CUT: Part 12

“Why are the lights off?” Gusto muttered as he and Dezzy rounded the final curve in the road. Ahead, Milt Drabbs’ farmhouse loomed as a dark, hulking silhouette against the night sky, moonlight glinting coldly off the dormers and steep roofline.

Both men froze for a split second, exchanging a loaded glance—fear sharpening their features—before breaking into a full sprint up the gravel drive, boots pounding in unison.

They reached the edge of the driveway just as every light in the house flared back to life, windows glowing warm.

Gusto slowed near the rear of the news van, still parked where they’d left it on the gravel shoulder. 

The interior was dark, silent.

“Where the hell is Freddie?” he asked, voice tight, peering at the shadowed windows.

Dezzy’s hand was already on his holstered pistol, jaw set grim. “Stay behind me.” He said.

Gusto nodded, heart hammering, hand on the cross hanging around his neck. The handsome young deputy approached the rear of the van. 

Dezzy cautiously unlatched the two doors and swung them open with a metallic groan. 

Empty. 

Camera gear scattered, driver’s seat vacant.

He slammed them shut again, turning to Gusto. The latino reporter looked back at him with wide, worried eyes. “Freddie wouldn’t just leave the van.” He said.

Dezzy’s handsome face hardened, hazel eyes scanning the now-lit farmhouse. “Augusto—get in the van. Drive straight to town. Get help. Get the hell away from here. Something’s very wrong.”

Gusto didn’t argue. He stepped close, pulling Dezzy into a fierce, brief embrace—strong arms wrapping around the deputy’s solid frame, feeling the rapid thud of Dezzy’s heart against his own. When they parted, Gusto held his gaze. “Be safe, guapo,” he said, voice low and earnest. A small, determined smile broke through. “We’re getting that coffee when this is over. No excuses.”

Dezzy’s cheeks flushed under the moonlight, but he nodded sharply, recomposing himself in an instant. He turned and sprinted up the driveway toward the house, pistol drawn.

Gusto climbed into the van through the rear doors, maneuvering his muscular frame into the driver’s seat. He reached for the keys still dangling in the ignition—and froze.

The windshield was smeared with thick, dark blood. Streaks and rivulets running down from the roof like a horror-movie curtain.

His breath caught. He fumbled for the wiper switch. The blades jerked across the glass, only smearing the mess worse, useless against the heavy drip still seeping from above.

Panic surged. Gusto jammed the key, engine roaring to life. He threw the van into reverse and floored it—tires spinning gravel as the vehicle shot backward down the driveway.

A heavy, sickening clang-thump-THUD reverberated from the roof. Something large rolled forward, slamming onto the hood with a wet crunch before tumbling to the ground in front of the headlights.

“JESUS FUCK!” Gusto screamed, slamming the brakes.

In the glaring beams lay Freddie’s nude body. Massive, muscular frame crumpled in the dirt, red hair matted with blood, torso covered in blood, those powerful limbs splayed at wrong angles, lifeless eyes staring up at the stars under the crooked ball cap. Neck nothing but gore and crimson.

Gusto’s hands shook on the wheel, bile rising in his throat. He threw the van into drive, tires screeching as he whipped around and roared down the road, leaving the farmhouse lights shrinking in the rearview mirror.

In the woods, Leo's chest burned like fire as he crashed through the dense underbrush, his massive, olive-skinned frame glistening with sweat under the faint moonlight. The 22-year-old Italian stud was a vision of raw, obscene masculinity even in panic—280 pounds of perfectly sculpted muscle rippling with every desperate stride, thick pecs heaving and bouncing heavily, dark nipples stiff from the cool night air and the adrenaline-fueled pump. His black hair plastered to his forehead, full lips parted in ragged gasps, and that enormous cock—still half-hard from the interrupted fuck—swung heavy and low between his tree-trunk thighs, slapping wetly against his inner quads with each pump of his legs. Brambles and thorns tore at his flawless skin, leaving angry red welts across his golden abs, slicing shallow gashes into the perfect skin of his pecs, and nicking the sensitive flesh of his dangling balls and shaft, drawing beads of blood that mixed with the remnants of Freddie's cum still leaking from his stretched hole as it ran down his pumped legs.

He flung himself behind a thick oak trunk, slamming his broad back against the rough bark. His huge pecs rose and fell in labored heaves, sweat tracing rivulets down the deep valley between them, pooling in the ridges of his eight-pack before dripping onto his throbbing cock. The organ hung there, veined and heavy, a thick string of precum dangling from the slit and swaying with his breaths. Cuts stung everywhere but the pain only sharpened his senses. He listened intently, blood pounding in his ears like war drums, the night air carrying the faint rustle of leaves.

Silence stretched, broken only by distant crickets. Then a sharp crack. A twig snapping underfoot. Deer? Or Hollowface? Leo’s heart slammed harder, his cock twitching involuntarily at the spike of fear.

Ahead, a break in the treeline—a road, silver under the moon. Salvation. He exploded forward, branches whipping his naked form anew—thorns raking across his heavy balls, drawing fresh blood, a bramble snagging his nipple and tearing a gasp from his throat. His glutes clenched with power, propelling him faster, cock bouncing wildly, slapping against his abs and leaving smears of blood and pre-cum.

Headlights pierced the dark. Leo tumbled down the embankment in a slide of dirt and leaves, bursting onto the asphalt. He waved his thick arms frantically, muscles bulging obscenely in the glare—pecs flexing, biceps peaking, his enormous shaft swinging like a pendulum between his spread thighs.

“STOP! HELP—NOOO!”

Inside the van, Gusto gripped the wheel white-knuckled, breath coming in panicked rasps as he stared through the gore-smeared windshield—Freddie’s blood still dripping from the roof, obscuring the road in viscous streaks. A massive figure exploded into the headlights—naked, golden, muscles rippling in terror.

Gusto yelled in shock, yanking the wheel—but too late, too fast.

The grill slammed into Leo with bone-shattering force. The impact was catastrophic—the van’s front crumpling as Leo’s body exploded like overripe fruit, ribs cracking like twigs, guts erupting in a wet spray of viscera and blood that painted the hood in steaming red. His massive pecs caved inward, olive skin splitting open in ragged tears, intestines uncoiling in sloppy loops across the windshield. His enormous cock, still half-hard, was mangled against the bumper, tearing as the shaft burst in a gush of blood. Limbs flailed briefly—thick arms snapping at impossible angles, quads shredding against the metal—before the body was flung aside, a ruined heap of meat and bone tumbling into the ditch, skull cracking open on the asphalt, brains spilling gray and pink.

Gusto overcompensated in blind panic—the wheel jerked too far left. Tires screeched, the van fishtailing wildly toward the ravine. It plunged over the edge with a deafening crash—smashing through brush and small trees, metal groaning as it tipped, rolled once, twice, slamming end over end down the steep slope. Glass shattered, equipment flew, the roof caving in with each brutal impact. Finally, it came to rest upside down at the bottom, wheels spinning futilely in the air, engine hissing steam into the night.

Then, silence.

Back at the farmhouse, the lights turned on. Seb could see the glow from under the door of the storage closet. He felt around the wall, fingers feeling for a switch. 

The overhead bulb flickered once before buzzing to life, casting shadows across the cramped space. Seb blinked against the glare, heart still hammering as he took stock: wooden shelves lined with dusty cleaning supplies, folded linens, stacked boxes. His breath came in shallow bursts; he pressed his ear to the door—no sound from the hallway. Was Hollowface still waiting, patient as a spider?

His gaze traveled upward. A rectangular attic hatch in the ceiling, a pull-chain dangling like a lifeline. Seb jumped, fingers closing around the chain. He yanked hard. The panel swung down with a groan, folding stairs sliding out with a metallic scrape. Dust rained onto his face as he scrambled up, legs shaking, pulling the stairs up behind him until the hatch clicked shut.

The attic smelled of old wood and mildew. Moonlight filtered through a small gable window at the far end, illuminating piles of forgotten sports gear—football tackling dummies, deflated balls, stacks of yellowed bodybuilding magazines with oiled, posing studs on the covers. Plastic tubs of old team uniforms spilled sweat-stained jerseys and jockstraps across the floor. In the middle, near a ratty armchair and a TV with a VCR, was a box of old VHS porn tapes – lewd musclehunks with names like Mitch Magnum and Cole Cox smirking from their covers.

Seb crept forward cautiously, making his way around the armchair, trying not to make the floorboards creak. He reached the window and peered down. Relief flooded him: Deputy Dezzy was jogging up the driveway, pistol drawn, scanning the house with professional caution.

Seb pounded the glass. “Dezzy! Up here!” His fists thumped uselessly; the deputy didn’t look up. Seb clawed at the sash. It budged barely two inches before jamming, paint-sealed shut from years of neglect.

He spun, eyes darting. A tennis racket leaned in the corner. It would have to do.

Below, Dezzy approached the porch, noting his jeep untouched in the driveway. Channing hadn’t driven off. He returned his attention to the farm house. The front door was ajar. He slipped inside, gun raised.

The living room hit him like a punch: Channing’s clothes scattered across the floor. Blood soaked deep into the couch cushions. A shattered ceramic lamp base lay in pieces, crimson streaks on the shards.

“Channing! CHANNING!” Dezzy’s voice cracked as he called out for his younger brother. It was met with silence. “Jesus Christ—what the fuck happened in here,” he said, struggling to retain his composure

The room was empty. He crouched, pulse racing, and fished through Channing’s discarded jeans—finding his own jeep keys. He pocketed them, backing out slowly, gun sweeping the shadows.

Up in the attic, Seb jammed the tennis racket handle under the window sash and heaved. Wood creaked, paint flaked, and with a sudden snap the window flew upward, banging against the frame.

Cool night air rushed in. Seb leaned out. He was directly above the master-bedroom balcony, a sturdy trellis of wooden lattice running down the side wall, thick with old ivy. Better than the water spout, he hoped.

He swung his legs over the sill, cursing under his breath. This was the second time tonight he was climbing out a goddamn window. His shoes found purchase on the lattice; it groaned but held. He descended fast, hands raw on the rough wood, feet slipping once on dew-slick ivy before he dropped the last few feet onto the balcony with a thud.

He rushed to the railing. Dezzy emerged below, scanning the yard.

“DEZZY! UP HERE—HELP!” Seb’s voice cracked with desperation.

Dezzy’s head snapped up, hazel eyes wide with shock. “Seb? What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be—”

“HE’S HERE! HOLLOWFACE IS INSIDE!”

As if summoned, the balcony doors burst open behind Seb. Black cloak billowing, Hollowface lunged—gloved arm snaking around Seb’s throat, cold steel of the hunting knife pressing hard against his jugular.

Dezzy’s pistol snapped up instantly. “DROP THE KNIFE! LET HIM GO OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL SHOOT!”

Hollowface’s masked head tilted, a muffled laugh rumbling against Seb’s back. The killer dragged him backward, out of the deputy’s direct line of fire.

“I’m coming up, you sick fuck!” Dezzy roared, bolting back inside.

Seb thrashed, elbowing wildly, but the grip was hard. Hollowface hauled him to the railing again and then heaved. Seb sailed over the edge, windmilling through empty air before slamming into the dirt below. Pain exploded up his left side but nothing felt broken.

“DEZZY—IT’S A TRAP! DON’T GO IN!” he yelled, but the deputy was already inside, footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Seb staggered to his feet, vision swimming. The jeep sat twenty yards away, driver’s door still ajar from Dezzy’s earlier call. He hobbled toward it, every step agony, and dove inside, slamming the door. Hand shaking, he snatched the radio mic.

“This is Sebastian Prescock at Milt Drabbs’ farmhouse. The killer is here! He’s got Deputy Frost! Send everyone—please!”

He dropped the mic, locking the doors with a frantic punch of the button.

Through the windshield, he saw movement on the porch. Dezzy emerged, scanning urgently. He froze, spotting Seb in the jeep.

“Sebastian, I—”

A sudden jolt cut him off. Dezzy’s eyes widened; he dropped to his knees, then pitched forward face-first onto the porch. The hunting knife protruded from his back, buried to the hilt between his shoulder blades, blood already spreading dark across his uniform shirt.

Hollowface stepped out behind him. The killer crouched, patting Dezzy’s pockets with casual efficiency until he found the jeep keys. He turned to Seb and dangled them tauntingly, shaking them so the metal jingled clearly even from the driveway.

A cold spike of terror shot up Seb’s spine. Hollowface was already moving fast, sprinting toward the driver’s side with unnatural speed. He approached the window, Sunny’s face leering from the other side.

The door handle rattled, the lock clicked open. Seb yelped and quickly stabbed it back down. 

Hollowface stomped around to the passenger side, unlocking the door there with another click.

Seb lunged across the console with a desperate cry, slamming that lock down too.

The killer paused, apprising the situation. He ducked out of sight.

Seb’s heart thundered in his ears as he whipped his head side to side—driver’s window, passenger, rearview mirror. Nothing. Just moonlight and shadows.

Then—a faint metallic scrape from the back.

Hands shot from the rear cargo area, gloved fingers clamping around Seb’s throat, squeezing hard.

Seb screamed and drove his elbow backward with all his strength. It connected solidly with the side of the masked head. He felt the give of flesh beneath plastic. Hollowface’s grip loosened just a fraction.

In that instant, Seb’s fingers found the driver’s door lock, popped it, and shoved the door open. 

He tumbled out into the cool night air, hitting the gravel hard on his shoulder, pain flaring white-hot as he rolled and scrambled to his feet.

The jeep was empty again. Hollowface vanished like smoke.

Seb spun wildly, scanning the darkness. House, driveway, treeline. Nothing moved. He was alone.

“DEZZY!” The name tore from his throat as he bolted to the porch. The deputy lay prone, blood pooling beneath him, but his back rose in shallow, ragged breaths. Still alive, barely.

Seb dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he reached under Dezzy’s torso, fingers closing around the warm grip of the fallen pistol. He pulled it free, the weight heavy and reassuring in his palm.

A hoarse, familiar voice cut through the shadows behind Seb.

“Seb? Seb—what the fuck is going on?”

Seb spun, pistol shaking in his grip, barrel swinging wildly toward the sound. Channing stumbled into the porch light from the far end—still completely nude, his six-foot, 240-pound bodybuilder frame swaying unsteadily. Glossy auburn hair hung disheveled and matted from the earlier blow, a deep gash on his forehead oozing red down his chiseled features. Heavy pecs rose and fell in ragged breaths, abs contracting into sharp ridges with every labored step. A dark bruise bloomed across his jaw. His thick, heavy cock hung soft but heavy between his powerful thighs, swinging with each movement, balls low and full—a distracting, raw display of masculine perfection even in his battered state.

Channing’s eyes widened in confusion and horror as they landed on Dezzy’s body, then flicked back to Seb and the gun.

Before Seb could speak, a raspy voice barked from the opposite direction.

“Seb—get away from him! He’s the killer!”

From the shadows near the garage, Milt Drabbs emerged, waddling forward with sweaty, red-faced bluster. The overweight athletic director’s gut swung pendulously under his stained polo, jowls quivering, piggy eyes narrowed. Meaty fists clenched at his sides, sweatpants sagging low on doughy hips, the faint outline of his stubby cock visible through the thin fabric as he huffed closer.

“Murderer!” Milt bellowed, pointing a sausage-like finger at Channing. “You’re the fucking killer! I just came from the garage – Seb, he killed Josh!”

Channing’s auburn brows furrowed in shock, his naked form tensing further—pecs bouncing slightly as he squared up, that heavy cock swaying with the shift in weight. “Me? You fat bastard. I was in the house with Seb! You’re the one who just showed up out of nowhere! Where the hell were you?”

Milt snorted like a hog, spittle flying from his thin lips. “Flipping the goddamn breaker, you idiot! That dumbass Leo blew it with the hot tub. I was out back resetting it. You, on the other hand. What, finish stabbing Dezzy and forget your clothes?” Milt looked at Seb.

Channing’s face flushed with fury, his thick cock twitching involuntarily as adrenaline surged, balls drawing up tight against his thighs. “I was attacked in the house, you slob! Hollowface jammed a fucking knife in my shoulder and knocked me out with a lamp. Woke up and came looking for Seb. You’re the one with access to everything here—keys, knives, the whole setup. Admit it—you’re the sick fuck behind all this!”

Seb’s hands trembled on the pistol grip, swinging the barrel from one to the other—first at Channing’s broad, exposed chest; then at Milt’s heaving gut, the fat director’s sweaty face twisted in accusation. “I can’t think. How – how do I know who?” He cried. “Oh god – maybe it was both of you!,” Seb stammered, voice cracking, eyes darting between Channing’s vulnerable nudity and Milt’s hefty bulk.

“Seb – no! He’s the killer! He’s gone fucking psycho!” Channing protested weakly, leaning up against the wall.

“You think muscleboy here is telling the truth? If he’s working with anyone, it’s that little freak Lyle Lilly!” Milt roared, pointing a stubby finger at the handsome hunk.

“I can’t—I don’t know—” Seb backed away, panic overwhelming him. Fog building in his brain. He spun on his heel and bolted back into the farmhouse, slamming the front door behind him. His fingers fumbled the deadbolt into place, breath coming in gasps.