenwriter clapped a hand across the wound and jumped to his feet. He was slashed across the leg as he tried. to run for the front door, causing him to fall over the couch and execute a clumsy somersault

in the process. His neck was spluttering blood beneath his hand. Elizabeth and Carla rolled away from the deadly fury of his knife. They cowered against the couch and begged for mercy. The intruder gasped, You almost had me! And he hauled himself to his feet. Elizabeth had given him a hairline fracture in his shin, but he could still hobble along faster

than Jeremy, who was bleeding like a fountain as he drunkenly zigzagged his way to the door. The intruder caught up to him at the top of the stairs, and he shoved Jermy headfirst down the staircase. His neck snapped like a pencil on impact. He watched his own blood flow across the marble tiles as his vision faded to black. The intruder came limping back with his mouth twisted into a horrible grin. He headed straight for Trent, who was writhing around on the floor with his guts bulging from his wound. The intruder leaned over him and grunted. End of scene.

Time to shut her down. The younger man's cries for help turned into a dreadful gagging sound as the intruder pushed the knife around his neck. Trent stared up at him with unbelieving eyes, his blood gushing onto the carpet in a stream. Within a few seconds, his gaze turned murky and dull, and then he was staring at nothing at all. Outside the condo, the voice on the bullhorn was shouting for the intruder to reconnect the phone.

It seemed strangely muted and distant, as if the world outside was no longer attached to the horrible events that were unfolding inside the condo. The intruder looked over at Elizabeth and Carla and spat a wad of bloody mucus on the carpet. And then there were three. Thank fuck, it's almost over. Elizabeth closed her eyes tightly. Don't give yourself up to the cops. Don't you dare.

Just blow your brains out and remove yourself from this world, you piece of shit. That's the plan. He hesitated, then turned to Carla. I guess this isn't worth much, but I don't think you deserved any of this. I'm sorry that you were here. What about me? And until after the trailer was released, I thought what they did was really shitty and I wasn't the only one. His mouth twisted into a bitter little smirk.

Thoughts and prayers, huh? You're a famous celebrity, correct? You and the rest of them, you could have used your influence to pressure the studio to doing the right thing. What were they going to do? Take the entire cast and crude accord? I doubt it. But you didn't stick up for me, did you? You thought to yourself,

geez, that sucks, and that's as far as it went. And that's exactly the problem here, Liz. No one gives a shit about anyone else. Me, me, me, that's all I ever hear these days. I turn on the TV, I listen to the radio, I go online, and there it is. me, me, me. That's all there is anymore.

I don't want to live in a world like that. If we're all looking out for number one out there, what's the fucking point of civilization? Then what are you doing right now? You murdered all these people tonight because you didn't get what you wanted. How is that not selfish? When in Rome.

And he winced as he crouched down to fish the pistol out from beneath the, couch. As he dropped out of view, Elizabeth uttered an anguished scream and ran for the window. At the same time, something smashed through the window from the outside and bounced off the floor. It was a flashbang made. It detonated directly in her screaming face. There was a tremendous boom and a brilliant flash of light. Elizabeth's brain was almost jellified by the concussive force of the blast, and her once beautiful features were scorched to the bone. She fell backwards and dropped like a brick to the floor. Carla found herself curled up on the floor

with a dreadful buzzing in her skull. She shouted for help, but she could barely hear her own voice. The intruder staggered into view and shouted something, but his words were lost beneath the ringing in her ears. Carla tried to get up, but she was overwhelmed by a wave of nausea. Her head was aching like a rotten tooth, and her vision was scrambled from the glare of the flashbang. She squinted at the intruder's blurry form and saw the pistol in his hand. Carla struggled against the zip tie that bound her hands together, and she yelled. Don't do it! Just put it down on me!

Both of the entrances were busted down at the same time, and the SWAT team came pouring in from either side. The intruder turned to face them and raised his pistol. Carla watched as his body was riddled by a hail of bullets, and when the shooting finally stopped, Carla stumbled across the gore-smeared carpet and fell to her knees beside him. The police were shouting orders to her, but she couldn't hear them. Her entire world had shrunken down to a narrow view of the intruder, twitching like a fish out of water in a pool of his own blood. The intruder wasn't holding a pistol. It was still lost somewhere beneath the couch.

He was holding the TV remote. He let it fall from his hand, and he mouthed the single word as the light faded from his eyes. Boom! And then he was gone. Carla was abruptly dragged to her feet by a set of clutching, uncaring hands. She let out an anguish scream and fought against them, dragging her heels across the floor as they pulled her outside. She was the sole survivor, the last little scumbag, and she couldn't bear to leave the others behind. Carla was still screaming when they loaded her into the ambulance.

She screamed until she was sedated, and then she silently screamed in her nightmares. And for the rest of her days beneath the sun, a part of her would always be screaming, because the void awaited. us all, and when hope is extinguished, the shadows will consume you. It's cold in there, my friends, and it's dark. So very, very dark.