Officer Deeney's blood drained onto the road and the sight reminded her of the evening she'd found her mother's corpse hanging from the bedroom door knob. At the time, she thought nothing could possibly be worse than that.
Oh, was she wrong.
Michael drew closer with every step, dressed in a mechanic's ensemble. Headlights from the Ford truck behind him cast shadows over the white mask.
A dry sob escaped her mouth.
The king of her nightmares was here.
When the car door opened, autumn air tinged with the scent of Officer Deeney's blood billowed into the cramped space and gooseflesh pelted her skin. The only comfort she could draw from her surroundings was the gentle hum of the cruiser's running engine and the abrasive static murmuring from the car radio.
She couldn't hear herself screaming as though she blew out her eardrums. Or, maybe, she wasn't even screaming at all. All she could do was watch her cuffed fists fly and her feet launch at Michael Myers. Yet, his hand seized one of her ankles and slid her body forward so that both legs were on either side of his waist. Her skirt which would sway past her knees when she walked, now bunched around her hips and she could feel the rough fabric of his overalls glide against her skin.
"Please, don't do this," Carmen whispered, voice strained. She cupped her hands to her chest, feeling small like her hopes. "I—" the tip of knife pressed against her throat had stalled her words.
As she clenched her eyes shut, imaginary splatters of blood flashed in her retinas.
Not like this...
Michael shifted his hips, leaning closer to her, and her eyelids snapped open. It was so intimate. So close. Unease scurried up her spine. Was this how she would die? In a killer's embrace?
This is cruel.
"I'm sor—sorry for stabbing you!" she squeaked as a last ditch effort to appeal to his mercy, if such a concept existed in him. "Please, I don't want to die like this! Please, please! I'm not ready, I'm sorry! I'll do anything, Michael. Anything!" Carmen sobbed.
Now is not the time to beg. He's about to gut you like a fish.
She watched the point skim down the front of her blouse, stopping above the organ thrumming heavily in the cage of her chest. Looking up, she found herself ensnared by a stare so still it made the world seem like it was spinning.
This man may not have blinked, but when she thought he did, a silver glint lingered on the edge of her vision. She flinched back when he brought the knife to her face, swiping away an ebony lock that had fallen over her eyes.
Lowering his knife wielding hand to the seat to support him, he used the other to comb his fingers through her hair. With his weight hovering over her she could finally see how her body dwarfed in the shadow of his. He's so much bigger than me. Carmen thought she had every right to be afraid as his hand tangled itself in her black, lank locks, as the pads of his fingers pressed against her scalp, imparting heat on her skin.
Michael titled Carmen's head and she could feel his eyes studying her face. Above her frantic breaths, she could hear Michael's, echoing beneath the rubber of his mask. Harsh. Measured. She imagined them at her ear—
against her skin…
—and shivered.
Like the flicking of a switch, strands of her hair were pulled taut, threatening to spring out of their follicles as he crawled out of the backseat, dragging Carmen by the hair.
Once they were both out of the cruiser, she stood with her head held at an odd angle from how tightly wound his fingers were to her scalp. Through the holes of the mask she could see the yawning black of his eyes.
Michael cocked his head and his knife hand leveled in front of her face, corded with white scars that extended up his arms, likely branching out beneath what his clothes could hide too. She recalled someone telling her about the accident at Haddonfield Memorial when Michael had supposedly perished in the fire.
Wherein the flames you'll find the devil.
She stared at the blade glinting in her eyes, then at him. He squeezed the fist in her hair and she winced.
For good measure.
"I won't run… I'll listen to you."
Michael Myers hadn't uttered a word, but when his fist loosened, Carmen's heart surged and she fell to her knees. So shaken with relief that her body couldn't support her.
He's letting you live… Or he's waiting for you to die.
The metal of her right cuff bit into her wrist, leaving a red ring on her skin.
Tentatively, she crawled away from Michael and yelped when there was a tug at her hip. Tossing a weary glance over her shoulder, she saw the heel of his shoe pinning the hem of her skirt — now a tattered canvas of dirt stains.
Carmen gulped as she found the pale mask staring down at her questioningly. She showed him her hands, encircled by cuffs. "I— I wanted to get the key and get rid of these..."
Could one sound any more afraid? A sinking feeling formed in her stomach at the likelihood that he'd deny her because why else would he grant her the freedom of her hands when she'd already hurt him once with them already?
When he hadn't lifted his foot, the gray gaze that was fixed on him intently averted to the ground. Michael didn't move.
The area fell quiet.
Until, inside the passenger seat of the Ford Truck, an inebriated girl awoke with a groan.