Jason
An arc of blood lashed Jason in the face like a whip, stinging his eyes, and a loudcrunchbattered his eardrums. It was the sound of a splitting melon rind, sharp and wet and crackling.
The phone dropped first, the light turning off and plunging them into near-darkness. Next came the clatter of the knife. Too bad Mikey hadn’t let go of it first, because then Jason could’ve grabbed it. Now, without time for his vision to adjust to the low light, he couldn’t make out where it had fallen.
Two other sounds breached the dark. Something dropped and rolled, like a fumbled football, followed by the meatywhompof a toppling body a few seconds later. The rolling object came to a stop at Jason’s feet, spattering the toes of his hiking boots, and stared up at him with shocked blue eyes.
Mikey’s head.
The props team onSlasherhad it right all along. The head didn’tlook real, and the amount of blood Jason had always thought was exaggerated was spot-on. It drooled from under Mikey’s chin, filling the gaps between floorboards. It spurted from the raw, red stump on Mikey’s headless shoulders, streaming down the hallway to mingle with the sticky puddles Freddy had left behind earlier. It dripped from the edge of Carrie’s axe in slow, languid beads.
A coppery tang flooded Jason’s mouth and he couldn’t tell if he’d bitten his tongue again, or if it was the scent and taste of Mikey’s blood as it crawled down his face.
“Wow. That was easier than I thought,” Carrie said with mild surprise, as if she’d done something mundane like folding a fitted sheet.
Now would be a good time to run. But disoriented by his deafening pulse and the gruesome reality of Mikey’s blood pooling around his boots, Jason stayed rooted to the spot. Even the pain in his shoulder seemed far away, like it was happening to someone else.
Carrie registered his shock with a mocking pout. “Aww, Jason,” she said with fake sympathy. “Are you regretting not trying to save him? Michael was always a rat. You know that.”
Defending Mikey was a knee-jerk reflex, even now. “That’s not his fault,” Jason croaked, although Mikey had gotten what he’d deserved for killing Jen and Patrick.
“Right. He had bad parents. If Michael was holding this axe instead of me, you’d blame it on his upbringing. Boohoo, Mommy and Daddy didn’t love him enough. That poor boy had mental health issues. Well, I’ve got bad parents, too. But because I’m a girl, I’m a psycho, right? A woman scorned by love? Hell hath no fury and all that garbage?”
Run, run!a voice screamed at the back of Jason’s head. The voice sounded like his father, hollering from the sidelines of a football field. But Jason remained paralyzed, almost enthralled by Carrie as if she were a snake mesmerizing her prey.
Her mouth curled in a disturbingly serene smile. “Scorned women have nothing on me, Jason.”
Run!
This time the voice in the back of his head sounded like Patrick. Patrick would want him to run. Jason’s legs finally unlocked and he lurched away under the cover of darkness, heart jackrabbiting behind his ribs.
He needed to find something to stop Carrie. The fire extinguisher, the flare gun, anything. He’d seen the determination in her face. She was going to keep coming until he was dead. At least his pounding heart told him he was still alive. For now. But he feared its frantic pumping would send more precious blood oozing from his injured shoulder.
He made it as far as the kitchen, cubes of cheese and meat squashing under his boots. The floor by the stove was a minefield of dishes and broken crockery, gleaming in the low light. Impossible to cross and check the drawers one last time. He opened the tall pantry cupboard next to the fridge, hoping for something he could use as a weapon. The bare shelves only held a crumpled bag of flour and a box of instant rice.
“Ja-son,” Carrie called out from the hallway in a singsong voice. “You’re not on the football field. There’s nowhere to run. No goalposts. No more winning touchdowns for you, golden boy.”
He could at least slow her down with the flour. He grabbed the bag and left the cupboard door swinging, frantically scanning for something else he could use to disarm her. He wiped Mikey’s blood out of his eyes, and the blurry edges of the dark shape he’d thought was a spatula sharpened. The handle of a cast-iron pan, obscured by the pieces of an overturned charcuterie board. He lunged for it, his wrist twinging as it picked up the heavy weight. His left hand was weaker, but had been promoted to MVP after Mikey had stabbed his right shoulder.
Now he needed a place where he could catch Carrie by surprise.Behind the fridge door or inside the pantry was too obvious. He flung them open anyway as a decoy, and then scurried to the corner, crouching behind the cardboard cutout of the Slasher.
Maybe she’d think he’d gone out the back door, and he could run out the front—No. He was too weak to make it to the main road and try to flag down a passing car. And even if he did, who was going to believe Carrie was responsible for this carnage? It would be Jason’s word against hers. Mikey would’ve been smart enough to have covered any digital evidence of their scheming. And Carrie was wearing gloves. Jason felt sick.Hisfingerprints were all over that axe, since it was the one from the toolshed. Carrie didn’t have to kill him to destroy his life. But he knew she would anyway.
Carrie’s footsteps grew louder, her pace slow and casual as if she were taking a pleasure stroll on a beach. Jason had dripped an alarming amount of blood all over the floor, smeared and glossy. They both knew it was only a matter of time. She was a lazy lion following an injured antelope. He would die even if she didn’t lift a single finger.
“I know you’re here, Jason.” She giggled. “Isn’t it ironic. The Final Girl hunting down the big strong white guy. There’s a role reversal for a film studies class.”
Jason huddled behind the cardboard standee, breathing as quietly as he could, although his straining lungs begged for oxygen. He was grateful now for the stench of sweating cheese and cold cuts; otherwise Carrie might pinpoint his location by the overworked deodorant under his arms.
“I wonder what’s going through your mind,” she said lazily.
Nothing, except a dizzying terror. His head swam. His vision was fuzzy, leached of color, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the dim light or because he’d lost too much blood. His T-shirt was heavy with it, clinging against his frigid skin.
“A guy like you has always had so many options. But it’s during moments like these, when all your choices have been taken away, that you finally know what you want. I’ve been there.”
Whatdidhe want? Jason still didn’t know. But as he crouched behind the standee, he regretted every minute he’d spent trying to fulfill everyone else’s dreams except his own. What a fucking waste of time. And now he was going to die.
Carrie’s boots squelched over the spilled food, kicked aside crockery and glass. “Do you feel it?” she said.
