In essence, this is a slightly updated vent piece aimed at getting the angel of sadness and sorrow off my shoulders. And an opportunity to tender a little payback to the impersonal forces that take our loved ones away before their time.
Warning: It's not nice.
PS: This story involves a crossover with two other universes. I can't be more specific without ruining the gag and ending. If formating issues arise, I will erase this posting and try again once I discover what went wrong.
Best wishes;
Carlos Goodyear
Story: The Final Nightmare (A crossover universe story)
Long before the raise of civilization and the earliest dawn of recorded history, harsh penalties awaited those who chose to satisfy their lustful fantasies upon the weakest, the most defenseless members of humanity: its children. The severest of which was a torturous public ending when unforgivable depravity resulted in the callous taking of innocent life.
Yet, in this comfortable modern era, when good and evil are viewed by many as outdated philosophical concepts holding little relevance to our times, justice is rarely so swift, sure, and lethal.
"Their rights must be protected," say the weak-willed attempting to conceal their inability to make hard choices.
"The legal process is paramount," exclaim the erudite in scholarly tones for the exact same reason.
"Society is at fault," observe others unable, or most likely unwilling, to place blame where it truly belongs.
"The victim provoked the crime," assert others using the most tattered of threadbare excuses to hide their lack of reason and common sense. Until, unbelievably, another monster is freed because of a legal technicality to prey upon us once more.
Thinking himself untouchable he left the court laughing. Troubled not in the slightest by memories of the handful of children he'd killed with an unspeakable device born of his sick perverted imagination, he returns to his home; his mind already seething with plans to increase the tally of the defiled and slaughtered among innocent young and not so young.
Such was not to be.
His escape from retribution would be short-lived.
Following laws older than any ever carved into stone, the fathers and mothers of the murdered children gather to balance the ledger with cleansing flame. Trapping him inside his repugnant lair of horrors without hope of escape, they barricade all exits and set it ablaze.
Surrounded by smoke and towering flames he suffers in Hellish agony as skin and flesh melt off his bones, a tiny sampling of what the grieving parents outside hoped he'll suffer for all eternity.
This too was not to be.
Fate had other plans for Freddy Krueger.
"Death is so liberating," Krueger remarks with a broad smile on his face as a gloved right hand continues its unhurried trip down, from throat to bellybutton, the chest of a semi-conscious teenager held upright by corroded steel chains to a rusty blood-stained metal pipe. With each pass the surgical steel blades affixed to each finger-tip slices another series of four shallow grooves into the screaming youth's bed clothing and flesh while, in the waking world, the same youngster tosses and turns in his sleep upon a sweet-drenched mattress in a futile effort to escape the pain.
The high school senior was the latest in Freddy's current series of victims. In fact, he was the last surviving descendant of those who'd killed him and trapped his blackened soul in the realm of nightmares. Soon his vengeance upon them would be complete and he'd be free once more. Free to expand his horizons beyond a soon to be extinct demographic minority of Elm Street residents.
Truth be known the total number of his victims was small; a miniscule number compared to past and present world-renown killers who've roamed the world terrifying entire societies, but even in life Freddy had always chosen quality over quantity. Death's cold embrace had been but an insignificant impediment placed before his relentless need to prefect his - - - art.
His unforgiving campaign against the entire lineage of those who'd ended his first reign of terror had ebbed and flowed for decades without discernable pattern. To most the unfortunate deaths were nothing but a statistical anomaly, an urban myth to titillate the fancies of tabloid readers looking for something other than UFO abductions and Bigfoot sightings to relieve their boredom.
Unlike the teenager who was only breaths away from dying simultaneously in two worlds, they would never know how wrong they were. But someday soon, Kruger whispers gently into the young man's bleeding and hideously disfigured face, they would.
Cherished memories of the last few hours warms the stagnant blood-filled arteries and fist-sized withered mass of decaying muscle that had taken place of his long silenced heart.
As had happened to so many before him, the youngster and his dead girlfriend had failed to recognize the signs of his growing interest in their lives, and the mortal danger they were in.
The reality behind the legend of Freddy Krueger's life and horrible death was well-known in their neighborhood. But knowledge without action is futile. By the time the youngster's small clique of high school friends came to recognize the true nature of their situation, Kruger had already picked off half their numbers.
Despite their best efforts to save themselves, the final four fell one by one.
In a macabre distortion of the Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, Freddy's incorporeal spirit didn't invade dreams with cautionary tales aimed at improving a miscreant's appreciation of those who shared their lives; nor their responsibilities as honest upright citizens towards society in general. He came instead to butcher them in ways even the most insane sociopath would find excessive.
Case in point, the young man gasping his final breaths and his most recently departed girl friend.
Oh, how he loved them both. The others had been nothing but appetizers. An insignificant dish a sophisticated diner consumes as a matter of course knowing the master chef in the kitchen needs time to prepare exquisite and rare ingredients into a main course fit for a true gourmet.
Not to say he hadn't lavished the requisite amount of humor, imagination and effort towards killing their friends. That wouldn't do. He had a reputation to uphold after all. But they had been, in his mind at least, nothing but empty calories. Teenage angst only goes so far.
In much the same way an impatient restaurant customer might pick indifferently at a salad and shrimp cocktail waiting for a shockingly expensive Kobe steak to be grilled to absolute culinary perfection, Kruger had sundered their flesh and souls and still felt famished. Little more than faint echoes of his latest victims' darkest sins remain to keep him company as the final dish is prepared.
"I know she's been planning our trip to the prom for almost a year, but could you tell Anny I'm taking Elizabeth instead?" laments a despondent voice fading rapidly into nothingness. "I cheated on the scholastic aptitude test and got caught, my folks are going to be so disappointed in me!" wails another. "Coach kicked me off the football team for taking steroids. My hopes for college and a career in professional sports are ruined!" cries yet one more.
The endless cataloging of sins, both minor and not, carry little weight with Freddy. For decades piled upon decades he had heard minor variations of each more times than he wishes to recall. The latest generation's transgressions against family, friends, or society, granted him but temporary and highly restricted passage into the world of the living.
Little more than a bad dream, a bad dream with razor blades for fingers Kruger chuckles to himself, that can't move so much as a single mote of dust in the physical plane.
And he wants out!
He wants out in the worst way imaginable.
To hunt. To trap. To torture. To kill.
To truly live once more.
To make the world bleed.
"That's where you come in dear boy," Freddy hisses softly through a flame scared throat as he digs a needle sharp blade ever deeper into the youth's thumping jugular vein.
The energy provided by the tortured death of this young man, added to that of his departed girlfriend, would swing the door between universes wide open. For they, this pair alone, were unique. They alone had raised the bar beyond anything this generation of Elm Street young adults had ever achieved.
Their sin the most egregious.
The most unpardonable.
They had taken life.
An unborn child's life.
Their child's life.
The irony is so delicious Freddy is almost drooling in anticipation. To think a simple act of abortion would free the worst serial killer ever known, not true but Freddy Kruger had plans, from the grip of Death itself was hard for even he to fathom.
Their combined torment and anguish had been a virtual goldmine. A moment of passion had blossomed into months of blinding fear, shame, and ultimately soul numbing regret. In Freddy Krueger's own words, "THE FUCKING MOTHERLODE!"
Deeper.
Deeper.
A little more.
"IT'S DONE!" Freddy shouts with widespread arms raised in triumph as the nameless young man dies drowning on his own blood.
Spinning in circles as yet another victim's blood drops from the bladed glove to stain a charred red and white stripped sweater and battered black fedora with fresh gore, he peers into every shadow and steam filled corner looking for the portal out.
The way home.
Nothing.
It can't be. Something is wrong. But what?!
Krueger furiously stretches out his arm and drives all four blades into the eyes and through the hanging corpse's skull. He has only seconds before the last brain cell dies and any chance he has to discover why he is still trapped is lost forever.
Yes, yes. I see, Freddy mumbles as he scans through the dead teenager s memories with the ease of someone flipping the pages of a book. It had to be there: the entire affair from beginning to end. Ignore everything else; lover boy's sophomore year was all that mattered.
His last year.
Kindergarten. Teddy bears and modeling clay. Grade school. Bicycles and a slowly growing sexual awareness. Junior High. Girls! Lots and lots of girls! High school. Even more girls! With bumps on their chests, too! Hurray! That one. That very special one. A sly glance. Touching hands. The first kiss. The first of many.
"Shit! Get to the good stuff already!" Freddy screams into the corpse's pale white face.
The campout birthday party for the season champion captain of the football team. Loud music. Marshmallows and hotdogs roasting above a crackling fire pit. Slow dancing. An ice cold beer soon followed by another. And another. Finding a private place nearby to lie under the stars. Evermore grandiose plans for their future together fueled by alcohol and growing passion. A single kiss leading towards - - -
"Don't give out on me now, you son of a bitch!" Freddy curses as he backhands the stiffening cadaver about the head and face desperate to jar memories from a brain entering the first stages of putrefaction.
- - - a done deed. The glory. The lifting of an alcohol induced haze. The fear. Keeping quiet. Maintaining home and school routines. A silent hours-long drive to pharmacy neither had ever visited a week later. An anonymous purchase placed in a plain paper bag paid with cash. A race to a nearby shopping mall bathroom. The first pregnancy test result is positive. Checked again. Still positive. And again. No change. Utter and complete panic!
What to do?
What to?!
What - - -
"Not now! Just give me a few more damned seconds!" Freddy begs empty air and silent shadows as blood-laced tears run down his deeply scared cheeks.
Damned indeed. As if by the whim of a capricious deity the plea is answered.
The first of many all knowing looks. Wagging tongues. Flying rumors. Obvious signs of a progressing pregnancy clear for anyone with eyes to see. Discovery! Shouts and recriminations from two sets of parents. Reputations in danger. Social standing in peril. Threats of disownment. A gradual concession to the inevitable.
A phone call to a discrete, trustworthy physician. Two cars traveling out of state towards a distant private clinic. Signing of official papers by both parties.
"Now this is what I'm talking about!" Krueger grins as he pats the youth's pale cheek in a disquieting perversion the friendly gesture.
Walking hand in hand into the operation room. Needles. Stainless steel table. Stink of antiseptics filling the glacier-cold air conditioned air. Bright lights everywhere. Something wrong! Linda in pain. Linda bending over in slow motion. Blood! Fluids! Linda screaming in agony! My child. Umbilical cord. My son. Falling. A bloody mess on a spotless linoleum floor. Another person screaming.
Me.
No.
no.
n.
"YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING ASSHOLE!" Freddy screams as he lifts the cooling corpse by the throat and hurls it towards the unyielding steel plate floor, "CAN'T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT?! A MISCARRAGE IS USELESS TO ME!"
In a fit of mindless rage, Freddy repeats the act until little is left but splintered bones and blood-soaked scraps of clothing encasing unidentifiable chunks of raw meat.
After minutes, hours, days - - - time has little meaning in the Hellish limbo Freddy Krueger calls home - - - he regains his composure. Without his constant attention the mangled mess vanishes into nothingness as he straightens his scorched and torn sweater. Plans already fermenting for future action, he wipes his brow and replaces his beat-up fedora atop his fire-charred head.
Clearly something is wrong.
Very wrong.
"If those two were indeed, the last, and no one else remembers me, I'm royally screwed!"
Without living folklore and campfire scary stories keeping his legend alive, Freddy Krueger becomes nothing but another forgotten myth, a harmless ghost without the power interact with the living world; doomed to extinction.
Deep in thought he strides slowly down one corridor after another sharpening his steel claws against metal walls and piping. However, unlike happier times, the horrendous earsplitting din and rain of sparks do little to raise his mood. Nothing has changed. Every room is exactly the same. Every deeply corroded support strut, battered section of ductwork, and Hell-fire belching furnace a monotonous repetition of a familiar theme.
He knew he'd see nothing different if he walks for all eternity.
The same vision blocking steam-filled gloom. Malfunctioning or broken light fixtures. Shadows in odd places that flicker in and out of existence as if under their own volition. Waves of sweltering life threatening heat, if he were alive. Random cries, howls of anguish, and the laughter of long dead children at play. Children he knew well. He should. He killed them himself.
Mausoleum still air that could, somehow, rattle heavy industrial-size chains hanging from every mist and smoke veiled ceiling. The ever-present reek of drying blood, decay, corrosion, smoke, flowers.
Flowers?
Krueger's confusion is understandable. In all the long decades of his imprisonment, not once had any of his senses ever experienced anything a sane being would consider pleasurable. The very idea was an affront to the eternal torment his executioners had intended. Only during his short trips to the land of the life had he come close to experiencing: "A PORTAL!"
Screaming at the top of his smoke and flame damaged lungs, "IT WORKED!", he begins to search out the source of the alien smell. At a feverish pace he races through room after room getting ever closer.
Flowers in bloom.
Wet, fertile earth.
Grass. Trees. Bushes.
Animals. Birds, mammals, reptiles, and insects.
"AND THEY'RE ALL ALIVE!" he repeats over again as his frantic pace suddenly comes to a jolting halt.
Something wrong. Something not right. Something special.
A cold furnace. A quiet boiler.
Never before had he ever seen such a thing. Furnaces and boilers in his world were never cold. They never shut down. They never went dark. This one was all three.
Could this be the missing portal? Freddy mumbles to himself. Could this be the way out?
Cautiously, he steps forward slowly and lays a scared palm atop the silent metal box. Cold. No, not cold. Room temperature. Something he has not felt since his death. Is that even possible? All those who'd condemned him to this death beyond death had been ashes and dust for decades. How could they bring something new into his prison? Could it be a trick? A trap they left behind?
Even more warily, but with growing anticipation, he lifts the latch and swings the furnace grill open.
Empty. A large steel cavity filled with, what? A mild breeze? Clear, pollution-free, oxygen heavy fresh air? Here? If this was a portal it was the first of its kind. Hoping to catch his tormentors unaware, if they even exist, Krueger thrusts his gauntleted hand deep into the open furnace s blackened depths. The gore-stained metal blades attached to his fingers cut nothing but air.
Not even the tiniest fleck of blood on his beloved blades or rasp of metal against metal to prove he'd made contact with anything inside the dormant furnace. Disappointed, the thinks back on his lonely existence in what is, literally, a hell hole.
Uppermost is the sound of several strange, almost incomprehensible inhuman, voices promising a means of escape if he'd torture and kill all the descendents of those who had incarcerated him here.
As if he needed any incentive.
His mission at long last accomplished, it made no sense to keep him trapped here with his great work undone.
Until now portals had been fancy flashing-lights walk-through affairs. Wide shimmering doorways that permitted his fire-ravaged parboiled corpse to leave in spirit form to seek out victims for a limited time. Loads of fun but ultimately unsatisfying in the end. Kind of like digging into a bar top bowl of salted peanuts when he was alive. He never could stop at just one.
Pretty much the same problem that got him stuck here in the first place. Blame the stupid parents, not him. They should've known better than to send their kids out of the house in beautiful white linen and lace dresses that looked so darn cute covered in blood. Really, what were they thinking?
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Freddy kneels before the open furnace hatch.
The walls between the waking and sleeping realms could only be pierced by the strongest of emotions and, as every human knows, there's nothing better to screw up a good dream than negative ones - - - other than a visit from you-know-who Krueger adds while mentally patting himself on the back for his trademark wit. If this furnace is indeed a portal it should be leaking like a screen door on a submarine.
Chuckling softly, 'Nothing ventured, no one killed' he shoves his head deep into the hatchway s pitch black depths. Since it's not instantly chopped off by a leftover supernatural version of a guillotine, he lets all his senses... both natural and not runs free.
'Yes, there's all that vegetation again. Glad I don't suffer from hay fever anymore. Lungs full of soot and burnt to charcoal sure took care of that problem. And lots of animal life crawling around, too. Ditto on my allergy to animal fur. Not a heck of a lot in the angst department, though. Birds and lizards don't move the needle much on the I screwed up my life! emotions meter, so what's keeping this damned thing open? GOT IT!'
Far in the distance, much further away than he'd ever seen or would have believed possible, is a tiny flickering candle flame of sentient distress. It was all there: Anguish over the loss of friends or family taken from life before their time. Soul numbing sadness over a life derailed by impersonal forces. And, worse of all, the realization that nothing, absolutely nothing, could be done to save oneself from a fate worse than death.
"Is that it? Talk about lame!", Kruger sneers feeling let down. He d gotten better morning wood the morning after eavesdropping some blockhead jock getting the usual Start-thinking about-a-food-services-career speech from a Springwood High school guidance counselor when he was a janitor.
Empathy for the misfortune of other has never been Freddy's strong suit.
Nevertheless, it sure felt like home. The tug of Elm Street was unmistakable.
Whistling 'We're off to see the Wizard' as best his leathery burnt lips and tongue will allow, he climbs inside the dormant furnace and marches towards the flickering nearly microscopic pinprick of light far in the distance.
It's a long march.
Far from the usual virtually instantaneous transition to his old stomping grounds, little seems to change after many repetitions of the jolly tune. Growing bored, he switches to his all time favorite 'Helter Skelter'. Growing bored, he soon switches between dozens of other tunes from his extensive library of memorized Beatles songs.
Heck, it can't be death and dismemberment twenty four slash seven. Can't I have a hobby, too? , Freddy notes dryly to the echoless nothingness surrounding him as he continues his seemingly endless trek.
An indeterminate span of time later his goal is reached. Just after his hundredth repetition of 'Abbey Road' he finds himself face to face, or make that face to lightning bug, with a flickering ball of light hanging motionlessly in mid air.
To say he's unimpressed is putting it mildly.
"Are you shitting me? ARE YOU SHITTING ME?!", he screams at the marble-size glowing orb.
Freddy Krueger in life was never the kind of guy you'd want to see mad. Death hadn't improved his temperament one bit.
In either case his reaction was eminently predictable: he tries to destroy it.
Throwing his arm behind him, he swings his bladed glove in a roundhouse blow that could, and has, sliced people wide open and lands face first in a thick carpet of wet earth and weeds.
"Ouch!"
Stunned by the fall, he takes a few seconds to express his deepest, innermost feelings.
Fortunately for the psychological well being of children, and overly sensitive adults who've lived sheltered lives far from any locale frequented by Navy personnel, neither demographic appears to be in the immediate area. And it's doubtful nearby birds and insects filling his ears with the far more wholesome sounds of nature care one way or the other about his foulmouthed tirade.
Climbing to his feet he brushes off his clothing only to find major discrepancies: From shoes to hat, nothing seems to be burnt, torn, or damaged to any significant degree except for a liberal coating of mud covering the aforementioned items.
And, for that matter, neither is he.
After a final check, one that involves the swift operation of a pants zipper and rapidly oscillating curved fingers, Krueger screams "I'M ALIVE!" repeatedly and with growing volume for well over ten minutes. Who can blame him? It's not every day a cursed mutilated ghostly corpse suffering from a bad case of death returns to life hale of body if not mind. So it's perfectly reasonable that it takes nearly twice that long before Freddy notices that he's standing in a tropical forest on the edge of vegetation chocked ruins.
Not that he's overly concerned with the situation. Any trip where you arrive alive, whether or not it's the right destination, is a big plus in anyone's travel itinerary.
Shoving his hat to a jaunty angle, he strides happily down the center of a badly weathered asphalt road almost completely obscured by layers of wind tossed dirt, weeds, and damaged building materials. No stranger to urban blight, he expects habitable homes and businesses filled with the hustle and bustle of suburban life to appear at any moment.
It doesn't happen.
Every widely spaced home is a moldering, vegetation covered ruin. Despite the high value houses of their size and obvious quality generally command, most seem on the verge of complete collapse beneath many years worth of wildly growing unattended decorative trees and bushes. High-priced cars still parked within many wrecked garages are nothing but weather and timeworn metallic skeletons; useful now only as roosts for colorful birds and the breeding ground for the local vermin population.
Weird.
It gets stranger.
Growing tired and overheated due to the oppressive humidity, he walks up a long driveway towards one of the more intact houses. Clearly a deathtrap to anyone stupid enough to step beneath its sagging roof, he circles the perimeter and peers inside through gaps where windows and doors once hung.
It's all there: Expensive looking furniture, rugs, clothing, televisions, electronics, along with any examples of the nearly unfathomable ultra-expensive artwork the one-percenters high society types love to pay 'Keep up with the Joneses' with. Except by chance and weather none of it seems to have moved an inch since the owners departed for the last time.
Thinking it a fluke, Krueger crosses the street sprinting towards an ever larger house. Or would have been if had ever been finished. Little more than an empty shell of brick, steel, and wood, it stands empty surrounded by the rusting remains of numerous expensive power tools resting where workers had dropped them. He still has no clue what happened but clearly it had been sudden, unexpected, and very bad.
The next three houses are, to varying degrees, exactly the same. Some complete and once inhabited, while others are little more than concrete slabs in the earliest stages of construction.
As he's leaves a third abandoned unfinished home site, he spies a bright red plastic flag attached to a rust stained metal box lying in a gutter almost completely hidden beneath fallen leaves and weeds. Instantly recognizing it as a mailbox, Freddy pries its rust sealed flap open to discover a number of unreadable moldering water-soaked envelopes, and a large nearly pristine sheet of durable plastic impregnated paper.
Excited by his discovery, Krueger walks into the center of the road where the late afternoon light is strongest to examine his prize. He finds it covered on both sides by brightly colored lettering and numerous artistically embellished renderings. Most appear to be illustrations showing the size and quality of the homes currently under construction in this very neighborhood and highlights of the nearby area.
In essence, snail mail spam from a real estate agent or property developer.
Overall, it's a great disappointment.
Freddy can't read a single sentence. Written in Spanish, he can gleam the meaning of a word here and there but that's of little importance. What really matters is an amateurishly drawn roadmap showing local establishments seeking clientele and major tourist points of interest.
Kruger is left almost speechless as he absorbs the most salient geographical feature displayed by this map. A situation that's almost as shocking as the cause of his distress.
It doesn't last long.
Editing away the profanity it boils down to two short shouted sentences, "An island? I'm on a freaking island?!"
His uncompressed comments upon discovering himself on a small island in the middle of nowhere would take many minutes to repeat, and entail language unfit even for triple x rated literature.
After vowing to kill whoever stranded him here extra slow, he examines the map in greater detail seeking the fastest route out. It doesn't take long before he identifies his present location. If the scale shown on the bottom of the page is even moderately accurate, he will have to travel four and a half kilometers - - - what's that, two miles? - - - past a couple dozen more houses before the only thing between him and a boat dock is a small hill.
A piece of cake.
And he has all the knives he'll need to cut it.
Mumbling No rest for the wicked to himself, he turns around and starts walking in the opposite direction. A task made all the more difficult as every street sign is missing; the thin metal poles that once held them bent down and broken off as if by a great force.
Without the map he might've kept going for another twenty miles down the length of the entire island before hitting the opposite shoreline; a three or four day trek through tropical forests filled with who-knew-what without food or water. Being alive again had its definite drawbacks.
He's traveled less than a half mile before something new catches his eye: faded yellow caution tape still surrounding a house built fairly close to the road. Freddy was anything but a linguistic prodigy, but he knew the word 'Polic a' meant police. And that entire thing probably read, 'Police line do not cross'.
He should. As the serial killer responsible for most of its use around Elm Street for many years, the company that made the stuff should pay him a commission from their profits.
Curious to visit the site of a possible murder, and maybe pick up some pointers for his next, Krueger rips through the fragile tape and walks towards the still hanging front door and a large piece of heavily sun-bleached paper stapled to it. Weathered to near illegibility, he can't help but notice a paragraph written in English beneath others he guesses are Spanish, Portuguese and French:
INHABITANTS OF THIS HOUSING QUARANTINED BY ORDER OF
EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS ALPHA DECLARED ON ISLA AS OF
MASS EVACUATION SCHEDUL THREE DAYS. ONLY NON-ESSENTIAL COMPANY EMPLOY AND THEIR FAMILIES WILL BE ON BOATS. NO PERSONAL BELONGINGS OF ANY NO PETS. COMPANY PROPERTY AND RESEARCH MATERIAL WILL BE CONFISCATED. RESPIRATORS AND STERILE CLOTHING WILL
ANYONE DISPLAYING FLU-LIKE SYMPTOMS WILL TAKEN BY MEDICAL PERSONN FOR EXAMINATION BEFORE CLEARANCE GIVEN FOR
OBEY ANY ORDER. USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORI
BY ORDER OF UMBREL DIRECTOR HAROLD LIPTT III
Freddy Krueger's response is a readily predictable "Neat!" and a rush to the nearest window. After wiping a glass pane clean, his twisted curiosity is rewarded by a tragic scene centered in what once was the home's living room.
Four semi-clothed sets of skeletal remains lie together in a neat line facing yet one more. This lone individual is armed with a large high caliber automatic handgun still clinched in his or her bony grip. All have major portions of their skulls missing. Open as the house is to the elements in so many places, even the tiniest scrap of flesh had been consumed by rodents and insects long ago.
At first disappointed he hadn't been around to witness the party, two oddities soon capture his attention. Since when do murder victims line up to get shot? They always try to run away. I should know. That's half the fun. And what the fuck's wrong with that one?
The skeleton Freddy is mumbling to himself about is radically different from the rest. Despite varying degrees of bullet induced trephination, most of the skeletons look perfectly natural in size and build for full grown adults. The one exception is curled into a tight fetal ball furthest from the window.
Legs and arms simply don't bend that way, and feet never grow to that size. If Krueger didn't know better he'd bet he was looking at a lizard stretched to human scale. Blaming it on the tropical heat and humidity messing with the body after death, he shrugs indifferently and resumes his journey.
Moving quickly along, Freddy passes several more ribbon-draped homes without stopping. Rushing to reach the dock before nightfall, he stops to investigate only one house displaying signs of violence clearly visible from the road.
Bullet damage and tarnished spent brass cartridges carpet much of the porch area, but nowhere as numerous as directly in front of the fallen front door. Cracked in half lengthwise as if by a great force from within, the heavy carved wooden door shows not only dozens of bullet holes and ripped apart hinges, but scores of deep scratches on the inner surface as if from a large clawed animal fighting to get out.
To his knowledgeable eye the weather-worn blood pool on the concrete driveway is proof whatever it was hadn t gotten far.
Just as late afternoon gloom begins its slow transformation into true twilight, Krueger finally walks past the last derelict house to find the collapsed remains of a security shack and the tall rusted gated cyclone fence it once guarded. Looking far less timeworn than anything he'd seen so far, a large white sign hangs from a heavy duty padlocked chain strung between steel posts to deny vehicle access to the abandoned community.
Even though the letters painted upon its shiny surface in multiple languages are perfectly legible, and show little noticeable wear or weathering, the few sentences Freddy can read between two large multi-colored octagons are just as inscrutable as anything else he has encountered so far:
ACCESS RESTRICTED TO AUTHORIZED COMPANY PERSONNEL
NO VISITORS ALLOWED TO THIS AREA
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW
Now that s clear as mud, Freddy thinks as he walks closer to read one of several lines of graffiti a multilingual vandal had penned beneath the word law with a bright red felt tipped magic marker:
Run for your life, Amigo! Or there will be nothing left of you to arrest! :)
Feeling his second true pang of vulnerability since returning to life in this strange place, he races down the only road towards the final obstacle between him and the as yet unseen boat dock; a small hill less than a half mile away. Sweating profusely and completely out of breath, he arrives just as a bright full moon rises to replace the lasts weakened rays of a setting sun.
Little hill my ass! Kruger complains bitterly as he mentally compares the drawing in his pocket to the reality before his eyes. Talk about artistic license. In the dark, without a flashlight or match to his name, the so-called little hill looks more like a tropical rainforest covered Mount Everest and just as easy to climb.
Even if he used his blades to help clear a path, it would take forever to get even partway up; especially in the pitch blackness under all those trees. He could really use a large machete or bulldozer right about now.
Mentally checking down the list of his viable options, of which there are none, he decides to keep following the road. It would add a couple miles to the trip to the dock, but at least he'd be out in the open and able to see what might be coming at him.
Despite his trepidation the longer route proves uneventful. With the exception of hordes of bloodthirsty mosquitoes and gnats that find him quite delectable, absolutely nothing jumps out of the underbrush to make its presence know.
That s not to say there's nothing out there. From the moment nightfall fell, Kruger had been serenaded by a deafening cacophony of chirps, crooks, squeaks, barks, howls and whistles. Yet, except for the occasion rustling of grass and bushes alongside the road, none of the musicians had come out to take a bow.
Vaguely curious as to what they might be afraid of, Freddy puts the mystery aside as the road curves to the right and the sound of water lapping on a beach reaches his ears. Picking up his pace to a full sprint, he soon feels his heavy work boots sinking into soft powdery sand as a slowly rising full Moon brings a large concrete pier, and a seemingly endless expanse of ocean, into view.
Any normal person would be instantly enthralled by the stunning beauty of this vista. Rare these days can such a immaculate beachside frontage, untouched by the slightest sign of the humanity's need to spoil and twist nature to its whim, be found anywhere on the planet. A sight so magnificent it couldn t fail to excite even an aged jaded soul with a child's sense of wonder. How it looks in the full glare of a tropical sun must truly boggle the imagination.
Few having met Freddy Kruger would ever tag his behavior with the word, normal.
Now is such a case.
His singular focus of attention is a huge white luxury motor yacht bobbing on gentle ocean swells far offshore. Well beyond safe swimming range even in broad daylight, and even more so in the dark moonlight notwithstanding, Kruger decides a little patience is in order. It would be a simple matter upon sunrise to attract their attention and gain passage with an artfully contrived tale of woe.
Actually, the only woe involved would be theirs once he steps onboard.
His mood lightened by thoughts of blood, torn flesh, and unanswered pleas for mercy, he looks around for a comfortable place to rest and plan for his triumphant return to Springwood, Ohio and the continuation of his unfinished masterpiece on Elm Street. Thoughts soon interrupted by faint sounds of children at play coming from the hill behind him.
A child? Here? Freddy whispers incredulously as he spins around gauntlet at the ready.
Straining his hearing he corrects himself, No, not a child. More like children.
His eyes find no signs of life. Nothing but the same hill covered in trees, bushes, and impenetrable undergrowth he saw from the other side. Not exactly true. With each passing moment the changing angle of the Moon's radiance brings more of a footpath winding upwards into view.
Could it be? Could these children be the reason the strange portal brought him here? Is he destined to restart his work before his departure from the island?
Catching himself in the nick of time, he almost screams THERE! out loud as something white sparkles in the rising glare of a full moon. And a few seconds later he must do so again. And again. And again.
At least four, maybe five diminutive white clad figures are darting across the path climbing ever upward as if inviting him to join in. Their joyful giggling and distance distorted voices a lure impossible to resist.
With one last wistful over-the-shoulder glance at the yacht, he starts moving slowly towards the path. Vowing to finish his work quickly before sunrise, but not too quickly, he picks up his pace. The voices seem to fade a little more with each step, and the flashes of white against the shadowy hillside become less distinct.
This time he does scream, I M LOSING THEM! as all semblance of stealth is abandoned and he races off the beach and onto the narrow footpath.
With no tangle of vegetation to impede his ascent the true nature of the hill is revealed. It really isn't steep at all and he makes good time. Unfortunately, his quarry is making better. Even as he struggles breathlessly to match their speed they effortlessly keep darting in and out of view.
Clearly able to leave him behind at any time of their choosing, they keep an unchanging lead despite their pursuer's best efforts. Krueger is quite familiar with this tactic. Children having fun always deal with less physically capable adults in a similar manner. He's not concerned. It will be his turn to play soon enough.
Winded and bruised from numerous collisions with low lying branches and brush, Kruger reaches a tiny clearing atop the summit and yet another unappreciated vista. And also the first proof the hand of man still holds sway on this island: lights.
Lots and lots of lights.
Far in the distance powerful electric lights give shape and scale to a small seaside village, and reveal the presence of several large commercial metal buildings lining a concrete wharf of considerable size.
A shipping dock and warehouses aren't exactly unexpected on an island where supplies are brought by sea from the mainland, but what was the purpose of the guard towers? And why were these numerous towers projecting eye-searing searchlights along every inch of barbed wire topped fences that stretch for miles in all directions?
What could they be trying to keep in? Or out?
What are they afraid of?
His unvoiced question is soon answered.
Little feet race out of the surrounding foliage and he feels a single blow centered in the middle of his back. Surprised but unhurt, he spins around to find: nothing. His night vision destroyed by staring directly at sun-bright artificial lights, Freddy curses his stupidity and takes a few steps forward into the forest with outstretched arms.
Another blow. Stronger this time.
Holding his bruised ribs, he staggers around in a futile attempt to grab hold of his attacker with only one hand. Not even a glimpse of white against black. Nothing but childish giggles and unintelligible conspiratorial whispers coming from all directions.
Forcing himself to remain calm and focused he waits for his sight to return. Listening closely he lashes out at a ghostly outline approaching from the right with his razor tipped glove, and is rewarded by a piercing birdlike distress call and a high pitched scream for help: MOMMIE!
Bending down he recovers two distinct items. One is a near-pristine clump of blood splattered coarse white feathers. The other is a lightweight heavily stained white cotton jacket. The still increasing moonlight just gives him enough illumination to discern a young woman s smiling face upon the plastic ID badge pinned to a breast pocket before something huge materializes like magic from the all encompassing darkness.
Even with his night vision finally fully recovered, Kruger has only the faintest glimpse before the world explodes into sound and pain.
Catapulted and left sitting at the base of a tree yards away from where he once stood, Freddy s ears ring with the aftereffects of a thunderous sound blast made up of equal parts animal roar and angered human scream. Stunned and numbed nearly senseless by a single incredibly powerful blow, it takes him several seconds to recognize the sensation of wetness extending from his stomach to crotch for what it is, blood.
With trembling fingers he finds a large intestine leaking jagged edged incision reaching from just below his sternum to his navel. Mentally congratulating his unknown killer for an eviscerating stroke even he couldn t improve, he lifts his bladed glove at the immense indistinct silent shadow blocking out the moonlight and yells in defiance. "YOU EXPECTING ME TO BEG? FUCK YOU! EAT ME!
All in all a fitting epitaph for a monster.
As it vanishes back into the impenetrable gloom apparently indifferent to the insult, a clear voice, a woman's voice, echoes across the hilltop. "Children? It s time to feed.
From all directions they come. No taller or heavier than three years olds, but that's were all similarities to humanity ends. Six diminutive figures covered in flowing capes of white feathers stride forward on powerful scaly legs and begin to tear at living flesh with tiny jaws filled with razor sharp teeth and curved clawed toes.
Death will be a blessing denied to Freddy Kruger for a very long time.
* * *
Unconcerned by the loud goings on behind him a collector examines his latest acquisition.
Battered and rust stained it might be, but perfectly legible and a rare find indeed. Not many of the original metal street signs remain intact. They'd almost finished replacing them with more durable plastic versions just before the incident happened on Isla Nublar.
Not that he cares one iota about what happened over a decade in the past, or the noise his wife and children, or more accurately his mate and hatchlings, are making right now. As long they don't call out for his aid, by instinct and inclination, he's unlikely to venture near the nest. He's perfectly happy to stand his ground and guard the surrounding area against any intruder either unlucky or stupid enough to approach them.
Like that's ever going to happen.
A full grown, eleven hundred pound, twenty-three foot long Utahraptor ostrummaysorum female with a hair trigger maternal temper is something few island inhabitants not protected by a high voltage electric fence, and lots of big guns, would care to mess with. And that goes double at night when her kaki and gray-brown plumage makes her nearly invisible.
Content now to support his new family and collect things that remind him of the parents, friends, and home he will never see again, he reminisces about an accident at the nearby Umbrella lab complex. A deeply held secret screw-up that turned him, and many others, into creatures unseen on Earth for sixty five million years and more.
Isolated and abandoned among other victims of his kind, he suffers the indignity of being a zoo exhibit for camera totting armored car traveling tourists, and a slave to primordial instincts and needs.
One of which is coming right now.
Tossing back his head and lowering his long muscular tail to the ground, he roar-screech a warning that he, a male Utahraptor, claims this female and area as his own.
Another is to gaze down lengthy fang filled jaws at the bent steel street sign clasped in his deadly claws, and dream of a life he once had and the place he lived it: Calle Elm*
*Elm Street.
The end.