Death was smiling at him. Wyatt could feel his cold, clammy fingers in the damp vines, tightening and pulling, determined to end him.

But Wyatt was equally resolute that he was going to survive.

Death grinned and he grit his teeth, fingers hard around Max's wrist, holding strong as his knife flashed, vines snapping with each cut. One of his legs came free, and he pulled as Max did, dragging himself away from the tree, the last of the tangled green web pulling taught.

"Bags!"

He'd be damned if the tree was getting those either.