Jason hit the ground a full three minutes before the plane. He felt nothing on impact...nothing save for the same cold, numb rage. Kill. He had to kill. He wouldn't be at peace until the rage was spent.

He knew somewhere in the back of his dead mind, though, that the rage would never be spent. It was always there. Driving him. It drove him from death and back to life countless times before, and, he suspected, it always would.

When the plane struck the ground and erupted, he cocked his head and watched. The way the flames mushroomed into the night sky was beautiful. It spoke to him. He was the fire. The never-ending, inextinguishable fire. He started toward the flames, trampling roses in a flower bed and walking through a wooden stockade fence. He stopped when, ahead, a door flew open and a little boy with white hair appeared. Moments later, a gang of girls joined him, their faces twisted into makes of horror, worry, and dark wonder.

Jason hated them.

He hated their youth and their innocence, he hated their vitality, he hated their faces and the noises they made. He hated them because he knew they hated him. Everyone did. Everyone pointed and laughed and hurt him. Everyone was cruel to him. He began to tremble at the force of his hatred. He started toward them, but stopped. Not now. He knew vaguely that he had to hide before they came looking for him, the men who hunted him down in his forest and took him like an animal, the men in green suits and hard hats. The soldiers.

Jason looked around. He saw a hatchway leading into the basement of the house where the kids currently huddled. Perfect. He would go in there, hide, and when he was sure he was safe, he would give in to his anger and kill them all. He would split their heads, wring their necks, pull their guts out and squish them in his big, skeletal hands. He would start and not stop until he was happy and the rage went away.

Moving slowly, deliberately, Jason went around to the side of the house and tried the hatch. It was locked from the inside. Flashing, he grabbed the handle and ripped it open with a metal shriek: One of the hinges popped and a screw shot into his leg like a bullet. He stepped over the lip, descended several stairs, and then pulled the door closed behind him.

It was dark in the basement, but Jason could see. He shuffled aimlessly around, taking in his surroundings. Boxes were stacked here and there. In the corner, a hot water heater. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. A crack of light shone under the door. He heard voices and footsteps. The noises made him mad. He gripped the handle of the machete tight.

Not now. Not now.

He went over to the hot water heater. There was enough of a gap between it and the wall to fit him. No one coming into the basement would be able to see him unless they turned a corner and peered into the space. Hunching down, he wedged himself between the heater and the wall, and waited.

Kill them all, the voice of his long dead mother said, kill them all, kill them all, kill them all, kill them all...