Disclaimer:
Almost all the characters in the following story are the sole property of companies and persons other than the author. Their use herein should be considered no challenge to that ownership whatsoever. Please don't sue.
Note:
The author considers everything that happened in Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers and Halloween: H20 to be pure fantasy and not inclusive to the Halloween timeline. If you saw the films, you'd understand why.
Comments are demanded.
Samhain
An X-Files/Halloween story
by jimmy4eyes@yahoo.com
Three
St. Mary's Home for Girls
8.05pm
1.
"She stays in Room G," Sister Harriet said. "Fourteen to sixteen."
The foyer of the house was large and imposing. Dark wood and windows shrouded by nightfall. All the furniture was heavy. Scratches and dents on the legs of everything, tables and chairs. This was a home for children all right.
From somewhere farther back in the house, the sudden noise of laughter. A dozen different tones, cadences. Scully heard a television talking underneath the din. A comedy show with its own laugh track.
"How many girls stay here?" Scully asked.
"Close to fifty at any given time," Sister Harriet said. "We're very busy."
An ugly, squarish staircase dominated the rear wall of the foyer. Threadbare carpeting covered the steps. Sister Harriet led Mulder and Scully along, waved them to follow her up. "Must be hard work," Mulder said.
"It is."
Upstairs it was darker. Two yellow lights provided feeble illumination for a long hallway that stretched from front to back. Plain wooden doors lined the hall. White letters painted on the panels. It was funereally still.
"When did Jamie Lloyd come to live with you?" Scully asked.
Sister Harriet sighed. "A year ago. It was a very traumatic experience for her."
"I think she's seen worse," Mulder said.
"You're right."
They stopped in front of Room G. Sister Harriet knocked. She glanced back at Scully and Mulder. "She's been up here most of the day. She didn't want to come down for dinner or television."
No sound from the other side of the oak door. Sister Harriet knocked again.
"Jamie? Jamie, there are people here to see you. From the FBI."
Nothing.
Mulder opened his mouth to say something. The quiet was broken by his cell phone. He took out, thumbed it on. "Mulder," he said.
"Let me try," Scully told Sister Harriet. She rapped gently on the closed door. "Jamie, my name is Dana Scully. I'm with the FBI. We need your help with something very important. Could we come in, please?"
"Okay," Mulder said. He turned off his phone. "We have a problem."
Sister Harriet opened the door to Room G. Twin rows of neatly-made beds. At the far end of the room, a double-window was open, panes swung out toward the street. It was Autumn-night chilly. "She's gone!"
Scully made to step into the room. Mulder put a hand on her shoulder. "We've got a dead policeman a few miles from here," he said. "Stabbed to death."
Sister Harriet entered Room G, ran to the open window, looked out. "She must have lowered herself down!" she said. "This is terrible!"
Scully glanced around the room. "Do you think she knows?"
Mulder smiled grimly. "I thought there wasn't anything to know."
"That doesn't matter," Scully said. "We've got to find her. If there's anything to this connection, she could be in real danger."
Sister Harriet stood by the window, hand over her mouth. She said nothing, stared out the open window. Mulder cast a look at her, then turned back to Scully. "See what you can find out here," he said. "I'll check out the crime scene. Keep in touch."
"Mulder--" Scully started.
He pushed past her and went down the stairs, two steps at a time.
Scully looked to Sister Harriet. The nun's eyes were wet. "He'll kill her," Sister Harriet said. "If she's on her own, he'll find her and kill her. I know it."
"We'll find her," Scully said flatly. "Don't worry."
Scully retreated into the hallway. She took out her own cell phone and dialed.
Two rings and it picked up. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," a man said.
2.
Seven police cruisers jammed onto the narrow lane of Oakdale Avenue, bubble lights whirling. Red, blue and white lightning bolts flickered crazily across the faces of the houses, trees and the watching neighborhood. A forensics wagon was parked in the middle of it all. Men and women in dark windbreakers divided up swabs and plastic sample bags. Incongruously, a cream Ford Fairlane was wedged into the mess.
Mulder parked the Taurus and got out. Cops set up portable lights in the empty lot between the two neighboring houses. As Mulder stepped up the curb, illumination flooded the scene, picked out the figures of a dozen officers milling around.
"Special Agent Mulder," Mulder announced to the nearest Haddonfield cop. He showed his ID. "Who's in charge here?"
The cop pointed. "Over there. Sheriff Meeker."
Mulder followed the man's finger. A big man stood with his back to Mulder, talking animatedly with two other policemen. He was built like a football player, broad-shouldered and muscular. Crew-cut black hair had a shock of white sliced through it. "Thanks," Mulder said.
He strode toward the sheriff. Flashbulbs ignited, freeze-framed the scene for a microsecond at a time. The body was visible beyond a loose line of Haddonfield police, uncovered but face-down on the grass. Blood was everywhere.
One of the cops Meeker talked to nodded toward Mulder as he approached. Meeker stiffened, waited until Mulder was on top of him before turning around.
Meeker was taller than Mulder by several inches. Stern, craggy face. But the most startling thing about him was the lightning-bolt-shaped scar that zig-zagged up from his left eyebrow and vanished into his hair, to be matched by the white streak. It cut a slash through the brow itself and seemed to point out the solid white eyeball beneath. Meeker was blind in one eye.
"Sheriff Meeker, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI."
"I know who you are," Meeker said. He had a strong voice. Commanding. Mulder felt chastised already. "Why didn't you come by my station when you came into town?"
"I was visiting a friend," Mulder said. "I didn't have a case here. Yet."
"And now?"
"You tell me."
Meeker glanced around. "Where's the other one?"
"My partner is at St. Mary's Home for Girls," Mulder said.
"Why?"
"Did you know that Jamie Lloyd is missing?"
"No," Meeker said. "Besides, what's it to you?"
"He knows, Ben," someone said from behind Mulder. "He knows all about it."
Mulder turned around. Sam was there, bundled into a long, dark coat, scarf indifferently draped over his neck. His face looked pale and drawn. Mulder had seen that look before. During midterm examinations. Or when Sam was tortured over whether to propose to Abby.
"What did you tell him, Loomis?" Meeker grumbled.
"Everything," Sam said.
"Why the hell did you do that?"
"Because he can help."
"Says you," Meeker grunted.
Mulder looked back and forth between the men. "Somebody want to give me a clue here?"
Sam drew closer. Meeker scowled, but didn't say anything. "Ben's daughter was killed by Michael in '88," Sam said. "In 1989, when Michael was broken out of custody, Ben was the only survivor on the Haddonfield Police Force."
"I almost didn't make it," Meeker said.
Mulder glanced at Meeker's eye. He saw the pock-like indentation of a bullet-impact now. A direct head shot. "Ricochet off the bone?" he asked.
Meeker nodded slowly. "Don't know if I was lucky, or not."
"Do you have any idea where you're standing?" Sam asked Mulder.
"Crime scene," Mulder replied.
"This is where Michael Myers lived," Meeker said.
Mulder looked around. Short, soft grass trampled under dozens of cop feet. Houses on either side. A quiet, normal-looking street. No trees in the lot. Nothing. Like cemetery grounds.
"It was torn down in '89," Sam added.
Meeker gestured to Mulder. "Come see."
They moved through the cluster of police to the center of the action. Dead policeman. A coil of intestine, sugared in black dirt, poked up from beneath his corpse. "His name is Bruce Geller," Meeker said. "One of my new ones. He called in on a missing vehicle. That Fairlane by the curb. Said he was going to talk to somebody about it."
"Michael," Sam said.
Mulder looked back to the car. "You sure?"
"There's blood all over the inside of the car," Meeker said. "We haven't found the bodies, but I figure it's just a matter of time. Couple of teenagers making out somewhere. Parents called them in missing this morning."
"Michael needed a ride into town," Sam said. His voice was bleak.
"Bruce's cruiser is missing," Meeker said. "Myers traded up."
"A police car shouldn't be too hard to find," Mulder said.
Sam's face stayed harsh. "If Michael wants to stay missing, he'll stay missing," he said. "We'll never find him."
"Sheriff?" Mulder asked Meeker.
"We've got an APB out on the car and anyone fitting Myers' description," Meeker said. "I was going to have Jamie Lloyd picked up and put under protection, but I guess it's too late for that."
"We have to find her," Sam said. "He can't get to her first."
Meeker checked his watch. "We still have some time," he said.
Mulder looked at his own wrist. Almost nine.
"It's the time," Sam explained. "We've got three hours. Michael won't kill until it's Halloween."
"Halloween," Mulder repeated.
Sam inclined his chin. "Samhain."
"We're going to need every eyeball," Meeker said to Mulder. "You in?"
Mulder nodded. "I'll do what I can."
Meeker didn't smile. "Let's hope that's enough."
3.
Jamie waited in the low brush by the parking lot for ten minutes before she decided it was safe. Overhead, lightning bolts flickered behind gathering stormclouds. Uneven glowings that blotted out the stars and moon. An ugly, flat chunk of building squatted in the middle of a field of asphalt. A big neon sign with a moving arrow said BUS.
Only a few cars in the lot. No buses in sight. But there would be later. Two buses out of the Haddonfield/Schofield area. One at 11.30pm and the other just after two in the morning. She'd catch the 11.30.
Before it was too late.
The sensation was in the air. Or maybe it was inside of her. A dull pressure against her bones. Not quite a headache, but something. It was him, looking for her. She felt him every time.
Jamie jogged across the parking lot. A chill wind blew in ahead of the storm. She kept her jean jacket closed tightly around her against it. Only a few lights to illuminate the flat expanse of asphalt. Sodium lights. A rotten yellow shade.
Glass doors with etched-metal handles that said PULL on them. She pulled. Hot air emerged from the lobby, smacked Jamie in the face. An insubstantial layer of condensate formed on her skin, made her feel sweaty.
No one inside. Empty rows of polished wooden benches. Tiles walls glowed a faint, unearthly green under the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. Twin, ceiling-mounted heating units wheezed above Jamie's head.
She walked along a row of vending machines. The Plexiglas fronts of the machines were scratched, marked with graffiti. A split between snack machines and drink machines revealed an open doorway. RESTROOMS DOWNSTAIRS was spelled out in painted tiles.
A long set of glass doors opened on the side of the lobby. Covered boarding stations for the buses. Stanchions strung together with threadbare ropes were set up to keep the lines organized.
Toward the back of the lobby, a hallway that vanished out of sight. A red EXIT sign glowed over the open entrance. Jamie catalogued all of it. Three ways in. More important, three ways out.
Tinny sound of laughter from somewhere, canned and electronic.
Jamie saw the ticket counter. Glassed-in. The man inside had a portable TV on. He stared at the hand-sized screen. The expression on his face was slack. He did not move. A laugh-track roared.
Closer. The man did not respond to her presence. Totally still. Eyes locked.
"Hello?" Jamie tried.
Nothing.
She slowed. The TV program gave way to a commercial. No response from the man. "Mister?" Ten feet away. Jamie didn't see any blood. Was the man's chest moving? It was difficult to tell. Ceiling lights reflected off the pink skin of his exposed scalp. Bad receding hairline.
Jamie stopped at the window. Her throat hurt, tight. "Hello?"
She knocked on the window.
The man jumped. "Oh, shit!"
Despite herself, Jamie recoiled. Part of scream squeaked out of her before she clamped it off. Her heart raced. Both hands were in tight fists. Her nails cut into her palms.
For the first time, the man blinked. His expression flexed through a half-dozen forms of surprise. The skin of his face flushed red. He turned to Jamie. "Boy, you sure scared the hell out of me! I didn't see you there."
Anger flushed the fear out of Jamie's system. "How could you not see me?"
The man gestured to the TV. Stupid smile. "My favorite show."
Jamie took a Visa card out of her pocket. "I need a ticket to Chicago. One way."
All business now. The man wiped his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket. "Okay. What time?"
"Eleven-thirty. At the back of the bus, please."
The man turned to his computer terminal. He pecked at the keys with one finger on his right hand. Very slowly. "Pick your own seat," he said. "No assignments."
"Fine," Jamie said.
Nausea stabbed through Jamie's stomach. She groaned out loud, doubled over with the sharp, intrusive sensation. The credit card tumbled out of her hand, slapped the floor more loudly than Jamie expected. She caught the edge of the counter before she fell.
The man put his hand on the glass. "Hey, kid, you okay?"
Jamie whirled around, looked back at the entrance. No one there. No shape in the darkness outside. No one revealed in the yellow glare of the sodium lights. He wasn't there. "I'm all right," Jamie managed. "I'm okay."
The queasiness ebbed slowly. Jamie retrieved the credit card off the floor, straightened back up. She tried to smile at the man. He looked back at her, eyes wide. "You need me to call somebody for you?"
"No," Jamie said. "No. Nobody."
He's too close, Jamie thought.
"The ticket's $37.50," the man said.
"Here." Jamie gave him the credit card.
The man took it. "You Harriet Jorgensen?"
Jamie nodded. Damp patches under her arms. More sweat on her face. It was too hot in here. "She's my mom," she said.
"Got an ID?"
"I'm sixteen," Jamie said. "I don't have a license yet."
The man's eyes narrowed. "Where is your mom?"
"Chicago."
Long pause. On the TV, riotous laughter exploded at the man. His stare faltered, drawn back to the picture. Part of his dead look reappeared. The credit card was forgotten in his hand.
"Can I get my ticket?" Jamie asked.
The man snapped out of it. "Yeah, sure. Hang on."
He ran the card through, gave it back to Jamie. She had to sign for her "mom." The ticket was a flimsy strip of computer printout, the lettering almost too faded to make out. Jamie stuffed it into her jacket pocket.
"Be a while now," the man said. He looked at his watch. "Forty-five minutes."
"It's okay," Jamie said.
The man looked around outside his booth. "Where's your stuff?"
"I didn't bring any," Jamie said. "It's okay."
"All right. Have a seat. I'll announce the bus."
"Sure."
Jamie made her way back to the benches. Sitting on one end, sideways with her feet up on the seat, she could watch all three of the doors at once. She kept sweating, but she didn't take her jacket off. If he came, she wanted to move fast.
4.
Utter silence in the police car.
He sat with his hands on the steering wheel. Not gripping. Only resting.
Not so silent in the police car. The slow, steady rhythm of his breath. In. Out. It rasped against the confining rubber of the mask. No variance in the speed of it. No urgency in his manner.
Neon light from the flickering bus station sign danced on the hood of the police cruiser. Blue and red intertwined. On and off. As soulless and unchanging as the tempo Michael Myers lived.
Another hour. The evening crept toward midnight.
The first rain began to fall.
5.
11.21pm
Footsteps on the tile.
Jamie's head snapped up. Her eyes opened. She fell asleep! She fell asleep!
The man from the ticket counter stopped short. He raised his hands in apology. "Didn't mean to startle you," he said. "Wanted to tell you that the 11.30's running behind time. It's the rain. Washed out the main road. They're making good time."
Jamie's heart fluttered. "How late?" she asked.
"Not long," the man said. "It'll come in a little after midnight."
"Shit," Jamie said. She dropped her feet off the bench, got up. "That's too late!"
The man backed up. "It's only thirty-five minutes or so."
Racing thoughts. Jamie paced. Outside, rain thundered down as if the sky was broken open. A bolt of lightning illuminated every glass door in solid white for half a second. The storm growled. "I've got to get out of here!" Jamie said.
"Relax," the man said. "Want to have some coffee, or something? I got Swiss Miss, too, if you want it."
Jamie stopped moving. "Look, I don't want--"
Car engine outside. Barely audible over the water-flow noise of the rain. It stopped Jamie in mid-sentence. Every inch of her skin crawled. She looked at the main entrance. The man's gaze followed hers.
"What is it?" he asked.
Jamie ran to the doors, looked out.
A police cruiser waited in the lot. It was parked out in the shadows, where the yellow lights didn't fall on it. The nose was pointed directly at the door.
At Jamie.
Lightning flashed again.
She saw him in the car. Wild hair. Bleached-white face.
"Oh, my God," she said.
"What's wrong?" the man asked. "Hey, maybe I should call somebody."
Jamie turned her back on the lot. "No! Don't call anybody!"
Again the suspicious look. "Why not?"
"Listen," Jamie said. "Uh, what time is it?"
"Almost 11.30."
Half an hour.
"Do your bathrooms work?" Jamie asked.
The man nodded slowly. Still having doubts.
"I'll be right back. Then we can call my mom. Is that okay?"
Pause. "Sure."
Jamie walked through the open door to the bathrooms. Stairs led downward in both directions. A man's image was drawn on one tile, a woman on the other. Jamie went into the men's room.
Ten steps down, then a sharp turn. At the bottom, a wooden door. A solid wooden door.
Jamie entered the men's room. A rusted spring squalled. A spiraling, metallic noise.
Almost totally dark inside. Weak, circular fluorescent bulbs over three dirty sinks provided the only light. The mirrors were made of polished metal, not glass. They were warped with age and scratched.
Tiny windows near the ceiling on one side of the restroom. Meshed with wire.
No one in the stalls. The whole room stank of urine.
She caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors. Hair strung together by the humidity. Face dripping with sweat. Eyes wild. Panicked, even. No wonder the man was distrustful.
The wooden door didn't have a lock on it. A metal garbage can was attached to the wall with a length of chain. Jamie couldn't use it to jam the door shut. Besides, it was empty, too light to do anything.
Jamie pounded her fists on a sink. "Damn it!" she said. Tears almost broke loose. "Damn it, damn it!"
No crying, she thought. Don't you cry!
Steel inside. She had to find the steel inside. Grab it. Hold it. Feel it.
There. No more fear.
She raised her eyes back to the mirror. The panic was gone. The expression on her face was cold and empty, but it was better than the rest. If she was afraid, she couldn't think. If she couldn't think, he would get her for sure.
All the lights went out.
The sickness returned. Gut-ripping, bone-aching. Jamie reeled, stumbled over her own feet and fell on the floor. "Oh, God," Jamie squeezed out. A deeper, more intrusive pain leached into her, joined the nausea.
Even the parking lot lights didn't gleam. It was pitch dark. That would not stop him from finding her. Not if he wanted to. And he wanted to. So badly. She was feeling it now.
Jamie crawled across the floor. Spasms clutched her intestines, kept her doubled over. Grime and mildew smeared her hands, dug beneath her nails. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps.
The stalls. Inside one of the stalls. It was better than nothing. She crawled into one, kicked the door shut with one leg, weakly.
Someone opened the restroom door. The spring protested.
Tears dripped from Jamie's eyes. The pain was too much. It reached for her heart. Her lungs were squeezed shut. Too tight. God, I can't breathe.
Slow steps on the tile. Hard-soled shoes.
Jamie didn't look. She was paralyzed by the convulsion. Close your eyes. Hail, Mary, full of grace. . .
The stall slammed open. Jamie couldn't stop it if she tried. Raw, white light washed over her. It jittered. Handheld. A flashlight.
"She's here!" a man's voice said.
Slowly. Very slowly. The pain subsided, retreated to a hard stone inside her body.
The flashlight turned away from her face. Jamie slitted her eyes, saw a shadow crouch in the door of the stall. Movement outside the restroom. Other lights. A second shadow joined the first.
"Oh, my God," a woman said. "Mulder. . ."
The man's shadow moved. Jamie felt a cool hand on her forehead. The woman. Touching her. Jamie's brain whirled. Voices nearby.
"Is that her?" asked the man's voice.
"Yes," someone else replied. "Jamie Lloyd."
"Mulder," the woman said. "She's running a high fever. Help me move her."
Jamie was too weak to talk. They lifted her up. She was carried.
She slept.
6.
Sam Loomis stood at the entrance to the bus station. Outside the glass doors, seven police cars stood parked. Bubble lights whirled, painted his face in rotating shades of electric coloration. He looked at his watch.
"Almost midnight," Mulder said. He approached Sam. Behind him, Scully stayed near Jamie Lloyd, stretched out on a wooden bench. Cold compresses and soothing words. Scully was very good at that.
A nod from Sam. "He's close."
Mulder glanced back. Meeker talked with the bus station's night manager. A guy named Toomy. Another dozen cops staked out the entrances. Shotguns and automatic pistols. Serious faces. Mulder guessed that was the right frame of mind.
"Jamie," Sam said. "She knows he's close. The fits. My father documented them."
"What causes them?" Mulder asked.
Sam did not look at Mulder. He stared outside. "He does."
"You know that sounds crazy," Mulder said.
"It's true."
"I believe you."
A sidelong look from Sam. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"Mulder!"
Sheriff Meeker approached the two of them. The power was still out. In the half-darkness, lit by the headlamps outside, Meeker's dead eye seemed to glow with its own life.
"Sheriff," Mulder said.
"Your partner called more Feds," Meeker said. "How long 'till they get here?"
"It's a team from Chicago," Mulder answered. "They're choppering out. An hour. Maybe a little more."
"It's two to twelve," Sam put in.
Meeker nodded. "We're going to have to stay here."
"Don't you think we should take the Lloyd girl to a safer location?" Mulder asked.
"There is no safer location," Meeker said.
"The police station--"
Meeker glared. "The station? Haven't you been paying attention? Take a look at my face, Agent Mulder. That answer your questions?"
Totally white eye. Staring. Staring without sight.
"I guess so," Mulder said.
"Myers doesn't care where we take her," Meeker said. "It's all the same to him."
"So what's your plan?" Mulder asked.
"My men are going to seal the building. Doors, windows, everything. Hopefully we can keep Jamie safe until your people show up. We'll put her and your partner downstairs. No way to get into those heads except through here. They'll be as safe as we can make them."
"I think I can take care of myself, Sheriff."
Everyone turned to look at Scully. Her mouth was a line. The determined set. Mulder almost smiled. "You can explain it to her, Sheriff Meeker."
"No offense, ma'am," Meeker said. "We're just concerned about your safety."
"I think you should be concerned about everyone's safety," Scully said. "Mulder, that girl is sick. I don't know what's wrong with her. It has all the earmarks of a grand mal epileptic seizure. She's all right now, but. . ."
Meeker growled. "It's him. Lewis! Upjohn! Let's lock it down. Get whatsisname to help you! Move it! We don't have much time!"
"Yes, sir!"
"I'll do something," Sam said. He walked away.
Meeker addressed Scully. "Keep an eye on the girl. It's her Myers wants."
No more words. The Sheriff turned his back on them, headed off toward the back entrance. Scully and Mulder were left alone.
"What's going on here, Mulder?" Scully asked.
Mulder shook his head. "Assault on Precinct 13."
7.
October 31, 1996
12.06am
Mulder unwrapped a Zagnut bar, took a bite. The paper crinkled loudly in the cavernous, open space of the bus station lobby. Nearby, a Haddonfield cop, armed with a shotgun, gave Mulder a dirty look.
"I'm hungry," Mulder said.
The cop looked away.
They crouched by the walls near each door. Mulder's Smith and Wesson lay on the floor by his right side. No one moved except Meeker, who prowled the floor of the lobby. Left, then right. Left, then right. He held his own shotgun tightly, never relaxed his grip.
Outside, the storm raged even harder.
"I don't know how you can eat," Sam said.
Mulder saw Sam crouched in the darkness. He had something in his hands. They clicked like marbles. "You want some?" Mulder asked.
"No way," Sam said.
"You two, shut up!" Meeker ordered.
Mulder finished off the candy bar with two more bites. He started to ball the wrapper up, thought better of it and dropped it on the floor. They could pick up litter later. "What are those?" he asked Sam quietly.
"My rune stones," Sam replied. He held one up into the dim light. A small, ovoid white rock. "Worry beads, I guess. Maybe more."
"I said, shut up," Meeker said.
Sam put a finger to his lips. He edged closer to Mulder. They tipped their heads together, like conspirators. "Thorn is a night-rune," Sam said. "It's ruled by darkness. This is a day-rune. So is this. Ruled by light."
One of the runes looked like the sun. The other was a set of crooked lines that didn't look like much of anything at all. "What are you thinking?" Mulder asked.
"Protection," Sam said.
"Protection?"
"Yes." Sam fisted the runestones in his hand, thrust them back into his pocket. "Perhaps better than a gun. Under the right circumstances."
Mulder grinned in the darkness. "You're crazy, Sam."
"Aren't we all?"
8.
Scully sat on the floor of the men's room, pistol in her lap. Nearby, laying on a bed made out of uniform service jackets, Jamie Lloyd slept fitfully. Her skin was slick with perspiration. Even in the weak light from a borrowed candle, Jamie looked pale.
What did you do to deserve this? Scully thought.
In her sleep, Jamie whimpered. She shifted on her layer of jackets. Then her eyes opened. Scully saw them emerge from sleep, bleary, and focus. "Who are you?" Jamie asked.
"I'm Dana Scully. I work with the FBI."
Jamie wiped her brow. Strands of hair were plastered to the skin. "What do you want here?"
"We want to protect you."
"From him?"
"If you mean Michael Myers, yes," Scully said. "Everyone seems to think he's the one who wants to get you. We want to keep you safe."
No reply. Jamie's face was uncommonly serious for a girl her age, but it had the same edge of surliness that any teen girl could summon up without much effort. She sat up hesitantly. Dizziness, Scully thought. Concomitant with a grand mal seizure.
"He's out there," Jamie said.
"How do you know?" Scully asked.
"I feel him," Jamie answered. The chill in her voice was frightening.
The door to the restroom squealed open. Scully and Jamie both leaped. The grip of her service pistol was in Scully's hand before she thought about it. "Who is it?"
A large, dark shape of a man filled the doorway. "Meeker."
Scully relaxed, let the pistol fall back into her lap. In the corner of her eye, she saw Jamie uncoil, muscle by muscle. "What is it?"
"Wanted to check up on the two of you," Meeker said. "Make sure you're all right. You all right?"
"Yes, thank you," Scully said. "Where's Agent Mulder?"
"Upstairs. Waiting like the rest of us."
Jamie got up, walked to the sinks. Scully followed her with her eyes. A little unsteady in her step, but not too bad. She was getting stronger. And no more fever, at least.
"What makes you think he'll come?" Scully asked Meeker.
Meeker looked at Jamie, too. "Her."
"Why does he want her?" It didn't seem right, talking about Jamie with her standing right there, but Jamie wasn't paying any attention to either of them. She washed her face, ran wet hands through her hair.
"Because she's alive, I guess. Because he's evil. Hell, I don't know," Meeker said. "I do know he's killed a lot of good people. Friends. . . and family."
The sheriff's voice trailed off. He looked after Jamie. The expression on his face was filled with so much pain, so much loss, that it broke Scully's heart to see it. Words seemed redundant.
"Keep that pistola handy," Meeker told Scully. "He comes for her, it's all you're going to have. And when you shoot, make sure you shoot--"
"To kill," Scully finished.
Meeker shook his head. "No. Make sure you shoot and run. Because you're only going to slow him down. Count on that. I've seen it happen."
"I'll remember that."
One more glance around the restroom, as if Meeker expected Michael Myers to explode out of the walls. Then he eased the door shut. The spring barely protested.
"You don't believe him, do you?" Jamie asked.
Scully's attention turned back to Jamie. The girl stood by the sinks. Serious face. Wet locks of hair laying straight down the back of her neck. A sudden, vicious eruption of lightning sparkled outside, blazed through the tiny windows, set Jamie in sharp relief. "What?" Scully asked.
"You don't believe my uncle's the boogeyman."
"I don't believe in the boogeyman at all, if that's what you mean," Scully said.
No emotion. "You'd better start believing it."
9.
Thunder boomed and rattled the windows of the bus station. Deputy Daniel Upjohn shrugged off a shiver, kept his attention on the job. They said Michael Myers was outside somewhere. That was enough motivation for any Haddonfield cop.
He was stationed by the rear entrance. The double doors of glass and metal were barred shut and chained. A recessed area in the wall held a Coke machine and Tom's snack vendor. Upjohn leaned against the curved plastic of the big Coca Cola logo and watched the rain fall.
Upjohn was good friends with Bruce Geller. They joined the force within three days of one another. Now Bruce was dead. Deader than dead. Michael Myers stuck him like a roast, left his chopped up body in an empty lot.
"Hey, Upjohn, look alive." Sheriff Meeker's gravely voice.
Upjohn looked around. He saw Meeker at the end of the hall, a big shape almost formless in the dark. "Sorry, Ben. Just thinking."
"Make sure you think with your eyes open," Meeker said. He vanished from sight.
"Yes, sir," Upjohn called after him.
Look alive, Upjohn thought. He changed his grip on his Remington pump shotgun, stretched his back a little, rolled his head on his neck. Loosen up. Stay alert. Every sound could be the right sound.
Against Upjohn's back, the Coke machine shifted.
"What. . . ?"
Upjohn turned around. Did it slide with his weight?
Puddle of water on the floor. It ran from between the machines. Upjohn didn't notice it before. He crouched, touched the liquid. Not too cold. It wasn't fresh from the outside. Was the Coke machine leaking? He heard they did that.
The machines weren't fitted into the alcove perfectly. Deep, dark spaces on either side of each vendor. Big enough for a man to slip in there sideways. For a man to. . . hide.
Upjohn shot back to his feet.
A silver flash whisked out of the darkness between the Coke machine and the snack vendor beside it. Upjohn coughed. Something painful was lodged in his chest, right below the sternum. He tried to raise the shotgun. His arms were numb.
Knife blade. Attached to an hand. Attached to an arm. Attached to. . .
Michael Myers emerged from the hidden space between the machines. The weak light from outside caught the pallid white of his mask. Wild, fake hair jutted in every direction, still wet from the storm outside. How long was he hiding? Upjohn thought desperately. How long--?
The blade yanked free. Upjohn stumbled backward. He could not breathe. No air to shout. The shotgun was still clutched in his hands. Would anyone hear the weapon if it dropped? His back hit a wooden door on the opposite side of the hall.
Myers stepped forward. Utterly silent. No splish in the pooled rainwater.
The shotgun slipped out of Upjohn's grasp. Michael lowered it to the floor.
Strength going. Hot, molten sensation of blood in his throat. Upjohn's knees folded. His back slid down the door. So slow. Like the last turn on the merry-go-round.
A strong hand on the front of his uniform. Upjohn sagged in its grip. He did not fall. Myers looked down at him. Hollow black spaces where the eyes should have been. Upjohn's vision blurred. A face became a shape. A shape became a blur.
A blur became nothing.
Dying wasn't so bad after all.
10.
Mulder drowsed.
Meeker woke him. He stood over Mulder, pillar-like, no more tired-seeming than he had hours before. Or the hours before that. "One o'clock," Meeker said. "We're gonna rotate positions. Go relieve Upjohn at the back door, all right?"
"All right," Mulder said.
Mulder got up. On the floor beside him, Sam slept. His knees were close to his chin, his head and shoulders hunkered over, protecting him while he was unconscious. Mulder thought about waking him.
"Good thing you can sleep," Meeker said. "I can't."
Nothing to say to that. Mulder brushed past Meeker, walked down the long, angled hall to the back door. Outside, the storm still roared, but it was getting weaker. The worst was past. Maybe for the rest of the night, too.
Lightning flickered, flash-bulbed the hall ahead. Mulder saw the vending machine alcove, but that was all. No Upjohn.
"Sheriff Meeker!" Mulder called. He drew his weapon.
Exterior doors still secured. Mulder held his pistol two-handed in front of him, advanced slowly. Another door was wide open. Total darkness was exposed inside. Something stenciled on the wood, but impossible to read. Mulder settled his Smith and Wesson on the dark space.
"What is it?" Meeker demanded.
"Get down here."
Wetness on the floor. Mulder glanced down. Water. And blood.
"Get down here now."
Meeker ran down the hall, flanked by two men. His white eye flashed. "Where's Upjohn?"
"I was just asking myself the same question," Mulder said. "Look at the floor."
Meeker peered down. "Damnit! He's inside!"
"Tell Agent Scully to be ready," Mulder said. "Where's the attendant?"
"I don't know." Meeker turned to one of his deputies. "Go find that guy. Now!"
They stood shoulder to shoulder at the door, squinting into blackness.
"Looks like stairs," Meeker said.
"Yeah," Mulder said. "Up and down."
Meeker unlimbered his flashlight. He handed it to Mulder. The beam cut a bright swath into the shadows, revealed the concrete steps. Plain metal rail. White and green painted walls.
"I'll go first," Meeker said.
"Sheriff," Mulder said. "You gave me the light."
Meeker smiled grimly. "I guess you're right. After you."
The other deputy stood ready, shotgun up. Meeker glanced back at the man. "Keep this door secured. You hear anything, you stay out. I don't want to lose anybody else tonight. Hear me?"
"Yes, Sheriff."
Mulder stepped into the stairwell. Scan left and right. No one. His heart thudded, made it hard to breathe. He shone the flashlight downstairs. A metal door that said MAINTENANCE on it. More blood on the floor.
"Down there," Mulder said.
"Got it." Meeker leapfrogged Mulder, advanced down the stairs. Mulder stayed on the steps over the sheriff, kept the flash trained on the closed door.
Meeker paused at the bottom of the steps. "The lock's smashed," he said. "It's Myers, all right. Be ready when I open it."
"I'm right here, Sheriff," Mulder said. He trained his pistol on the door.
Meeker reached out for the knob with one hand, held his shotgun with the other.
Sweat formed on Mulder's brow.
Meeker opened the door.
Darkness moved in the corner of Mulder's vision. For an instant, his attention was divided between what was in front of him and what approached. He turned his head too late.
A dead white face made of rubber. Death mask.
"Michael--" Mulder said.
Michael Myers drove the blade of his knife into Mulder's chest, just below the ribcage. Razored, awful pain shot through his guts. A sensation like a muscle cramp seized his heart, latched onto his lungs, squeezed the life out of him.
The flashlight fell. End over end. Wild, uncontrolled light.
Somewhere very close, a shotgun discharged. Mulder felt the heat on his cheek. Michael whirled around. He kept Mulder close, like a dance partner locked to him by the knifeblade. Mulder had his back to the door. He blocked another shot.
No gun. Got to get another gun.
Blood everywhere. It was spattered on Mulder's face.
They stared into each other's eyes. Mulder saw nothing alive.
Michael thrust Mulder away from him. No balance to control the fall. Mulder flew out into the hall collapsed back against the deputy there. They fell on the floor together. Hot shotgun barrel between them.
The deputy shouted in Mulder's face: "Goddamnit, get off me!"
Trying. I'm trying.
Mulder rolled off the deputy. His insides felt like sloshing liquid. There was something wrong with his heartbeat. It didn't feel right. It didn't sound right slamming in his ears.
Another shotgun blast.
Michael over them both. The knife coming down. Again and again. The deputy screamed. Gore splashed Mulder each time the blade came up, tearing out of hot, living flesh.
Then the deputy stopped screaming.
And everything else went to Hell.
Almost all the characters in the following story are the sole property of companies and persons other than the author. Their use herein should be considered no challenge to that ownership whatsoever. Please don't sue.
Note:
The author considers everything that happened in Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers and Halloween: H20 to be pure fantasy and not inclusive to the Halloween timeline. If you saw the films, you'd understand why.
Comments are demanded.
Samhain
An X-Files/Halloween story
by jimmy4eyes@yahoo.com
Three
St. Mary's Home for Girls
8.05pm
1.
"She stays in Room G," Sister Harriet said. "Fourteen to sixteen."
The foyer of the house was large and imposing. Dark wood and windows shrouded by nightfall. All the furniture was heavy. Scratches and dents on the legs of everything, tables and chairs. This was a home for children all right.
From somewhere farther back in the house, the sudden noise of laughter. A dozen different tones, cadences. Scully heard a television talking underneath the din. A comedy show with its own laugh track.
"How many girls stay here?" Scully asked.
"Close to fifty at any given time," Sister Harriet said. "We're very busy."
An ugly, squarish staircase dominated the rear wall of the foyer. Threadbare carpeting covered the steps. Sister Harriet led Mulder and Scully along, waved them to follow her up. "Must be hard work," Mulder said.
"It is."
Upstairs it was darker. Two yellow lights provided feeble illumination for a long hallway that stretched from front to back. Plain wooden doors lined the hall. White letters painted on the panels. It was funereally still.
"When did Jamie Lloyd come to live with you?" Scully asked.
Sister Harriet sighed. "A year ago. It was a very traumatic experience for her."
"I think she's seen worse," Mulder said.
"You're right."
They stopped in front of Room G. Sister Harriet knocked. She glanced back at Scully and Mulder. "She's been up here most of the day. She didn't want to come down for dinner or television."
No sound from the other side of the oak door. Sister Harriet knocked again.
"Jamie? Jamie, there are people here to see you. From the FBI."
Nothing.
Mulder opened his mouth to say something. The quiet was broken by his cell phone. He took out, thumbed it on. "Mulder," he said.
"Let me try," Scully told Sister Harriet. She rapped gently on the closed door. "Jamie, my name is Dana Scully. I'm with the FBI. We need your help with something very important. Could we come in, please?"
"Okay," Mulder said. He turned off his phone. "We have a problem."
Sister Harriet opened the door to Room G. Twin rows of neatly-made beds. At the far end of the room, a double-window was open, panes swung out toward the street. It was Autumn-night chilly. "She's gone!"
Scully made to step into the room. Mulder put a hand on her shoulder. "We've got a dead policeman a few miles from here," he said. "Stabbed to death."
Sister Harriet entered Room G, ran to the open window, looked out. "She must have lowered herself down!" she said. "This is terrible!"
Scully glanced around the room. "Do you think she knows?"
Mulder smiled grimly. "I thought there wasn't anything to know."
"That doesn't matter," Scully said. "We've got to find her. If there's anything to this connection, she could be in real danger."
Sister Harriet stood by the window, hand over her mouth. She said nothing, stared out the open window. Mulder cast a look at her, then turned back to Scully. "See what you can find out here," he said. "I'll check out the crime scene. Keep in touch."
"Mulder--" Scully started.
He pushed past her and went down the stairs, two steps at a time.
Scully looked to Sister Harriet. The nun's eyes were wet. "He'll kill her," Sister Harriet said. "If she's on her own, he'll find her and kill her. I know it."
"We'll find her," Scully said flatly. "Don't worry."
Scully retreated into the hallway. She took out her own cell phone and dialed.
Two rings and it picked up. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," a man said.
2.
Seven police cruisers jammed onto the narrow lane of Oakdale Avenue, bubble lights whirling. Red, blue and white lightning bolts flickered crazily across the faces of the houses, trees and the watching neighborhood. A forensics wagon was parked in the middle of it all. Men and women in dark windbreakers divided up swabs and plastic sample bags. Incongruously, a cream Ford Fairlane was wedged into the mess.
Mulder parked the Taurus and got out. Cops set up portable lights in the empty lot between the two neighboring houses. As Mulder stepped up the curb, illumination flooded the scene, picked out the figures of a dozen officers milling around.
"Special Agent Mulder," Mulder announced to the nearest Haddonfield cop. He showed his ID. "Who's in charge here?"
The cop pointed. "Over there. Sheriff Meeker."
Mulder followed the man's finger. A big man stood with his back to Mulder, talking animatedly with two other policemen. He was built like a football player, broad-shouldered and muscular. Crew-cut black hair had a shock of white sliced through it. "Thanks," Mulder said.
He strode toward the sheriff. Flashbulbs ignited, freeze-framed the scene for a microsecond at a time. The body was visible beyond a loose line of Haddonfield police, uncovered but face-down on the grass. Blood was everywhere.
One of the cops Meeker talked to nodded toward Mulder as he approached. Meeker stiffened, waited until Mulder was on top of him before turning around.
Meeker was taller than Mulder by several inches. Stern, craggy face. But the most startling thing about him was the lightning-bolt-shaped scar that zig-zagged up from his left eyebrow and vanished into his hair, to be matched by the white streak. It cut a slash through the brow itself and seemed to point out the solid white eyeball beneath. Meeker was blind in one eye.
"Sheriff Meeker, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI."
"I know who you are," Meeker said. He had a strong voice. Commanding. Mulder felt chastised already. "Why didn't you come by my station when you came into town?"
"I was visiting a friend," Mulder said. "I didn't have a case here. Yet."
"And now?"
"You tell me."
Meeker glanced around. "Where's the other one?"
"My partner is at St. Mary's Home for Girls," Mulder said.
"Why?"
"Did you know that Jamie Lloyd is missing?"
"No," Meeker said. "Besides, what's it to you?"
"He knows, Ben," someone said from behind Mulder. "He knows all about it."
Mulder turned around. Sam was there, bundled into a long, dark coat, scarf indifferently draped over his neck. His face looked pale and drawn. Mulder had seen that look before. During midterm examinations. Or when Sam was tortured over whether to propose to Abby.
"What did you tell him, Loomis?" Meeker grumbled.
"Everything," Sam said.
"Why the hell did you do that?"
"Because he can help."
"Says you," Meeker grunted.
Mulder looked back and forth between the men. "Somebody want to give me a clue here?"
Sam drew closer. Meeker scowled, but didn't say anything. "Ben's daughter was killed by Michael in '88," Sam said. "In 1989, when Michael was broken out of custody, Ben was the only survivor on the Haddonfield Police Force."
"I almost didn't make it," Meeker said.
Mulder glanced at Meeker's eye. He saw the pock-like indentation of a bullet-impact now. A direct head shot. "Ricochet off the bone?" he asked.
Meeker nodded slowly. "Don't know if I was lucky, or not."
"Do you have any idea where you're standing?" Sam asked Mulder.
"Crime scene," Mulder replied.
"This is where Michael Myers lived," Meeker said.
Mulder looked around. Short, soft grass trampled under dozens of cop feet. Houses on either side. A quiet, normal-looking street. No trees in the lot. Nothing. Like cemetery grounds.
"It was torn down in '89," Sam added.
Meeker gestured to Mulder. "Come see."
They moved through the cluster of police to the center of the action. Dead policeman. A coil of intestine, sugared in black dirt, poked up from beneath his corpse. "His name is Bruce Geller," Meeker said. "One of my new ones. He called in on a missing vehicle. That Fairlane by the curb. Said he was going to talk to somebody about it."
"Michael," Sam said.
Mulder looked back to the car. "You sure?"
"There's blood all over the inside of the car," Meeker said. "We haven't found the bodies, but I figure it's just a matter of time. Couple of teenagers making out somewhere. Parents called them in missing this morning."
"Michael needed a ride into town," Sam said. His voice was bleak.
"Bruce's cruiser is missing," Meeker said. "Myers traded up."
"A police car shouldn't be too hard to find," Mulder said.
Sam's face stayed harsh. "If Michael wants to stay missing, he'll stay missing," he said. "We'll never find him."
"Sheriff?" Mulder asked Meeker.
"We've got an APB out on the car and anyone fitting Myers' description," Meeker said. "I was going to have Jamie Lloyd picked up and put under protection, but I guess it's too late for that."
"We have to find her," Sam said. "He can't get to her first."
Meeker checked his watch. "We still have some time," he said.
Mulder looked at his own wrist. Almost nine.
"It's the time," Sam explained. "We've got three hours. Michael won't kill until it's Halloween."
"Halloween," Mulder repeated.
Sam inclined his chin. "Samhain."
"We're going to need every eyeball," Meeker said to Mulder. "You in?"
Mulder nodded. "I'll do what I can."
Meeker didn't smile. "Let's hope that's enough."
3.
Jamie waited in the low brush by the parking lot for ten minutes before she decided it was safe. Overhead, lightning bolts flickered behind gathering stormclouds. Uneven glowings that blotted out the stars and moon. An ugly, flat chunk of building squatted in the middle of a field of asphalt. A big neon sign with a moving arrow said BUS.
Only a few cars in the lot. No buses in sight. But there would be later. Two buses out of the Haddonfield/Schofield area. One at 11.30pm and the other just after two in the morning. She'd catch the 11.30.
Before it was too late.
The sensation was in the air. Or maybe it was inside of her. A dull pressure against her bones. Not quite a headache, but something. It was him, looking for her. She felt him every time.
Jamie jogged across the parking lot. A chill wind blew in ahead of the storm. She kept her jean jacket closed tightly around her against it. Only a few lights to illuminate the flat expanse of asphalt. Sodium lights. A rotten yellow shade.
Glass doors with etched-metal handles that said PULL on them. She pulled. Hot air emerged from the lobby, smacked Jamie in the face. An insubstantial layer of condensate formed on her skin, made her feel sweaty.
No one inside. Empty rows of polished wooden benches. Tiles walls glowed a faint, unearthly green under the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. Twin, ceiling-mounted heating units wheezed above Jamie's head.
She walked along a row of vending machines. The Plexiglas fronts of the machines were scratched, marked with graffiti. A split between snack machines and drink machines revealed an open doorway. RESTROOMS DOWNSTAIRS was spelled out in painted tiles.
A long set of glass doors opened on the side of the lobby. Covered boarding stations for the buses. Stanchions strung together with threadbare ropes were set up to keep the lines organized.
Toward the back of the lobby, a hallway that vanished out of sight. A red EXIT sign glowed over the open entrance. Jamie catalogued all of it. Three ways in. More important, three ways out.
Tinny sound of laughter from somewhere, canned and electronic.
Jamie saw the ticket counter. Glassed-in. The man inside had a portable TV on. He stared at the hand-sized screen. The expression on his face was slack. He did not move. A laugh-track roared.
Closer. The man did not respond to her presence. Totally still. Eyes locked.
"Hello?" Jamie tried.
Nothing.
She slowed. The TV program gave way to a commercial. No response from the man. "Mister?" Ten feet away. Jamie didn't see any blood. Was the man's chest moving? It was difficult to tell. Ceiling lights reflected off the pink skin of his exposed scalp. Bad receding hairline.
Jamie stopped at the window. Her throat hurt, tight. "Hello?"
She knocked on the window.
The man jumped. "Oh, shit!"
Despite herself, Jamie recoiled. Part of scream squeaked out of her before she clamped it off. Her heart raced. Both hands were in tight fists. Her nails cut into her palms.
For the first time, the man blinked. His expression flexed through a half-dozen forms of surprise. The skin of his face flushed red. He turned to Jamie. "Boy, you sure scared the hell out of me! I didn't see you there."
Anger flushed the fear out of Jamie's system. "How could you not see me?"
The man gestured to the TV. Stupid smile. "My favorite show."
Jamie took a Visa card out of her pocket. "I need a ticket to Chicago. One way."
All business now. The man wiped his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket. "Okay. What time?"
"Eleven-thirty. At the back of the bus, please."
The man turned to his computer terminal. He pecked at the keys with one finger on his right hand. Very slowly. "Pick your own seat," he said. "No assignments."
"Fine," Jamie said.
Nausea stabbed through Jamie's stomach. She groaned out loud, doubled over with the sharp, intrusive sensation. The credit card tumbled out of her hand, slapped the floor more loudly than Jamie expected. She caught the edge of the counter before she fell.
The man put his hand on the glass. "Hey, kid, you okay?"
Jamie whirled around, looked back at the entrance. No one there. No shape in the darkness outside. No one revealed in the yellow glare of the sodium lights. He wasn't there. "I'm all right," Jamie managed. "I'm okay."
The queasiness ebbed slowly. Jamie retrieved the credit card off the floor, straightened back up. She tried to smile at the man. He looked back at her, eyes wide. "You need me to call somebody for you?"
"No," Jamie said. "No. Nobody."
He's too close, Jamie thought.
"The ticket's $37.50," the man said.
"Here." Jamie gave him the credit card.
The man took it. "You Harriet Jorgensen?"
Jamie nodded. Damp patches under her arms. More sweat on her face. It was too hot in here. "She's my mom," she said.
"Got an ID?"
"I'm sixteen," Jamie said. "I don't have a license yet."
The man's eyes narrowed. "Where is your mom?"
"Chicago."
Long pause. On the TV, riotous laughter exploded at the man. His stare faltered, drawn back to the picture. Part of his dead look reappeared. The credit card was forgotten in his hand.
"Can I get my ticket?" Jamie asked.
The man snapped out of it. "Yeah, sure. Hang on."
He ran the card through, gave it back to Jamie. She had to sign for her "mom." The ticket was a flimsy strip of computer printout, the lettering almost too faded to make out. Jamie stuffed it into her jacket pocket.
"Be a while now," the man said. He looked at his watch. "Forty-five minutes."
"It's okay," Jamie said.
The man looked around outside his booth. "Where's your stuff?"
"I didn't bring any," Jamie said. "It's okay."
"All right. Have a seat. I'll announce the bus."
"Sure."
Jamie made her way back to the benches. Sitting on one end, sideways with her feet up on the seat, she could watch all three of the doors at once. She kept sweating, but she didn't take her jacket off. If he came, she wanted to move fast.
4.
Utter silence in the police car.
He sat with his hands on the steering wheel. Not gripping. Only resting.
Not so silent in the police car. The slow, steady rhythm of his breath. In. Out. It rasped against the confining rubber of the mask. No variance in the speed of it. No urgency in his manner.
Neon light from the flickering bus station sign danced on the hood of the police cruiser. Blue and red intertwined. On and off. As soulless and unchanging as the tempo Michael Myers lived.
Another hour. The evening crept toward midnight.
The first rain began to fall.
5.
11.21pm
Footsteps on the tile.
Jamie's head snapped up. Her eyes opened. She fell asleep! She fell asleep!
The man from the ticket counter stopped short. He raised his hands in apology. "Didn't mean to startle you," he said. "Wanted to tell you that the 11.30's running behind time. It's the rain. Washed out the main road. They're making good time."
Jamie's heart fluttered. "How late?" she asked.
"Not long," the man said. "It'll come in a little after midnight."
"Shit," Jamie said. She dropped her feet off the bench, got up. "That's too late!"
The man backed up. "It's only thirty-five minutes or so."
Racing thoughts. Jamie paced. Outside, rain thundered down as if the sky was broken open. A bolt of lightning illuminated every glass door in solid white for half a second. The storm growled. "I've got to get out of here!" Jamie said.
"Relax," the man said. "Want to have some coffee, or something? I got Swiss Miss, too, if you want it."
Jamie stopped moving. "Look, I don't want--"
Car engine outside. Barely audible over the water-flow noise of the rain. It stopped Jamie in mid-sentence. Every inch of her skin crawled. She looked at the main entrance. The man's gaze followed hers.
"What is it?" he asked.
Jamie ran to the doors, looked out.
A police cruiser waited in the lot. It was parked out in the shadows, where the yellow lights didn't fall on it. The nose was pointed directly at the door.
At Jamie.
Lightning flashed again.
She saw him in the car. Wild hair. Bleached-white face.
"Oh, my God," she said.
"What's wrong?" the man asked. "Hey, maybe I should call somebody."
Jamie turned her back on the lot. "No! Don't call anybody!"
Again the suspicious look. "Why not?"
"Listen," Jamie said. "Uh, what time is it?"
"Almost 11.30."
Half an hour.
"Do your bathrooms work?" Jamie asked.
The man nodded slowly. Still having doubts.
"I'll be right back. Then we can call my mom. Is that okay?"
Pause. "Sure."
Jamie walked through the open door to the bathrooms. Stairs led downward in both directions. A man's image was drawn on one tile, a woman on the other. Jamie went into the men's room.
Ten steps down, then a sharp turn. At the bottom, a wooden door. A solid wooden door.
Jamie entered the men's room. A rusted spring squalled. A spiraling, metallic noise.
Almost totally dark inside. Weak, circular fluorescent bulbs over three dirty sinks provided the only light. The mirrors were made of polished metal, not glass. They were warped with age and scratched.
Tiny windows near the ceiling on one side of the restroom. Meshed with wire.
No one in the stalls. The whole room stank of urine.
She caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors. Hair strung together by the humidity. Face dripping with sweat. Eyes wild. Panicked, even. No wonder the man was distrustful.
The wooden door didn't have a lock on it. A metal garbage can was attached to the wall with a length of chain. Jamie couldn't use it to jam the door shut. Besides, it was empty, too light to do anything.
Jamie pounded her fists on a sink. "Damn it!" she said. Tears almost broke loose. "Damn it, damn it!"
No crying, she thought. Don't you cry!
Steel inside. She had to find the steel inside. Grab it. Hold it. Feel it.
There. No more fear.
She raised her eyes back to the mirror. The panic was gone. The expression on her face was cold and empty, but it was better than the rest. If she was afraid, she couldn't think. If she couldn't think, he would get her for sure.
All the lights went out.
The sickness returned. Gut-ripping, bone-aching. Jamie reeled, stumbled over her own feet and fell on the floor. "Oh, God," Jamie squeezed out. A deeper, more intrusive pain leached into her, joined the nausea.
Even the parking lot lights didn't gleam. It was pitch dark. That would not stop him from finding her. Not if he wanted to. And he wanted to. So badly. She was feeling it now.
Jamie crawled across the floor. Spasms clutched her intestines, kept her doubled over. Grime and mildew smeared her hands, dug beneath her nails. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps.
The stalls. Inside one of the stalls. It was better than nothing. She crawled into one, kicked the door shut with one leg, weakly.
Someone opened the restroom door. The spring protested.
Tears dripped from Jamie's eyes. The pain was too much. It reached for her heart. Her lungs were squeezed shut. Too tight. God, I can't breathe.
Slow steps on the tile. Hard-soled shoes.
Jamie didn't look. She was paralyzed by the convulsion. Close your eyes. Hail, Mary, full of grace. . .
The stall slammed open. Jamie couldn't stop it if she tried. Raw, white light washed over her. It jittered. Handheld. A flashlight.
"She's here!" a man's voice said.
Slowly. Very slowly. The pain subsided, retreated to a hard stone inside her body.
The flashlight turned away from her face. Jamie slitted her eyes, saw a shadow crouch in the door of the stall. Movement outside the restroom. Other lights. A second shadow joined the first.
"Oh, my God," a woman said. "Mulder. . ."
The man's shadow moved. Jamie felt a cool hand on her forehead. The woman. Touching her. Jamie's brain whirled. Voices nearby.
"Is that her?" asked the man's voice.
"Yes," someone else replied. "Jamie Lloyd."
"Mulder," the woman said. "She's running a high fever. Help me move her."
Jamie was too weak to talk. They lifted her up. She was carried.
She slept.
6.
Sam Loomis stood at the entrance to the bus station. Outside the glass doors, seven police cars stood parked. Bubble lights whirled, painted his face in rotating shades of electric coloration. He looked at his watch.
"Almost midnight," Mulder said. He approached Sam. Behind him, Scully stayed near Jamie Lloyd, stretched out on a wooden bench. Cold compresses and soothing words. Scully was very good at that.
A nod from Sam. "He's close."
Mulder glanced back. Meeker talked with the bus station's night manager. A guy named Toomy. Another dozen cops staked out the entrances. Shotguns and automatic pistols. Serious faces. Mulder guessed that was the right frame of mind.
"Jamie," Sam said. "She knows he's close. The fits. My father documented them."
"What causes them?" Mulder asked.
Sam did not look at Mulder. He stared outside. "He does."
"You know that sounds crazy," Mulder said.
"It's true."
"I believe you."
A sidelong look from Sam. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"Mulder!"
Sheriff Meeker approached the two of them. The power was still out. In the half-darkness, lit by the headlamps outside, Meeker's dead eye seemed to glow with its own life.
"Sheriff," Mulder said.
"Your partner called more Feds," Meeker said. "How long 'till they get here?"
"It's a team from Chicago," Mulder answered. "They're choppering out. An hour. Maybe a little more."
"It's two to twelve," Sam put in.
Meeker nodded. "We're going to have to stay here."
"Don't you think we should take the Lloyd girl to a safer location?" Mulder asked.
"There is no safer location," Meeker said.
"The police station--"
Meeker glared. "The station? Haven't you been paying attention? Take a look at my face, Agent Mulder. That answer your questions?"
Totally white eye. Staring. Staring without sight.
"I guess so," Mulder said.
"Myers doesn't care where we take her," Meeker said. "It's all the same to him."
"So what's your plan?" Mulder asked.
"My men are going to seal the building. Doors, windows, everything. Hopefully we can keep Jamie safe until your people show up. We'll put her and your partner downstairs. No way to get into those heads except through here. They'll be as safe as we can make them."
"I think I can take care of myself, Sheriff."
Everyone turned to look at Scully. Her mouth was a line. The determined set. Mulder almost smiled. "You can explain it to her, Sheriff Meeker."
"No offense, ma'am," Meeker said. "We're just concerned about your safety."
"I think you should be concerned about everyone's safety," Scully said. "Mulder, that girl is sick. I don't know what's wrong with her. It has all the earmarks of a grand mal epileptic seizure. She's all right now, but. . ."
Meeker growled. "It's him. Lewis! Upjohn! Let's lock it down. Get whatsisname to help you! Move it! We don't have much time!"
"Yes, sir!"
"I'll do something," Sam said. He walked away.
Meeker addressed Scully. "Keep an eye on the girl. It's her Myers wants."
No more words. The Sheriff turned his back on them, headed off toward the back entrance. Scully and Mulder were left alone.
"What's going on here, Mulder?" Scully asked.
Mulder shook his head. "Assault on Precinct 13."
7.
October 31, 1996
12.06am
Mulder unwrapped a Zagnut bar, took a bite. The paper crinkled loudly in the cavernous, open space of the bus station lobby. Nearby, a Haddonfield cop, armed with a shotgun, gave Mulder a dirty look.
"I'm hungry," Mulder said.
The cop looked away.
They crouched by the walls near each door. Mulder's Smith and Wesson lay on the floor by his right side. No one moved except Meeker, who prowled the floor of the lobby. Left, then right. Left, then right. He held his own shotgun tightly, never relaxed his grip.
Outside, the storm raged even harder.
"I don't know how you can eat," Sam said.
Mulder saw Sam crouched in the darkness. He had something in his hands. They clicked like marbles. "You want some?" Mulder asked.
"No way," Sam said.
"You two, shut up!" Meeker ordered.
Mulder finished off the candy bar with two more bites. He started to ball the wrapper up, thought better of it and dropped it on the floor. They could pick up litter later. "What are those?" he asked Sam quietly.
"My rune stones," Sam replied. He held one up into the dim light. A small, ovoid white rock. "Worry beads, I guess. Maybe more."
"I said, shut up," Meeker said.
Sam put a finger to his lips. He edged closer to Mulder. They tipped their heads together, like conspirators. "Thorn is a night-rune," Sam said. "It's ruled by darkness. This is a day-rune. So is this. Ruled by light."
One of the runes looked like the sun. The other was a set of crooked lines that didn't look like much of anything at all. "What are you thinking?" Mulder asked.
"Protection," Sam said.
"Protection?"
"Yes." Sam fisted the runestones in his hand, thrust them back into his pocket. "Perhaps better than a gun. Under the right circumstances."
Mulder grinned in the darkness. "You're crazy, Sam."
"Aren't we all?"
8.
Scully sat on the floor of the men's room, pistol in her lap. Nearby, laying on a bed made out of uniform service jackets, Jamie Lloyd slept fitfully. Her skin was slick with perspiration. Even in the weak light from a borrowed candle, Jamie looked pale.
What did you do to deserve this? Scully thought.
In her sleep, Jamie whimpered. She shifted on her layer of jackets. Then her eyes opened. Scully saw them emerge from sleep, bleary, and focus. "Who are you?" Jamie asked.
"I'm Dana Scully. I work with the FBI."
Jamie wiped her brow. Strands of hair were plastered to the skin. "What do you want here?"
"We want to protect you."
"From him?"
"If you mean Michael Myers, yes," Scully said. "Everyone seems to think he's the one who wants to get you. We want to keep you safe."
No reply. Jamie's face was uncommonly serious for a girl her age, but it had the same edge of surliness that any teen girl could summon up without much effort. She sat up hesitantly. Dizziness, Scully thought. Concomitant with a grand mal seizure.
"He's out there," Jamie said.
"How do you know?" Scully asked.
"I feel him," Jamie answered. The chill in her voice was frightening.
The door to the restroom squealed open. Scully and Jamie both leaped. The grip of her service pistol was in Scully's hand before she thought about it. "Who is it?"
A large, dark shape of a man filled the doorway. "Meeker."
Scully relaxed, let the pistol fall back into her lap. In the corner of her eye, she saw Jamie uncoil, muscle by muscle. "What is it?"
"Wanted to check up on the two of you," Meeker said. "Make sure you're all right. You all right?"
"Yes, thank you," Scully said. "Where's Agent Mulder?"
"Upstairs. Waiting like the rest of us."
Jamie got up, walked to the sinks. Scully followed her with her eyes. A little unsteady in her step, but not too bad. She was getting stronger. And no more fever, at least.
"What makes you think he'll come?" Scully asked Meeker.
Meeker looked at Jamie, too. "Her."
"Why does he want her?" It didn't seem right, talking about Jamie with her standing right there, but Jamie wasn't paying any attention to either of them. She washed her face, ran wet hands through her hair.
"Because she's alive, I guess. Because he's evil. Hell, I don't know," Meeker said. "I do know he's killed a lot of good people. Friends. . . and family."
The sheriff's voice trailed off. He looked after Jamie. The expression on his face was filled with so much pain, so much loss, that it broke Scully's heart to see it. Words seemed redundant.
"Keep that pistola handy," Meeker told Scully. "He comes for her, it's all you're going to have. And when you shoot, make sure you shoot--"
"To kill," Scully finished.
Meeker shook his head. "No. Make sure you shoot and run. Because you're only going to slow him down. Count on that. I've seen it happen."
"I'll remember that."
One more glance around the restroom, as if Meeker expected Michael Myers to explode out of the walls. Then he eased the door shut. The spring barely protested.
"You don't believe him, do you?" Jamie asked.
Scully's attention turned back to Jamie. The girl stood by the sinks. Serious face. Wet locks of hair laying straight down the back of her neck. A sudden, vicious eruption of lightning sparkled outside, blazed through the tiny windows, set Jamie in sharp relief. "What?" Scully asked.
"You don't believe my uncle's the boogeyman."
"I don't believe in the boogeyman at all, if that's what you mean," Scully said.
No emotion. "You'd better start believing it."
9.
Thunder boomed and rattled the windows of the bus station. Deputy Daniel Upjohn shrugged off a shiver, kept his attention on the job. They said Michael Myers was outside somewhere. That was enough motivation for any Haddonfield cop.
He was stationed by the rear entrance. The double doors of glass and metal were barred shut and chained. A recessed area in the wall held a Coke machine and Tom's snack vendor. Upjohn leaned against the curved plastic of the big Coca Cola logo and watched the rain fall.
Upjohn was good friends with Bruce Geller. They joined the force within three days of one another. Now Bruce was dead. Deader than dead. Michael Myers stuck him like a roast, left his chopped up body in an empty lot.
"Hey, Upjohn, look alive." Sheriff Meeker's gravely voice.
Upjohn looked around. He saw Meeker at the end of the hall, a big shape almost formless in the dark. "Sorry, Ben. Just thinking."
"Make sure you think with your eyes open," Meeker said. He vanished from sight.
"Yes, sir," Upjohn called after him.
Look alive, Upjohn thought. He changed his grip on his Remington pump shotgun, stretched his back a little, rolled his head on his neck. Loosen up. Stay alert. Every sound could be the right sound.
Against Upjohn's back, the Coke machine shifted.
"What. . . ?"
Upjohn turned around. Did it slide with his weight?
Puddle of water on the floor. It ran from between the machines. Upjohn didn't notice it before. He crouched, touched the liquid. Not too cold. It wasn't fresh from the outside. Was the Coke machine leaking? He heard they did that.
The machines weren't fitted into the alcove perfectly. Deep, dark spaces on either side of each vendor. Big enough for a man to slip in there sideways. For a man to. . . hide.
Upjohn shot back to his feet.
A silver flash whisked out of the darkness between the Coke machine and the snack vendor beside it. Upjohn coughed. Something painful was lodged in his chest, right below the sternum. He tried to raise the shotgun. His arms were numb.
Knife blade. Attached to an hand. Attached to an arm. Attached to. . .
Michael Myers emerged from the hidden space between the machines. The weak light from outside caught the pallid white of his mask. Wild, fake hair jutted in every direction, still wet from the storm outside. How long was he hiding? Upjohn thought desperately. How long--?
The blade yanked free. Upjohn stumbled backward. He could not breathe. No air to shout. The shotgun was still clutched in his hands. Would anyone hear the weapon if it dropped? His back hit a wooden door on the opposite side of the hall.
Myers stepped forward. Utterly silent. No splish in the pooled rainwater.
The shotgun slipped out of Upjohn's grasp. Michael lowered it to the floor.
Strength going. Hot, molten sensation of blood in his throat. Upjohn's knees folded. His back slid down the door. So slow. Like the last turn on the merry-go-round.
A strong hand on the front of his uniform. Upjohn sagged in its grip. He did not fall. Myers looked down at him. Hollow black spaces where the eyes should have been. Upjohn's vision blurred. A face became a shape. A shape became a blur.
A blur became nothing.
Dying wasn't so bad after all.
10.
Mulder drowsed.
Meeker woke him. He stood over Mulder, pillar-like, no more tired-seeming than he had hours before. Or the hours before that. "One o'clock," Meeker said. "We're gonna rotate positions. Go relieve Upjohn at the back door, all right?"
"All right," Mulder said.
Mulder got up. On the floor beside him, Sam slept. His knees were close to his chin, his head and shoulders hunkered over, protecting him while he was unconscious. Mulder thought about waking him.
"Good thing you can sleep," Meeker said. "I can't."
Nothing to say to that. Mulder brushed past Meeker, walked down the long, angled hall to the back door. Outside, the storm still roared, but it was getting weaker. The worst was past. Maybe for the rest of the night, too.
Lightning flickered, flash-bulbed the hall ahead. Mulder saw the vending machine alcove, but that was all. No Upjohn.
"Sheriff Meeker!" Mulder called. He drew his weapon.
Exterior doors still secured. Mulder held his pistol two-handed in front of him, advanced slowly. Another door was wide open. Total darkness was exposed inside. Something stenciled on the wood, but impossible to read. Mulder settled his Smith and Wesson on the dark space.
"What is it?" Meeker demanded.
"Get down here."
Wetness on the floor. Mulder glanced down. Water. And blood.
"Get down here now."
Meeker ran down the hall, flanked by two men. His white eye flashed. "Where's Upjohn?"
"I was just asking myself the same question," Mulder said. "Look at the floor."
Meeker peered down. "Damnit! He's inside!"
"Tell Agent Scully to be ready," Mulder said. "Where's the attendant?"
"I don't know." Meeker turned to one of his deputies. "Go find that guy. Now!"
They stood shoulder to shoulder at the door, squinting into blackness.
"Looks like stairs," Meeker said.
"Yeah," Mulder said. "Up and down."
Meeker unlimbered his flashlight. He handed it to Mulder. The beam cut a bright swath into the shadows, revealed the concrete steps. Plain metal rail. White and green painted walls.
"I'll go first," Meeker said.
"Sheriff," Mulder said. "You gave me the light."
Meeker smiled grimly. "I guess you're right. After you."
The other deputy stood ready, shotgun up. Meeker glanced back at the man. "Keep this door secured. You hear anything, you stay out. I don't want to lose anybody else tonight. Hear me?"
"Yes, Sheriff."
Mulder stepped into the stairwell. Scan left and right. No one. His heart thudded, made it hard to breathe. He shone the flashlight downstairs. A metal door that said MAINTENANCE on it. More blood on the floor.
"Down there," Mulder said.
"Got it." Meeker leapfrogged Mulder, advanced down the stairs. Mulder stayed on the steps over the sheriff, kept the flash trained on the closed door.
Meeker paused at the bottom of the steps. "The lock's smashed," he said. "It's Myers, all right. Be ready when I open it."
"I'm right here, Sheriff," Mulder said. He trained his pistol on the door.
Meeker reached out for the knob with one hand, held his shotgun with the other.
Sweat formed on Mulder's brow.
Meeker opened the door.
Darkness moved in the corner of Mulder's vision. For an instant, his attention was divided between what was in front of him and what approached. He turned his head too late.
A dead white face made of rubber. Death mask.
"Michael--" Mulder said.
Michael Myers drove the blade of his knife into Mulder's chest, just below the ribcage. Razored, awful pain shot through his guts. A sensation like a muscle cramp seized his heart, latched onto his lungs, squeezed the life out of him.
The flashlight fell. End over end. Wild, uncontrolled light.
Somewhere very close, a shotgun discharged. Mulder felt the heat on his cheek. Michael whirled around. He kept Mulder close, like a dance partner locked to him by the knifeblade. Mulder had his back to the door. He blocked another shot.
No gun. Got to get another gun.
Blood everywhere. It was spattered on Mulder's face.
They stared into each other's eyes. Mulder saw nothing alive.
Michael thrust Mulder away from him. No balance to control the fall. Mulder flew out into the hall collapsed back against the deputy there. They fell on the floor together. Hot shotgun barrel between them.
The deputy shouted in Mulder's face: "Goddamnit, get off me!"
Trying. I'm trying.
Mulder rolled off the deputy. His insides felt like sloshing liquid. There was something wrong with his heartbeat. It didn't feel right. It didn't sound right slamming in his ears.
Another shotgun blast.
Michael over them both. The knife coming down. Again and again. The deputy screamed. Gore splashed Mulder each time the blade came up, tearing out of hot, living flesh.
Then the deputy stopped screaming.
And everything else went to Hell.
