Word Count: 2,305
Rating: M
Warnings: serial killer, blood, mentions of torture, murder, disturbing themes, minor characters death, horror
AN: I decided that, instead of posting something humor-filled, I, in true Halloween fashion will post something blood-chilling. Thus, I changed the places of one of the "main" fics with one of the "bonus" fics (mind you, I'll post the main fic with the second bonus fic - but those two will be up tomorrow instead of today because I'm really sick and not feeling well). Happy Halloween to those of you that are celebrating, and to the rest - happy October 31st/November 1st ;)

Run, the clock is ticking

The twigs were scratching at her face and her lungs burned from the effort to keep up with Bellamy's long strides.

Her head pulsed from her wound and she had to brush away the blood from her eyelashes to see. She was tired; beyond tired and terrified, scared shitless out of her mind.

If it wasn't for Bellamy she would have given up this chase long ago and just waited for him.

Clarke stumbled over a root and fell down, partially taking Bellamy down with her. He cursed when the flashlight hit a rock and broke and she wanted to weep for the loss of their only source of light in this miserable dark forest.

"Get up." His harsh winded voice urged her up as he tugged sternly at her arm. "Get up, Clarke, now!"

There were sounds of fast approaching feet behind them and he shoved her behind one of the bigger trees, covering her shaking form with his and put his hand over her mouth to cover her hiss of pain when the bar of the tree bit into her tender skin. Her eyes watered but she blinked the tears away and tried to focus.

Bellamy's breathing was as laboured as her own; the gash that ran diagonally down his chest was still bleeding sluggishly again, their fall having aggravated the wound. He was close enough for her to feel the panicked beat of his heart, threatening to burst out if his ribcage and escape on its own. His hands were dirt smeared, with dark red blood splotches around his biceps from where Jasper-

No, nonono, no.

She couldn't think of any of them right now. Not now when a panic attack was the last thing they needed.

Her lungs felt constricted and her breath hitched; she wasn't getting enough air and that send her mind in overdrive. Her hands reached to scratch at Bellamy's hand on her mouth but he only bore down harder, not even winching at the pain she was causing him.

There was loathing in his gaze (but not for her), a mad glint that spoke of despair and hopelessness, of a seething rage that demanded vengeance, but also the realisation that he could only try and run for this was not an enemy he could take on.

Not unless he was to leave her behind.

And the way he used his other hand to brush away her tears and soothe her frenzy betrayed his thoughts on the matter.

Bellamy wasn't going to just leave her behind.

Not only because he lost Octavia.

And Raven and Monty; there was nothing left of Jasper and Miller had long gone missing.

Finn got separated from them a while back but Clarke had no strength to hope for his life.

Lincoln, god, Lincoln... she still could see him behind her eyelids – tortured, bloody, screaming, begging, broken beyond recognition, strapped to a chair, broken fingers, missing teeth...

Their hunter knew no mercy.

For him they were nothing but entertaining prey, a way to pass the boredom, to quench his bloodlust, his sick and twisted tendencies.

Her fingers dig into his arms and he let her, forgiving her the same way he was begging her for forgiveness for the things he had to do, for the things he was going to do to keep them alive.

The rustling of the leaves became more and more distant and yet they stood like that for a while more. They had learned the hard way that he loved traps and playing with his victims more than anything else.

Her panic eventually subsided, the barely there ticking of her wristwatch reminding her that they were close, so close to get away from this hell.

Bellamy leaned his forehead against hers and buried his hands in her dirty hair; his grip was hard and nearly violent in its ferocity to make sure she was still there with him, still breathing. She let him, rejoiced in the sting of her wounds, in the pull of her hair. They needed this to remind themselves what they were fighting for, living for, running for.

Clarke dared not speak but she leaned forward and laid one chaste kiss on his cold cracked lips. It was her only way of saying that she would continue to fight just for him, because of him.

He kissed her back, his lip splitting and adding the bitter coppery taste of blood, but it was so fitting for their situation that she didn't know if she wanted to cry or laugh.

His hand found hers and he squeezed her fingers – a silent encouragement – and lifted her arm up until he could make out the tiny dial and the hand that was slowly moving to point at midnight.

Twenty-eight minutes, that was all they had to endure.

The chase had started the moment October 30th gave way to October 31st.

He had given them twenty-four hours to hide from him, to run and try to get away, to try to kill him, to try to save their friends, to become his prey.

Twenty-seven minutes until November 1st. That was the countdown to their salvation.

But while the clock was ticking they couldn't afford to be sitting ducks.

Cautiously and with great reluctance, Bellamy moved away and Clarke had to stifle a groan when her whole body protested against walking again.

Her fingers snagged the hem of his falling apart shirt and they stumbled amongst the trees, bodies heavy with exhaustion, cold and hungry, lacking the energy to go on.

Every little sound, every snap of twigs and leaves under their shoes, every hoot in the dark, it made them tense and stop, fear freezing their blood as their hearts raced against time.

But everything was going too good to be true.

Little over ten minutes were left when everything turned upside down.

The sound of a metal, a disengaged lock, the snapping of steel jaws and Bellamy's howl of pain when the bear trap caught his leg, sharp teeth sinking into the flesh of his ankle.

He swayed to the side and Clarke held him up, carefully manoeuvring him to sit on the ground.

The trap had been hidden between an artfully created layer of leaves and twigs, completely blending in the dark with the rest of the forest ground.

Bellamy swore loudly even as he clenched his teeth and bit his tongue to stop another scream from leaving him. The pain was white-hot, shifting, digging into his muscles and tearing them apart, an agonizing circle of hurt that had no end, no exit.

His hands were shaking when he moved them down to his blood-soaked leg and tried to pry the metal jaws apart.

The strain was too much, the pain nearly blinding and the trap refused to budge.

Clarke sobbed next to him but even then her hands joined his, palms slipping on the blood but coming back time and time again to try and help him.

Bellamy was a sobbing dirty wreck, his leg was in hell and the more they tried to get the trap off the worse it got. Another fruitless tug and when the spring didn't move, Bellamy pushed Clarke away.

Her hands were streaked red up to her elbows, the front of her shirt an unrecognisable mess.

"Go."

"No, no, you don't get to do this to me." Her palms cupped his face and he leaned into her touch despite the blood. Her skin was cold and she was pale and shaking. "No, you promised we would get away."

His scream had given away their location. He would be here every minute now.

Bellamy couldn't lose her too.

"Clarke, you have to." Tears were running down his face – from the pain in his leg and from the pain in his heart.

He touched her face – her nose, her lips, brushed his fingers over her eyebrows, tickled her eyelashes, pushed her blond hair back and kissed her forehead.

She was shaking her head no, blunt nails digging in his scalp, holding him almost impossibly tight.

And then the rustling came.

"Run."

Bellamy looked at her and willed her to go, to leave him behind, to survive this hellhole.

And she did – Clarke rose on shaking legs and with one last glance at him, she turned around and ran into the darkness.

Agony seized his being and Bellamy laughed hysterically – this was not how he had imagined his death; it came way too soon and in a way he wouldn't wish it to his greatest enemy.

Bellamy braced himself on his arms and dragged and pushed his body until he was leaning back against one of the trees, the chain attached to the trap jiggling dully in the night.

First came the sounds of the steps and then the light of the flashlight; the body accompanying them was last – tall, big, broad-shouldered, a buzz cut and beady black eyes that shone with a sadistic gleam, a machete attached to one of his legs and a knife in his free hand.

Bellamy got up, propped against the tree and taking the weight off his bleeding leg.

He smiled wickedly and used the flashlight to look around, making an intrigued sound when he didn't see anyone else.

"Did your little girlfriend leave you to die?"

Bellamy shifted and the chain pulled at the trap making him wince and unwittingly move forward.

The man's grin widened gleefully and he crouched down to unravel the beginning of the chain. Before Bellamy could brace himself or do something, anything, the chain was pulled and Bellamy fell, excruciating pain making him blackout for a second as he was brutally dragged along the ground to him. The metal teeth in his leg sliced through more of his flesh and Bellamy felt bile rising in his throat from the overstimulation to his nerves.

"I guess I'll have to make it quick then," he drew the machete and carelessly tossed the knife to the side as if he didn't believe Bellamy could put a fight. "We don't want her to get away."

Bellamy tried to roll away but the pain was clouding everything else and he was barely coherent.

Just as the machete was aimed to go down on him, a flash of blond made him look to the side where silly brave Clarke made a dash towards him, hitting the man in the back of his head with the longest thickest log she had managed to get her hands on.

He staggered to the side and Clarke swung again, catching him in the face and making him drop the machete.

Bellamy turned on his side and crawled towards the knife.

Clarke went for the machete but the moment she got her hands on it, the murderer grabbed her hair and twisted until she cried out and kicked back to try and get free. He clasped one hand around her throat and lifted her off the ground, chocking her with no intent of stopping until she was dead.

Clarke gurgled, fingers rising to scratch at his hand but he was relentless.

Bellamy's fingers dug into the ground, a hair's breath away from the knife, Clarke's desperate breathing the only sound in his ears as he pushed his body beyond the agony he was feeling.

She was going blue in the face and Bellamy clenched his hand around the hilt of the knife.

Just as it seemed she was about to stop breathing, she raised the machete she was still somehow holding onto, and thrust it with all her remaining strength into her unsuspecting attacker. The blade cut the skin like paper and he let her go, linking unbelievingly at where the machete had cone through his chest.

Clarke fell down with a crash, wheezing for air and coughs shaking her curled frame.

Bellamy used one of the trees to get up and wobbled towards her.

But then their attacker drew the blade out of his chest as if it meant nothing and pointed his murderous glare at Clarke.

"You bitch."

Bellamy used his momentary distraction to approach him from the back and just as he raised his sword against Clarke, Bellamy sank his knife to the hilt under his left armpit.

He chocked and turned to look at Bellamy and Bellamy took the knife out only to aim it at the murderer's chest, again and again, until he no longer had the strength to pull the knife out.

Yet, their hunter was still standing, bloody and hurt and hell bent on killing them both.

But then Clarke was up, finger-shaped purple bruises on her neck and she jabbed the knife into his heart, twisting the blade with a sickening crunch.

It was only then that he fell down to his knees and then to his side, his chest unmoving.

It was only then that Bellamy allowed himself to slide down, all the pain suddenly registering and making him dizzy.

Clarke was on him in a blink of an eye, checking him over new injuries and when that was over – hands hesitating over the bear trap.

Bellamy gave her a curt nod and then he screamed his pain when she managed to pry the trap jaws apart with the help of the log. She took her shirt off – or what was left of it- and tied it tightly over his leg.

She dragged her tired body next to him and her head fell against his shoulder.

"I told you to run."

She scoffed and her fingers held his in a nearly bruising grip.

"Don't ever say that again."

His gaze never left the frozen form of their attacker that was illuminated by the fallen flashlight.

"Deal."

The watch on Clarke's wrist showed two minutes past midnight.

They made it.

But did they really made it?

- M.