Happy Halloween, readers! The story you are about to read contains graphic violence, rough language, and other assorted adult content. Reader discretion is advised.

"Halloween: Vengeance" is the culmination of seven years of hard work and research. The final product, when last I checked, had reached 31 chapters and over 73,000 words! Quite impressive! And the whole thing is now complete! So here now is the prologue for "Halloween: Vengeance!"

Also, for those reading this wondering when new chapters of my "Child's Play" novel will post, an update: with the recent announcement of "Curse of Chucky", the sixth film in the series, due to be released sometime next year, I have decided to put my novel, "Revenge of Chucky" on hold until the new film is completed in order to avoid any continuity problems that may arise. Have faith, Chucky fans; it has not been abandoned!

And now, without further ado, "Halloween: Vengeance..."

Prologue

The Dead of Night

Samhain. If you were to ask the average person on the street what it means, they probably wouldn't have a clue. They would be surprised to learn that it is a holiday. And we celebrate it every year. It is a medieval Irish word for "End of Summer." It is also the name of a festival held at the end of every summer to mark the beginning of winter.

In those days, the festival was held to honor two things: the summer's harvest, and the dead. Other parts of the tradition included lighting huge bonfires and dressing up in elaborate and beautiful costumes in attempts to ward off evil spirits. Though this word has passed out of common knowledge, we still celebrate the holiday each year, though now it goes under another name in Western Civilization: All Hallows Eve, or Halloween.

When people think of Halloween, specifically young people, it still means dressing up in costumes, which are, sadly, far less elaborate than those of days long past and are usually just cheap marketing tie-ins for popular movies or comic characters, in order to procure candy from their neighbors and friends parents so they can spend another year rotting out their teeth with treats made of near pure sugar.

Teenagers use this time for different reasons. They like to play sick and perverse jokes on one another, or tell scary stories to children about bogeymen who hide in closets and under beds and will grab them at first chance and drag them down into another world of horrors...

And as for the adults? Well, they spend the night watching over their trick or treating children, making sure that none of their Tootsie Rolls or popcorn balls or Snickers Bars contains anything like poison or razor blades. What most over-cautious parents don't realize is that this is kind of a moronic precaution since a razorblade of any decent size would stick out like a sore thumb in a Tootsie Roll and, indeed, any tampering of any type of candy would be clearly evident in the wrappings for that particular tooth-rotting sweet.

But this is how Halloween is celebrated in nearly every part of the world. Of course, some traditions vary or are removed entirely depending on the culture. In places like Mexico and other Spanish countries, the day is used to honor one's deceased ancestors. But in the town of Haddonfield, Illinois, Halloween is just another word for mayhem...

Oh, Haddonfield used to celebrate Halloween in the traditional manner of costumes and candy and parties till the break of dawn. And some of the town's people still do, but only in attempts to erase the memories nightmares of all the terrible things that have happened here.

It all began on Halloween night in 1963, when the scream of murder cut across the town's golden farmlands and through the chilling night air. On that night, six-year-old Michael Audrey Myers murdered his sister Judith Margaret Myers in cold blood, stabbing her no less than ten times.

The six year old Myers was locked away. But it was only a matter of time before he escaped and returned to Haddonfield to continue his bloody rampage. And he did. Over and over and over again, for nearly twenty-five years.

And then, one day, his rampage was ended, seemingly forever. But of course, there were those who knew better...

October 31st, 2002

Haddonfield, IL

11:35 P.M.

The wailing sound of sirens cutting through the chilly autumn air was not a sound that was unfamiliar to the people who resided in the sleepy town of Haddonfield, Illinois. Especially for the older residents, and doubly so on the night of October 31st. The old timers, who sit at Carpenter's diner every morning and all day trading war stories over coffee, will tell anyone who will listen that this town has always had a spot of bad luck when it comes to Halloween. And they aren't lying, either.

And, a black smoke lifted up high into the even darker sky and red flames leaped around threatening to ignite everything within grasp of its heat, tonight didn't seem to be an exception.

Police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks raced down the streets towards that blazing inferno in the heart of town. People stood on their porches to get a glimpse of the convoy, but the vehicles were moving so fast that they were nothing more than a blur of red and blue with a whoosh of passing wind.

The location of the chaos unfolding tonight was the most famous haunted house in all of the Midwest: the former childhood home of brutal mass murderer Michael Myers. It was in this very house that the young Myers brutally murdered his older sister, Judith. Myers was locked away, hopefully for good.

Obviously, he hadn't been.

Fire trucks and ambulances were parked up and down the block while police cars had cordoned off the block. Firefighters raced back and forth around the burning property, putting out embers that drifted away from the fire. The house itself was intact, but the garage was lost for good. Overhead, helicopters whirled around the scene, most of them news choppers trying to piece together the story.

A tall, black man with dreadlocks and a very oddly shaped face sat in the back of an ambulance. He looked up at the medic attending his arm. He had smashed it inside the burning building during his fight with… Well, he'd rather not think about it.

He babied his arm, which was now in a sling, as he hopped out of the ambulance and made his way over to Sara Moyer. Sara had on a denim jacket over a black shirt, which was blackened with ash from the fire. Her long brown hair, which at one point made her seem like the girl next door, was now covered in soot and caked in dried blood, not to forget she reeked of gasoline. A small head camera was mounted to her left ear, part of the broadcast from earlier in the evening. They had both been through Hell in the last four hours.

Freddie Harris was in the entertainment business. But his latest foray into the medium, tonight's live broadcast "Dangertainment," had been a complete flop. "Dangertainment" was supposed to be six people, including Sara, exploring the childhood home of a local killer, who was supposed to be dead. During the broadcast, the college kids were supposed to uncover clues as to why he went crazy. Most of the evidence had been planted by Freddie and company to ensure an audience, but when two of the kids accidentally uncovered an underground lair, they realized that the killer wasn't so dead after all. Only the help of Sara's friend, Deckard, through Sara's Palm Pilot, had saved her and Freddie.

Deckard was a guy Sara had been chatting with online for the last few weeks. She had told him earlier about the "Dangertainment" broadcast and urged him to watch it. Fortunately, he had been, and had relayed information to her and Freddie via instant messaging to keep them alive. He had been keeping track of Myers throughout it all, and it had ultimately saved their lives. Sadly, they were the only two.

Seven people, including Freddie's girlfriend Nora and their technical producer Charlie, had been killed. The other five had gone to the local community college with Sara, two of them, Rudy and Jen, she had known since she was a little girl.

Rudy had been a culinary major at Haddonfield College, well on his way to his own series on Food Network, while Jen was more of a free spirit looking for a way into network broadcasting, which had always been one of her passions, right up alongside free love. And now, both of their lifeless bodies were being carted away from the house on stretchers covered in bloody white sheets. It was almost surreal.

Sara was walking in the middle of the street when her pocket beeped. She pulled out her Palm Pilot and saw a message from Deckard. "You're alive," it read.

She looked around her, searching. Was he here? How did he find her? Another beep, another message: "We can see you on TV!"

Sara looked around just in time to see a mob of TV reporters rushing her way. They stopped just a few inches shy of mobbing her and began asking all sorts of questions, thrusting microphones and cameras into her face.

"Sara, can we get a statement?"

"We can go live right now."

"Do you have anything to say?" Sara thought of what to say for a moment, and knew instantly what it was.

"Thank you, Deckard, you saved my life."

Then, the barrage of questions started again, more probing and prodding this time.

"How do you feel now that it's all over?"

"What makes you so sure it's over?" Sara asked back, but her response was drowned out by the cacophony of other questions thrust at her.

"Sara, who is Deckard?

"What happened tonight with Michael Myers?"

"Is Michael Myers truly dead?"

"Were you friends with any of the victims?"

"What does it feel like to be a hero?"

Sara was overwhelmed by the reporters and was slowly backing away when a tall, dark man stepped over her, getting right between her and the cameras.

"Enough!" Freddie commanded as he pushed through the crowd. "No more cameras. Dangertainment is off the air! Why don't you all show a little respect?"

The questions were now directed at Freddie.

The barrage of questions continued, this time directed at Freddie. One baldheaded reporter pushed through and asked Freddie if he would like to make a statement.

"What can you tell us about Michael Myers?"

Freddie could not believe these people. Here was this girl who had just lived through what would probably go down as the most traumatic night of her young life, and these vultures wanted every gory detail. Nevertheless, he would give them exactly what they wanted.

"There's not much to tell. He's Michael Myers. He's not a sound bite, a spin-off, a tie-in, or some kind of celebrity scandal! Michael Myers was a like the killer shark from Jaws turned human and stuffed into baggy ass overalls! He got his kicks from killing everything and everyone he comes across! That's all. I'm done dancing for these cameras." Freddie then turned to Sara and said, "Let's get out of here."

But the bald-headed reporter wasn't done.

"How are you feeling right now?" His cameraman was only inches away, filming Freddie.

Calmly, Freddie chuckled and said, "How am I feeling right now?" His tone became angered as he repeated. "How am I feeling right now?" He turned toward the bald reporter's cameraman and subtly signaled for him to turn his camera. He then shouted at the top of his lungs, "FEEL THIS!"

In one swift move, Freddie grabbed the cameraman's camera by the lens and shoved it backwards into the man's face. The man fell to the ground as the reporter rushed to his side before turning to a cameraman from another station and asked, as Freddie led Sara away from the carnage, "Did you get that?"

The senior officer at the scene, the one who was calling the shots at the moment, was a young man by the name of Lee Brackett. He was only twenty four, but had already obtained a surprising rank within the Haddonfield Police Department, thanks in no small part to a family legacy. And that legacy meant that he was the ringleader of the circus unfolding around him.

Brackett stood about 5', 11" and had a mop of dark, curly hair that made him ridiculously easy to spot in large numbers. He looked just like his father in his younger days, before he had lost his hair. His father had once been Haddonfield's sheriff, back in the seventies. Lee had only been three years old when his father retired and moved them to St. Petersburg, Florida. Lee grew up hearing stories about a sister who had been killed on Halloween the same year he was born: 1978. She had the same head of curly hair that seemed to be a family trait, but her life had been, unfortunately, cut short; ironically by the very same sadistic madman who had caused tonight's bloodbath.

Maybe that was the real reason why Brackett felt a twinge of closure as he stood next to what had, at one point, been a garage for the house, but was now just a hunk of wood and metal, arms folded across his chest as he watched the firefighters and the paramedics pulled a charred hunk of flesh out of the garage: that killer had been served up like a piece of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

"Hey, Lee," shouted a medic. "Did you order Original Recipe, or Extra Crispy?"

"How about burnt to a crisp?" Brackett said in a mocking tone as the medics tossed the slab of flesh into a black body bag on a gurney. A firefighter zipped it up and wheeled it away down the driveway.

Sara broke away from Freddie and made her way to the firefighter. She stopped next to the gurney and stared at the body bag on it.

"It's him, isn't it?" Sara asked. "I want to see his face."

"I want to warn you, ma'am; it's not a pretty sight," the fireman warned. Sara looked at him demandingly. Knowing he would be unable to deter the young woman, he shrugged and slowly unzipped the bag. Sara gasped as the bag opened to reveal…

"Hey, back your ass up!" Sara heard Freddie shout at a cameraman who wanted to get a close-up on the body. Sara looked at Freddie, then back at the body, which had been burned black. The face, however, was unmarred. A sleek, white mask on the head was only slightly blackened, at least the parts that hadn't been melted away or fused to the flesh. The hair, however, had been completely burned away. Nothing some water couldn't clean off.

"Lookin a little crispy over there, Mikey," Freddie said hoarsely. "Like some chicken-fried motherfucker! May he never, eve, rest in peace!"

A wave of uneasiness swept over Sara as Freddie said those final words. Shaking it off, Sara zipped up the bag in disgust. "Get this bastard out of my sight," Sara said through gritted teeth. The fireman agreed and wheeled it to the back of an ambulance. A paramedic with a goatee loaded it inside and slammed the doors. Sara and Freddie watched as the ambulance drove off.

Haddonfield Memorial Hospital Morgue

11:48 P.M.

Ten minutes later, Amanda Thorson was cleaning up her station inside the morgue and getting ready to go home. She had had a long day and had just finished up with the guy on the table, who had once been a strapping young man with a fairly chiseled body and, according to the official report she had written up, a heart attack. And now, it was time to go home to her loving husband, and her little girl, Carrie.

Plus, hanging around dead people all day in this sterile room filtered through blue lights with an entire wall covered filled floor-to-ceiling with dead bodies, it was a little more than slightly unsettling.

She was almost ready to go when the doors to the morgue burst open. The goateed paramedic, Jay, along with an orderly, wheeled the gurney into the sterile, blue-lit room and parked it near an empty table.

Amanda was grief stricken. "You got to be shitting me! Another one!"

"Lucky day, actually," said Jay. "You have a celebrity!" He grunted as he and the orderly lifted the body onto the table.

"Hot damn, let me find my autograph book!" Amanda shouted sarcastically as she grabbed her facemask.

"I'm not kidding. It's Michael Myers." Jay said gravely.

Amanda paused, scared. She knew damn well the name "Michael Myers," as did everyone in Haddonfield. Even though he was dead, he was still scary to be around.

"Get me a copy of that autograph," Jay chuckled as he went out the door, followed by the orderly.

Amanda stared at the body bag for a long time. Jay had to be pulling her leg. It couldn't be him. He was long dead already. The last she heard, he had died years ago in a fire at the police station in 1989. Yet that couldn't be true; he was in a body bag not four feet away from her tonight. Mark had to be pulling her leg.

Only one way to find out, she thought. She pulled her flowing blonde hair back into a ponytail and replaced her facemask. She pulled down the plastic face shield and cautiously walked over to the bag. She grabbed her small cart with the surgical tools and moved it next to the table. She placed a tape recorder on the cart near her sterile tools. She pressed the record button and the tape began recording.

How would she start the analysis of the body? She faced the tape recorder and began.

"Patient's name is Michael Audrey Myers, aged 45 years. Estimated time of death: 11:15. Cause of death…"

She trailed off as she placed one hand on the bag and the other on the zipper. Slowly, she pulled the zipper down the bag. The top of the bag started to fall away. Amanda gasped as she stared at the charred mask of Michael Myers. His eyes were closed and the hair on the mask had been burnt off. The whole thing smelt of burnt rubber. There were some spots where the mask had been completely burnt away and it appeared the mask had fused to the face in these spots. Michael's arms were folded mummy style in the bag across his chest. In short, he looked like a mummy.

Amanda turned back to the tape. "Cause of death looks like severe second and third degree burns to face and neck," Amanda said as she pulled the zipper down more. "…and torso," she concluded.

Part of his clothing, a tight-fitting pair of coveralls, had been burned away, allowing clear glimpses of his burnt flesh. She took her hand and moved it towards his face. She thought she would peel back the mask so she could describe the injuries in detail. Her blue-gloved hand slowly inched towards the mask.

In an instant, Michael's eyes snapped open as Amanda's hand barely touched the burnt rubber. She let out a piercing scream as the Shape locked eyes with his next victim.

Down the hall, the two friends were laughing about the look on Amanda's face when Jay told her it was Myers.

"Her eyes got so fucking wide, man, it ain't funny," the Jay said in a mockingly serious tone.

"So what, it's the truth. She was going to find out eventually." Mark spoke with a thin Brooklyn accent. It used to be really heavy, but his time in the mid-west had watered it down. Mark had grown up in the Big Apple. He was a balding, heavyset man of forty-five and was about two heads shorter than Jason. Everyone in the hospital called him many things. Among the most common, though, were Jay and stoned. It was common knowledge that Jason always smoked a bowl before going to bed at night.

Jay and Mark laughed about Amanda all the way to the elevator at the end of the hall. Jay pushed the button to call the elevator when they heard a loud scream. They turned around simultaneously, their eyes darting the vacant hallways.

"What the fuck was that?" Jay asked.

"That sounded like somebody screaming," Mark said.

"Was it Amanda? I've never heard Amanda scream, have you?"

"I don't know why she would be screaming," Mark said. "Unless..."

Terror flooded Jay's face as the elevator dinged behind them, but neither of them got on. Instead, they turned right around and fled back to the morgue. After what seemed like an impossibly long sprint, they reached the doors and pushed them open, nearly falling onto the room's linoleum floor. Mark looked up and saw Amanda suspended at least a foot in the air by a large man covered in ash and blood, holding her up by her neck. He was squeezing tightly, Amanda's coughs and sputters choking among the cracking of bones in her neck.

"NO!" someone shouted.

Michael Myers turned his head and glared evilly at Mark and Jay. The Shape threw Amanda against the wall with an excessive amount of force that one would think impossible for a normal man. But Michael Myers is no normal man.

Amanda's head slammed into the wall and left a bloody crater on the tiled surface as her body crashed to the floor and began to pool even more blood.

Michael then reached up for the light fixture and grabbed it, giving a sharp downward pull. The light partially removed itself from the ceiling as sparks flew from torn cables. The fixture began to strobe on and off as Michael advanced towards Mark and Jay. Myers did the same with the next lighting fixture, tearing it from its mooring on the ceiling and causing the room to go nearly dark with momentary strobes of flashing light.

Not thinking, Mark charged Michael head on. Big mistake. Michael grabbed him by the face and began putting on the squeeze. Mark began screaming in unholy terror as blood poured from his eyes and nose. A loud crack signaled that the job was finished as Michael tossed Mark against the edge of the table. Mark's head smacked against the corner of the table with a sickening, wet, satisfying crack, and he fell to the floor in a heap. Terrified, Jay turned tail and ran out the door, fearing for his own safety.

Michael looked around at the cart and eyed a variety of weaponry. There were scalpels, saws, electric drills, etc. But Michael had his eyes on a three foot long surgical machete. He strolled over to the cart and picked it up, holding it in his hand for a while as if weighing it. It was almost like it had become an extension of his arm. Michael held the machete tightly and began the chase.

Jay slammed shut the janitorial closet door. He backed into the buckets of water and tumbled over them with a clumsy crash and the crack of splintering wood. He lay motionless, not daring to breathe lest Myers hear him. He looked up and saw what had broken: a mop handle. He grabbed it and pulled it close to him, holding the broken end towards the door, prepared to lunge it forward at the first person to come through that door.

He heard footsteps outside. The acrid smell of blood filled his nostrils and he knew Michael was outside the door. He pulled the mop handle tight.

The door seemed to fly away as Michael pulled the wooden door off its hinges. Seizing the opportunity, Jay thrust the mop handle at Michael, catching him in the side. Michael jumped aside, offering Jay the chance to run fast. He bolted past Myers, who was momentarily stunned by the surprise attack. But Michael was quick to regain his composure and turned towards the fleeing Jay. Myers raised the machete high and tossed it through the air like it was a dart.

The machete hit true and sliced into the back of Jay's skull. Jay only felt a slight twinge as the blade entered the back of his head. In a split second, the blade exited his skull between his eyes, right above the bridge of his nose. He stood for a second, trying to hold on with all his strength and stay alive as long as possible. Finally, the pain became too much and his knees buckled beneath him as he collapsed on the floor.

Michael Myers walked over to his kill and placed a foot on the neck of his newest victim. He removed the machete with one hand, causing blood to pool fast around Jay's head. Michael took extra care to avoid the blood as he made his way to the elevator. He approached the elevator doors and prepared to press the "UP" button. The elevator doors began to slide open. Michael tightened his grip on the machete, walked through the doors, and began his ascent.

In a room on the second floor, Sara sat on the edge of the bed as the nurse dressed her various cuts and bruises. The officer who had brought Sara to the hospital stood on the opposite side of the bed as the nurse and just watched as the nurse did her thing.

"Ow," Sara squealed as the nurse brushed against a raw spot on her skin. A knock at the door distracted both Sara and the nurse, but the nurse simply said, "Come in."

The door opened and Freddie Harris stepped inside with a cast on his arm, which was resting in a sling.

"Hey Sara," Freddie said with a smile. Sara replied with a smile as the nurse finished her work. She stood up and nearly immediately fell to the ground. Freddie helped her up and back onto the bed.

"Hey, watch out, honey," the nurse said. "Your leg's going to be a bit stiff for another ten minutes, so try not to walk on it too much."

"Ah, she'll be alright," said a voice Sara didn't recognize. A second man, a little younger than Sara, walked into the room and stood right next to Freddie. Myles Barton had had plenty of time to change out of his costume and into something a little more traditional, such as a Marilyn Manson concert tee and a pair of jeans. His hair was a slick mess, but that was usual for guys his age.

"Who are you?" Sara asked.

"Oh, right," Myles said. "It's, uh, Myles Barton. You probably know me better by my screen name: Deckard."

Sara's face lit up brightly, all the troubles and terror from that night seemingly washed away, perhaps banished from her mind by a single thought: God, he's cute.

"Jen thought you were fifty and bald with a bad toupee." She chuckled.

"Nope, it's all my own," Myles said as he gave a small tug at his locks of brown hair. This made Sara smile even more.

"Mr. Harris, let's take another look at that arm, shall we?" the nurse said. Despite Freddie's attempts to argue the contrary, the nurse dragged him out of the room with her, the police officer shortly behind, and closed the door. Sara and Myles were now alone. That awkward silence that comes when two people had been forced into isolation together quickly passed as Sara spoke up.

"How do you thank the guy just who saved your life?" she asked.

"I'm pretty sure Mr. Harris did most of the dirty work," Miles said.

"Yeah, but you played a pretty big part of it, too. So there's got to be something."

"Well, if you're insisting on it, then I'm pretty sure we can work something out between now and eternity..." Myles said with a chuckle. He took a good, long look at Sara: her face was caked with dirt and her long, shoulder-length hair was matted with blood. Despite all this, Myles still could not help but think that Sara was extremely beautiful.

"You know, you have to be one of the most beautiful women I've seen in my entire life."

"Well thank you for the compliment," Sara said with a chuckle. It was only then that Myles realized he had been thinking aloud. He let out a somewhat embarrassed smile as Sara laughed heartily.

He's the romantic type, she thought. This night may just turn out to be alright after all...

Down in the lobby, Scott waited on his friend Myles to finish his visit with his girlfriend. Scott was still wearing his Pulp Fiction outfit; he couldn't have been bothered to remove it, given how much love he had gotten at the party before that thing with the webcast at that same party. Besides, he was kind of digging the 'fro look.

Scott figured he'd be here a while since Myles also needed to give the police a statement, so he sat down and grabbed the nearest magazine he could grab, which was the newest issue of Playboy. A small ding behind him made Scott look up. An elevator was opening, but he couldn't be bothered to find out who was getting off. Instead, he was too focused on the rack Miss November, 2002 possessed.

Michael Myers strode off the elevator with the machete in hand. He saw a black ball of fluff sitting in a chair a few yards away from him and strode towards it, gripping the machete tighter. He reached out and grasped the afro, yanking it away with an almighty heave.

Scott felt a breeze. He leaned forward as he felt it and instinctively felt for his head. The afro was gone. He stood up and turned.

"Hey, what-" Scott started dry heaving. It was Michael Myers. But that was impossible: Michael Myers was dead. He watched him die. "-the fuck?"

Myers held the afro in his hand and the machete in the other. He stared at the wig as if he had never seen one before, but tossed it aside and went back to the business at hand. Scott began to scream, but it was forced back down his throat as Myers lashed out with the machete and embedded the blade into the side of Scott's head. Scott rolled with the force of the blade, which had sliced halfway into the side of his head, through his right eye, and stopped above the bridge of his nose. The crunch of metal-meets-bone echoed in the large, empty waiting room. Scott collapsed to the ground and knocked the blade out of his skull.

Upstairs, Freddie heard the screaming. "What the fuck was that?" he asked.

A cop who had been patrolling the hallways for the sneaky news reporters appeared besides Freddie, his Glock already unholstered.

"You heard it, too?" he asked.

"It sounded like it came from the direction of the lobby," the nurse added.

The cop walked towards the end of the hall, gun at the ready, followed closely by the nurse. He checked both corners before moving over to the glass edge guard. He leaned over the railing and looked down at the bloodied corpse of Scott one story below. The nurse puked at the sight of the mutilated corpse down below. The officer raised the Glock, but didn't see Myers jump out of a previously closed door and grab the nurse. He did, however, hear her scream as Myers twisted her head around and off her shoulders. Myers dropped the head and angrily tossed the body over the railing, watching the nurse's body fall like a rag doll to the lobby floor below and landing with a sickening, wet crunch.

The officer raised the gun and fired a slug into Myers' shoulder. Myers grabbed the officer by the neck and lifted him off the ground. Myers grabbed the officer's leg and brought him down on the railing. The officer's back broke with a crack, followed by the shattering of the glass railing. The officer's body fell to the first floor as well, landing on what remained of the nurse's corpse. Myers then turned towards Freddie, who stood frozen in front of Sara's room. He darted inside the room and shut the door the moment Myers began moving towards him.

"It's him!" Freddie shouted. "It's Myers, he's still alive!"

"What?" Sara shouted as she tried to get off the bed. She collapsed to the ground with her bad leg and Freddie helped her up. Myles held his shoulder under Sara's arms, as did Freddie.

"We got to get outta here," she whimpered.

"Can you carry her by yourself?" Freddie asked.

"Yeah, I think so!" Myles said. "Why, do you have a plan?"

"Nope," Freddie said as he grabbed the syringe with the needle. "I'm making it up as I go!" He grabbed the I.V. tube and tore it loose, making a quick noose with the tube before walking out the door.

"Michael," Freddie shouted. "Over here, motherfucker!

"Go, run!" Freddie shouted at Myles and Sara. "Get the fuck outta here!"

Michael approached Freddie, who held the needle behind his back and the tube in his visible hand. Sara and Myles ran out of the room and down the hall.

"Come to Freddie, motherfucker," Freddie shouted as Myers got closer. Once Myers was close, Freddie took the needle from behind his back and raised it over his head; it was filled with air. He plunged to the needle down, but Myers swung the machete up and connected with Freddie's arm! The arm, now severed from Freddie's torso at the elbow, dropped to the ground and bled profusely.

"Freddie!" Sara cried. Freddie screamed as blood soaked the stub of arm he had left. Myers backhanded Freddie and sent him tumbling into the glass rail.

What happened next happened in slow motion for Sara. She ran towards Freddie's screaming, tumbling body, which landed with a wet crack on the floor below; Myers charged towards her with the machete in hand. She looked up to see Myers toss the machete at her. Sara closed her eyes and waited for the end...

For Myles, it all happened in the blink of an eye. All he saw was the machete rushing towards Sara and he reacted; he whirled around with his back to the machete, protecting Sara as best he could from the blade. Myles screamed as the machete pierced his backside and chest. Sara screamed as well when a few inches of it pierced her left breast. Myles froze against her body, a trickle of blood seeping down his lips. Sara had gone silent now. She was looking at him with horror in her eyes. A smile crossed Myles' lips.

"Hi..." His voice was cracking and blood flowed from his mouth as he spoke, cascading onto both their shirts and making him sound like he was drowning, which he probably was. Sara couldn't take it anymore; she buckled under her own weight and Myles'. He collapsed on top of her, still pinned to her breast.

Myers walked towards the pair on the ground. He stared viciously into Sara's eyes. Fear filled them as he walked closer. He pulled the machete out of Myles' body, lifting him off of Sara for a brief moment before falling back onto her. Myers raised the machete above his head, ready to strike. But he wasn't fast enough.

Something jumped in Myers' backside, registering the pain before the earsplitting noise of the .44 Magnum. Myers felt five more rounds go into him. Michael staggered forwards as each slug slammed into his back. Four of the six slugs exited through Michael's chest and the sixth and final bullet grazed Michael's cheek as he collapsed to the bloody linoleum floor. Michael's head hit the ground with a dull thud as the man who shot Myers put his gun away.

The officer turned behind him as he heard a door burst open. Several doctors and cops flowed out of the emergency stairwell, the cops fanning out in the cramped hallway. The oldest cop, a balding black man with a thin mustache, looked at the cop who shot Michael.

"What the hell happened here, Loomis?"

"I wish I knew," he said, his voice trailing off.

"Shit," the man, whose nametag identified him as "Robinson," said softly.

Jason Loomis, the officer who shot Myers, put his gun away and pulled out his hand radio.

"Brackett, this is Loomis," he said into the hand set. "You better get over here to the hospital. We've had a situation. Over."

"Copy that, Loomis," Brackett responded through static. "On my way; E.T.A. ten minutes. Over and out."

Loomis tucked his radio away and walked over to where Myles had collapsed on Sara. Her legs were bent behind her body and Myles was clearly crushing her. He pulled Myles off of her and rolled him off to the side. He looked at Sara's eyes and placed two fingers on her neck to check for a pulse. It was faint, but it was still there; she was still alive.

"We got a live one here!" he shouted. A nearby doctor approached her and kneeled down to check her over.

"Excuse me, miss. Can you hear me?" Sara remained unresponsive.

"God, I think she's going into shock! Can we get some help over here?" the doctor shouted.

Loomis looked over at Myles and sighed. This one probably wouldn't make it; his wounds were way too deep. His eyes were open, cold and staring. Loomis reached to close them when the boy gasped for air!