Kat started to turn, when a big hand gripped her shoulder.
"You're dead," the Murderer announced, the voice a little louder, a little less raspy -- and clearly identifiable.
She turned and muffled a squeak of indignation. She had been wrong.
"You--" Kat stopped herself as the Murderer pressed one finger to his lips, signaling for silence.
"Do me proud," he whispered, and swept out of the stairwell.
"That sucks," Mac said. He gestured at the floor. "Make yourself comfortable."
"Thanks. I already have my death spot picked out." Kat silently counted to ten, then slammed herself against the doors, making the crash-bang as they opened reverberate through the theater building. She was proud of that noise, even as she realized she would probably have a bruise to last for a week. Inhaling until her chest hurt, she staggered blindly toward the rack of folding chairs. When her hand touched the metal guide bar, she released all the pressure in her lungs, with a howl worthy of every animated movie villainess she had ever seen. As her dying shriek ended on a sob, she draped herself over the empty end of the chair rack.
If she was lucky, she would be found by someone with a camera. She hated it when a perfectly good death pose went to waste.