Fuck it, you say. There's no way out from upstairs. You have to make a run for it. You grab the land-line phone, a good eight-pounds of heavily-molded plastic, ripping the cord out of it. You run, flinging the weight of the phone hard towards his head. It's enough that he has to compensate, and throws off the trajectory of his axe. He misses widely to his right. You shove hard into his chest, and the man falls backwards, stuck for a turtle-like second. And, that's more than enough. You scamper for the open and unblocked door, taking the steps three and four at a time, landing in a crashing thump loud enough to raise the dead, but is immediately drowned out by the much larger cacophony of a thunder so loud it rattles the glass windows and shakes the chandelier. Stopping for a second in the storm, you look around.
To the right is the interior of the house, and to the left is the front door. Which way do you go? Surely your interrupted 911 call has spurred them to come check this address. There should be officers in the area already! Do you make your way to the car and await the po, or do you try to look further into the house for aid?
To the right is the interior of the house, and to the left is the front door. Which way do you go? Surely your interrupted 911 call has spurred them to come check this address. There should be officers in the area already! Do you make your way to the car and await the po, or do you try to look further into the house for aid?