South of route 23, rain beat down on the roof of a speeding cruiser.
"...No."
"I shit you not."
"But...but, Joe down by the station said—"
"Fuck. You listen to Joe? That guy can't tell the difference between his wife and a horse's ass." The sergeant behind the wheel, laughed crassly. "I'm telling you— Michael Myers escaped Ridgemont three days ago. The feds are keeping it low-key and everything but…"
His partner, a much younger man with a patchy mustache that he was trying to grow in full like the sergeant's, raised a brow. "But what?"
"They say he's heading to Haddonfield to finish the job. I heard Livingston's dedicated all the manpower to patrolling the town."
"What job? Is he a hitman or something?"
"'Hitman or something?' He's not Charles Bronson, man. He's a fucking psychopath who was out to kill his sister."
"Oh..."
The driver rolled down his window halfway and spit out a wad of gum.
As the window closed, spatters of rainwater hit his arm. No matter how fast the wipers swept across the windshield, they could only see a blurry version of the road.
"Fuck this rain, am I right?"
"Tomorrow's s'posed to be nice, at least."
"Sure." The sergeant eased out the word, skeptical. As they approached the driveway leading to the front of the imposing facility, the man drawled, "God...What an eyesore."
His partner squinted at it. "It is really...dreary."
"Yeah? Myers might've been born in Haddonfield, but Smith's Grove practically raised him. Who knows, maybe this is where he went cuckoo."
"But, didn't he kill his older sister at six? Y'know, before he was locked up?"
The end of the Sergeant's yawn was a growl. "Details."
Rolling up to the unlit gate, the officer shook his head. "If my son got like that, I don't know what I'd do."
"But, you don't have kids…" The sergeant gave his partner a slow once over. "Do you?"
"No. Just — hypothetically speaking."
"Oh, right." The sergeant put the car in park, peering through the front window to see if someone would come to attend to them, or at least lift the gate. But, alas, there was no sign of anyone. They must not be privy to stepping out into the rain for two measly police men.
"Major said we're only here to inspect the front desk right?" The officer asked.
"How it played out was that a former psychiatrist who worked here called the commissioner saying there might be something wrong."
"Wrong like what?"
A shrug. "No one answered the phone."
"That's it? That's why we're here?"
"Hey listen, you're all new to this rookie," The sergeant eyed his partner. "This is the biggest madhouse in the state we're talking about. If there's another break out like last year, the Feds will start sniffing to see what's going on. And y'know how the superintendent feels about them."
With a hesitant nod, the officer then asked, "Who mans the gate?"
The sergeant said no one might be out in this weather.
"Stay here," the sergeant ordered. "If I'm not back in five, you call back up." Much to the hesitation of his partner.
And five minutes had passed since the sergeant had said that and closed the door. Then the seconds after elapsed to minutes, and by the time the officer contemplated leaving the patrol car, he'd heard the thunder like a gunshot, shuttering against the sheets of falling rain and felt a little cowardice cripple his resolve. It was more peculiar when the beam of headlights came towards his direction. Before he'd even realized it, the orange mustang barreled through on the other side of the gate house opposite the cruiser, leaving the gate dangling on the top hinge.
The officer burst out of the car with his gun ready, his face pale and aghast as the mustang disappeared into the night. He'd forgone the escaping car in search of his sergeant, clothes moistening with every absorbed raindrop as he ran. And ran. Panting with more grace than the wind.
And it was behind the building of Smith's Grove involuntary treatment annex, that the officer halted.
He had never seen so much death in one area. There were three bodies in total. He didn't recognize the doctor lying on his back with the stomach wound. But, at the sight of his partner's face staring at him, his neck muscles ripped along the column of his throat, having been turned beyond two rotations, the officer felt pure dread overcome him like a tidal wave. Before he could truly succumb to the calamity of it all, he noticed a gun was discarded in a puddle beside the body of a girl, on the ground, skin like wet porcelain.
Her chest rose faintly.
She was alive.
And this might have been the only thing which kept him from teetering towards insanity.