Michael had never been religious, not like Carrie’s mom, but he was certain Freddy was beyond divine intervention. His shredded body dangled above their heads, the wooden posts of the balustrade streaked with wetness. The film geek had gotten a celluloid-worthy final scene.
Michael turned away in disgust, grateful it was too dark to make out the individual garlands of Freddy’s intestines. It made it easier to keep his head—and stomach—settled.
As he moved, he noticed another body in the cabin.
“Jason!” he hissed. He tugged at his cousin’s arm, pulling him back to an upright position.
A masked figure stood in the hall, holding an axe.
The Slasher.
Every hair on Michael’s body stood on end. Jason’s head snapped up, but he seemed too paralyzed from the shock of finding Freddy to react. It was up to Michael to take charge again. He dragged Jason into the front room. In his urgency, he tripped over a floor runner that he swore had been lying flat before. Fuck! He crashed to the ground, leg kicking out and taking Jason down with him.
“Shit!” The impact from the hardwood had jarred every bone in Michael’s body. He twisted around, pain echoing in his joints, afraid to lose sight of their attacker for even a second.
The Slasher seemed to fill the doorway to the front room, axe held in both gloved hands. An uncanny thrill electrified Michael’s veins. Moonlight from the open windows glanced off the white mask, highlighting the impassive, merciless features. The costume was stupidly effective. It was easier to fear an abstract concept instead of a real human face. A person could be bargained with. But there was no negotiating with the Slasher.
Especially not when he held that axe.
Jason finally shook off his shock and was the first to his feet, leaping up in front of Michael. Always the protector, even though Michael wasn’t a wimp anymore.
“Why are you doing this?” Jason demanded, his voice cracking at the end. If Michael hadn’t had the wind knocked out of him, he would’ve told Jason not to waste his breath. A cold-blooded killer would never stop to give answers.
The Slasher remained silent. He hefted the axe, took a single step forward, and paused, like he was daring them to take action. Jason stepped back, the motion driving Michael into the increasingly smaller gap between himself and a wall.
“Jason—” Michael croaked. They were trapped. He groped blindly at a side table and found a vase. He threw it but it only shattered at the Slasher’s feet. The Slasher inclined his head like he was asking Michael a question. Michael grimaced. He’d improved his strength over the years but not his aim.
Jason had better luck. He scooped a crystal paperweight off thefloor and hurled it like he was passing a football. Michael yelped as the Slasher dodged it just in time. The paperweight crashed into the wall behind him, leaving a hole in the drywall.
The Slasher straightened and calmly cracked his neck from side to side as if this was only a warm-up.
“Jason—” Michael croaked again. His heart thudded in his chest. This was it. This was the end. It wasn’t at all how he’d imagined it going down. He could feel his cousin’s body quivering in front of him, although Jason’s chin was raised, ready to fight to the bitter, bloody end. He always had to be the hero, even when death was staring him right in the face. What was the point in being brave? They’d seen Freddy flung carelessly over the banister, gutted like a fish. They’d seen what the Slasher could do.
Michael wanted to tell Jason to give up. For once in his life, couldn’t he accept defeat? It was over. Defiance wouldn’t save him from that axe.
Jason suddenly dove over the sofa, leaving Michael exposed to the Slasher. The Slasher cocked his head, like he was saying,Can you believe that?Michael couldn’t. He gaped at the Slasher, paralyzed. The axe blade was only a few feet from Michael’s face, so close he could see a dark smudge across the blade, like it had been hastily wiped clean. Wiped clean of Tiffany’s blood, he realized. His pulse resounded in his ears like a gong and his mouth dried up.
In that heartbeat, a strange noise breached the night. With the power out, the sound of a sputtering engine was as foreign as another language. Was one of their friends trying to drive away despite the deflated tires?
The Slasher also tilted his head toward the billowing curtains. Jason took the opportunity to roll across the floor and spring to his feet by the front windows. He plunged his hand into one of the boxes Patrick had brought, pulling out an orange snub-nosed pistol.
The flare gun. Was Jason nuts? He couldn’t fire that in the confines of the cabin. It would do more harm to themselves than to the Slasher. “Jason, no!” Michael yelled.
The next minute seemed to happen in slow motion, measured by the hammering of Michael’s pulse in his ears. The Slasher whipped around to face Jason. Michael tumbled over the sofa to get to Jason’s side. “No!” he shouted. “Not the flare gun! It’s not safe!”
The Slasher crossed the room in long strides. It was too late.
Jason waved the flare gun. “Stay back!”
The Slasher ignored him, raising his arms over his head.
“Run!” Michael cried, bracing for the impact of the axe.
He cowered as a deafening bang sent shock waves through his skull, and the world detonated before his eyes.
23
Patrick
