I must be insane. Completely crazy, gone gone gone...

Crazy to believe him, to imagine that there was something else happening and killing aside from the man that desperately clung to her, almost painfully, and stared into her eyes with the colors and passion of a deadly storm.

Insane to believe that Michael Myers would never...

And although she wanted nothing more than to be as close as she was to him then, Minka pulled away, and Michael's hands fell from her cheeks.

"We have to go, w-we have to get away," She half-sobbed, body trembling and suddenly quite warm. She watched Michael's jaw relax, and relief dissipate the fog of desperation that swirled about him.

She stood up without his help, quick breaths passing through dry lips.

"Give me a moment."

Minka rushed to her dresser and began grabbing whatever she deemed useful; underwear, a slip, a skirt and a thick sweater, a hairbrush. A picture of her and her parents taken last Christmas. A large tote from under the bed proved ample enough to fit everything.

Michael simply watched her move about frantically, using every ounce of strength she had not to break down and cry and give it all up entirely.

She would mourn them later.

Minka took one more quick look about and decided to grab her robe from a hook and a ragged stuffed bear from the bed.

She turned to him, tears silent and sparkling as they fell.

"We'll take their car."

Michael rose from the floor. The perfection of his body, despite everything, had not yet ceased to amaze her; she believed it never would.

The nurse stared down at the hardwood floor of the hallway as they left the room, bag of possessions hanging from her frail shoulder and Michael leading the way. He'd put his mask back on.


They'd taken her parent's Pontiac, and drove off the plush blanket of snow that'd settled on it. It was night, but not dark. The world shined in the headlights, reflecting off cold white, until the cold became just a chill and the snow was replaced with dead leaves.

Minka had fallen asleep not ten minutes after their departure. It was a precarious distraction; lips slightly open, sunset hair draped about her pale face like the finest silk, elegant collarbone peeking above the sweater like a reminder of the delicacies that hid beneath. The heat refused to turn on, and he could faintly see wisps of her breath.

His hands tightened around the wheel, shifting the leather.

East. East towards what? Haddonfield was East. Laurie Strode was East. Loomis, surely. Everything that he should stay away from.

Yet, it was all he could come up with.

Maybe the detective would be there. Enemy of my enemy and all...

He didn't look away from the road until the gas meter turned red.

Michael felt renewed panic, and anger. Running from one side of the state to the other, then back again. How long since the escape? Since the bullet that hit Minka was fired, or their time at the cabin?

Another gas station was out of the question, and not simply because their faces were most certainly cycling through every police department in state and beyond.

There had been enough death, for now. Besides, he'd noticed a sign not five miles back; a campground, bound to be deserted on the cusp of Winter.


He'd taken the car deep into the rough gravel roads of the grounds. Lavery's Cabins, Low Rates! Cold mist hugged the wet ground and rolled against the many trees that spotted the property. After passing a few cabins, Michael felt it safe enough to choose the next and parked the Pontiac, then reached for Minka, gently shaking her shoulder. Her eyes opened slowly, sleep trying to tug them back.

"Where are we?"

Instead of answering, of course, he motioned to the cabin and swung open his door. A feeling of peace spread throughout him, now out of the stale air of the car, replaced by the crisp and heady pine tickling his nose.

Minka came out after him, reaching back into the car for her tote. Michael heard her yawn.

"We should keep moving," She whispered tiredly. He started for the cabin, expecting the nurse to follow.

Michael tested a small front window and by some miracle, it was unlocked and slid open with ease. She looked at him, barely making out the shine of his eyes through the white mask, and he nearly shrunk away from her then. The pain and exhaustion etched into her face; it watered and nurtured the small bloom of guilt in his chest and he felt the ache as it grew into a large, lush mass that his body could barely contain.

When she gave him a small, sad smile, Michael knew she did it for his sake.

He helped her in first, then followed. It was pitch inside, filled with musty air and dampness. The outline of the fireplace was there, however, and he quickly crossed the small room to rummage around for matches. Successful, he lit one and took a look at the small stack of wood next to the hearth. Only five or six logs, but they were dry. He threw a few in, lit another match. It took patience, but the wood eventually caught.

Satisfied, Michael took in their surroundings.

The cabin was lightly furnished; threadbare loveseat the color of wilted ivy, rustic little dinner table, a small cot situated in a corner. Near the far wall, a wood burning stove and two overhead cupboards. Various cookwear hung from rusty hooks. A small door to the right that he presumed led to a simple bathroom. The chill was thick, but the small fire was bound to warm up the place quick.

"I'll be back," Said a voice as soft and sad as the snow that'd fallen in Monmouth. Before he knew it, Minka had fled to the bathroom.


The bag slid off her shoulder and landed on the hardwood with a soft thump. Her fingers searched tentatively for a light switch, but quickly gave up.

Minka let her eyes adjust, taking small, unsteady breaths, feeling reality close in on her with deadly force.

Faint, she let her body lean into the cool, sticky porcelain of the sink, trembling hand reaching for the handle. It gurgled, then came the water; she splashed her face, droplets running down her neck, eyeing the dark reflection that looked back at her through a dusty mirror.

I don't know who that girl is.

Tears came quickly, and left just the same. She was tired of crying, tired all over. Achy. Each limb protested as she reached down into the bag, grabbing a fresh sweater, a slip and underwear. She changed slowly, brushed her hair, then slid back out into the main room.

Michael stood by the window they'd come in through, looking out into the silence. He'd unzipped the mechanics jumper to the hips, leaving his torso bare in the glow of the fire. His mask was gone.

Minka opened her mouth to say something, anything really, but words wouldn't form.

Too much hurt, too much tension, God...

With bare, icy feet, she padded towards the cupboards, in hopes of finding something to eat.

The first yielded a few cans of vegetables; green beans, baked beans, sliced carrots. The second, a suspicious roll of Ritz crackers and-

"Oh, goodness."

A bottle of Wild Turkey, nearly full. Raising herself on her toes, Minka grabbed the bourbon, unscrewed the cap and lifted it to her lips. One big swallow left her wincing painfully.

She never drank. Not ever.

But something told her that it was what she needed, that the bottle was meant for her. Warmth flooded her belly, and she decided to chase more of that fiery comfort. Another swallow, another wonderful hot burst.

Michael. Michael...