The maze had transformed from a twisted game show set into a sprawling tomb of steel and shadows. The once-familiar groans of shifting walls now carried an ominous weight, like the labored breaths of a dying beast. Emergency lights flickered sporadically, casting elongated silhouettes that danced like specters on the grimy floors. The air was thick with the metallic tang of rust and the faint, acrid scent of smoke from distant malfunctions. No voice boomed from the speakers to guide or taunt them. Chris McLean's absence hung over everything like a shroud, amplifying the terror in every echoing footstep.
Bridgette, DJ, and Owen moved cautiously through a narrow corridor, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. Bridgette, usually the picture of calm optimism with her blonde ponytail swaying like a beacon of hope, now clutched her surfboard keychain like a talisman. DJ, the gentle giant with a heart as big as his frame, kept glancing over his shoulder, his massive shoulders hunched as if expecting the walls to close in at any moment. Owen, ever the optimist even in crisis, tried to lighten the mood with forced chuckles, but his round face was pale, his usual appetite for fun replaced by a gnawing dread.
They turned a corner into what looked like a wider chamber—perhaps a junction point in the labyrinth. The floor here was uneven, scattered with debris from earlier collapses. Owen's foot crunched on something brittle, and he froze.
"Guys… look," Owen whispered, his voice trembling as he pointed ahead.
There, sprawled in a mangled heap against the wall, was Duncan—or what was left of him. The punk's body had been torn apart by the minefield explosion, his limbs scattered like broken toys. Blood had pooled in dark, sticky puddles, congealing around fragments of his leather jacket and green mohawk. His face—or half of it—was frozen in a grimace of shock, eyes wide open in eternal surprise.
Bridgette gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The color drained from her face, leaving her skin as white as sea foam. DJ staggered back a step, his knees buckling slightly under his weight. Owen's eyes bulged, his cheeks turning a sickly green.
"Oh man… oh no, no, no," Owen stammered, his voice cracking. "That's… that's Duncan. What happened to him? He was… he was just…"
DJ shook his head slowly, tears welling in his kind eyes. "This ain't right. This ain't part of the game. Chris wouldn't—"
But Bridgette couldn't take it anymore. The sight of Duncan's shredded remains triggered something primal in her—a raw, unfiltered panic. "I can't… I can't stay here!" she cried, her voice high-pitched and breaking. She spun on her heel, bolting back the way they'd come, her feet pounding against the metal grating in blind flight.
"Bridgette! Wait! Don't—" DJ called out, reaching futilely after her.
Too late.
Her foot landed on a slightly raised plate—the same kind of deceptive tile that had claimed Duncan. A soft click echoed, barely audible over her ragged breaths.
Then the explosion.
A thunderous boom ripped through the corridor, fire and shrapnel erupting in a violent plume. Bridgette's body was flung into the air, disintegrated mid-flight. Limbs tore free, torso shredded, blood spraying in a horrific arc. Chunks of her—flesh, bone, blonde hair matted with gore—hurtled through the air like shrapnel from a grenade.
Most of it slammed into Owen.
The big guy staggered backward, arms windmilling as wet, warm pieces plastered against his chest and face. "Aaaah! Get it off! Get it—" he wailed, his voice a mix of horror and disgust. The impact threw off his balance, and he toppled sideways—straight into another cluster of hidden mines.
The second explosion was even louder, a chain reaction that lit up the chamber like a flashbang. Owen's massive frame was obliterated, his body erupting in a fountain of blood and debris. The blast wave knocked DJ off his feet, slamming him against the wall. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left of Owen but craters and scattered remnants— a charred sneaker here, a bloody scrap of shirt there.
DJ lay there for a moment, dazed, ears ringing. Then the nausea hit. He rolled onto his side and vomited, heaving until nothing was left but dry sobs. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the grime and blood spatter. "No… not them… not like this," he whispered, his voice raw. "Mama… oh, Mama, what do I do?"
He forced himself up, legs shaking like a newborn fawn. Sallow-faced and trembling, he stumbled away from the carnage, deeper into the maze. He couldn't look back. The horror was too much. Step by step, he pressed on, whispering prayers under his breath, until he reached a relatively safer alcove—a small, enclosed space with no immediate traps.
There, huddled in the corner, was Katie. She was curled up in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, tears carving clean tracks through the dirt on her face. Beside her, Sadie was just stirring, her eyes fluttering open as she groaned softly.
"Katie? What… what happened?" Sadie mumbled, sitting up slowly, wincing at the dried vomit on her clothes.
Katie looked up, her eyes red and swollen. "Duncan… he's… gone. And Bridgette… Owen…" But she couldn't finish. Fresh sobs wracked her body.
DJ collapsed beside them, his massive form slumping against the wall. "It's all falling apart," he said quietly, voice hoarse from crying. "We're gonna make it. We have to."
But even as he said it, doubt gnawed at him. The maze was hungry, and it wasn't done feeding.
Meanwhile, in another twisting section of the labyrinth, Geoff, Trent, and Justin moved with a deceptive calm. They hadn't encountered any traps yet—perhaps by sheer luck, or maybe the maze was toying with them, lulling them into complacency. Geoff led the way, his party hat askew, trying to keep spirits up with his laid-back surfer vibe. "Dude, this is whack. Where's Chris with the pizza break or something? I'm starving."
Trent chuckled weakly, strumming an invisible guitar on his shirt. "Yeah, man. Feels like we're in a bad dream. But we'll jam our way out."
Justin, ever the vain one, flipped his hair and flashed a perfect smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "As long as I don't mess up my look. This dust is killer on the pores."
They stepped into a chamber that seemed innocuous at first—plain walls, a faint haze in the air. But as Geoff crossed the threshold, the door behind them sealed shut with a hiss.
"Hey, what's that smell?" Geoff asked, sniffing curiously.
Too late.
Vents in the ceiling opened, spewing a thick, greenish fog that filled the room in seconds. Toxic gas—odorless at first, but now burning their lungs with acrid fury. Geoff, deepest in the chamber, inhaled a full lungful.
He coughed once, violently, then clutched his throat. His eyes bulged, veins popping on his neck as the poison worked its way through his system. Foam bubbled at his lips. He staggered, reaching for Trent, but collapsed in a convulsing heap, body twitching as the gas corroded him from the inside out.
"Geoff!" Trent screamed, face draining of color. He backed away, horror-struck, as his friend's movements slowed to a final, shuddering halt.
Justin, eyes wide with panic, turned to run—but his foot landed on a hidden pressure plate. A soft whir sounded from the wall.
A dart—long, needle-thin, tipped with a sedative strong enough to kill—shot out like an arrow. It pierced Justin's skull with a sickening thunk, drilling straight through his brain. Blood spurted from the entry and exit wounds. He didn't even have time to scream. His body went rigid, then crumpled to the floor, perfect features frozen in eternal surprise.
Trent stood alone now, sallow and shaking. "No… no, this can't be…"
The floor beneath him began to shift. Panels retracted, revealing a shallow pool of water that bubbled and churned. From hidden compartments, dozens of piranhas swarmed in—small, razor-toothed horrors with eyes like black beads, fins slicing through the rising water.
Trent backed against the wall, heart pounding. The fish leaped and snapped, inches from his ankles. "Help! Somebody… help!"
But the maze offered no mercy. The water level rose, and the piranhas surged forward, hungry for more.
In yet another shadowed wing of the labyrinth, Chef Hatchet led his small group—Leshawna, Harold, and Izzy—through a maintenance tunnel. The truth about Chris's death weighed on him like an anchor, but at least these three knew now. They moved in tense silence, flashlights cutting through the gloom.
Up ahead, voices echoed—familiar ones.
Heather and Lindsay emerged from a side passage, panting and dust-covered.
"Whoa, what happened to you two?" Leshawna asked, eyes wide.
Heather brushed off her skirt with disdain. "Oh, nothing major. Just dodged a giant swinging hammer that nearly turned us into pancakes. You know, typical Total Drama fun."
Lindsay nodded shakily. "It was huge! Like, bigger than my closet!"
Izzy grinned. "Sounds awesome! Wish I saw it."
Chef stepped forward, his face stern. "Listen up. We got bigger problems."
He repeated the grim tale: Chris's decapitation, the rogue modules, the escalating dangers. "This place is rigged to kill. Someone tampered with it. We're getting out, but we gotta find the others first."
Lindsay's eyes went wide, her lower lip trembling. She froze, staring blankly ahead, the color draining from her pretty face. Shock hit her like a tidal wave—Chris dead? The show over? Trapped in a death trap?
Heather noticed immediately. She grabbed Lindsay's shoulders and shook her gently. "Hey! Snap out of it, blondie! This isn't the time to zone out. Chris is gone—boo hoo—but we're still here. You wanna end up like him? Get your head in the game!"
Lindsay blinked, tears welling. "But… Heather… it's so scary…"
Heather softened just a fraction, pulling her into a quick hug. "I know. But we're survivors. Now move."
The group pressed on, the weight of the revelations fueling their steps. But the maze whispered promises of more death, its corridors endless and unforgiving.
The carnage was cascading, one life at a time.