Author's Note: THE FINISH! Warning, this chapter gets GRUESOME in parts, and Wolfgang uses a distasteful slur at one point, that felt honest to his character, however offensive it is. Please know the words/actions of a murderous bully that I write aren't an indication of what I personally approve x_x Anyway, enjoy a little belated end to some Halloween FUN!
… … …
"ARNOLD!"
Helga burst out his name with an earnest authenticity that went well beyond the pale. Or, at least, any other shade she'd ever cast so intensely in public. Her eyes blew wide, a deer caught in headlights.
She backpedaled as they all stared back at her, stammering.
"I-I-I mean—'bout time you finally showed up, Football Head!" she rebounded, all bristle and snark. Her face felt hot. "What, did you feel bad about abandoning us to die?"
The Idiot Trio brushed her weirdness off and took her cue like it'd meant nothing else, rounding on the man of the hour.
"Yeah, what took you so long, Arnold?" Sid interrogated.
"Just coming to see what was left of us?" Harold accused, finger jabbing his chest.
To her sick-stomached dread, not only did Gerald slowly take off his Men in Black sunglasses, but he also kept scrutinizing Helga, like he'd only just realized she was actually an alien all along…
And Arnold, even with his attention on the guys as they got in his face, kept flickering his eyes back to hers, his expression unsettled and flushed.
Her heart raced, hyperventilating on the spot and trying to keep her cool.
But it got a lot harder to keep it when Gerald finally looked at Arnold, paused, and then looked back to her, and then back to him again, and repeated this a few times with increasing alarm.
His MIB sunglasses clattered to the pavement, falling out of his absent grip as he froze in a thousand yard stare, like he'd finally realized that not only was Helga an alien, but Arnold was, too…
At that moment Helga couldn't decide if she was more desperate to live or die.
"W-what? No," Arnold recovered, gathering himself, "Phoebe had mentioned some items—that had 'conflicting' accounts from different werewolf legends? I went to Rhonda's—Eugene was right, she was prepping for some big Christmas party. Anyway, I took these… "
Giving Harold a look for him to back off a bit, he pulled up his black briefcase and opened it.
"What in the…" Stinky wondered aloud, looking inside.
"Wow, Arnold," Sid mocked with sarcastic frustration, "looks real lethal."
"Yeah!" Harold exclaimed, throwing his hands out. "What the hell are we gonna do with a bunch of twigs and FLOWERS, Arnold?!"
When she recognized the contents within, she had a feeling that if she stared at Arnold any harder her eyes might fall out, but she couldn't stop.
"OK, first off," Arnold deadpanned, "those aren't 'twigs,' it's dried mistletoe, a werewolf repellent. And these," he grabbed the bouquet, purple and vibrant, holding it up, "are monkshood… which is actually wolfsbane, just raw and unprocessed."
"Wait—THAT'S GREAT!" Sid burst out, grabbing Arnold's shoulders like he could cry and kiss him. "Those're one of the things Phoebe said could kill 'em, right? Oh, thank GOD. We're really low on options, Arnold!"
"Uh, well—actually, she didn't," Arnold awkwardly corrected.
Sid's face fell, dropping his hands.
"Just that the legends conflict on its properties. On my way to Rhonda's, I asked my Grandpa if he knew how to catch a werewolf, and he said his Grandpa once told him to always have some wolfsbane on hand, just in case he'd ever need it. Said it was useful against werewolves, but couldn't remember if it was used to either trap them, burn them, or…"
He paused meaningfully.
"Cure them."
Everyone's eyes widened as they swelled with realization all at once.
"Man," Helga muttered, head out of the clouds and fully back in the reality of the danger they were in. "I'd take any of those options by this point. Though, to be fair, I'm a pretty big fan of the burning."
"Well, we already tried burning, an' look at how far that got us," Stinky drawled, shaking his head, "if I had to pick at this point, I reckon it'd be trappin' or curin'."
"Wait," Arnold's eyes bugged out. "You already fought him?"
Gerald, who looked far-off and distracted during the whole exchange, seemed to come back fully online and in the moment. He nodded back, his expression grave and alert.
"Yeah," he replied, clearing his throat. "He took off to regenerate a few minutes ago. And he's definitely coming back. So" his face hardened, "we need a plan."
"Good," Arnold said soberly, "I looked up wolfsbane myself, and I've got one."
… … …
The series of snarling sniffs were their first alert to keep silent.
A building growl stole the ambient sound of the city night before dissolving in a heap of broken, unnatural chuckles, casting their echoes down the alley as a mostly regenerated WereWolfgang turned the corner, his claws drawing sparks along the walls as he did.
"Really? You're still here?" He jeered incredulously, his whole frame shaking with dark amusement as he prowled. "And here I thought I'd just track your scents—but there you go, thinking you can lay another trap for me? You really think that would work again," he growled, heaving a trash can over his head as he blared out the rest with a roar, "you little FUCKING RETARDS?!"
The trash can hurled down the already filthy alley, his ears trained forward to catch any human sounds or movement—with no response, save the echoing clatter of metal and trash on brick and asphalt.
He snarled, claws out, probing and threatening as he slowly advanced, a gargling growl in his throat.
"I know you're in here," he lashed the words from his drooling teeth, spilling with wrath and promise. "I can smell your breath!"
"Minty fresh?" shot a dry retort.
Those neon, predator eyes shot wide to Helga, snapped to position beside the dumpster with her slingshot drawn back, face fierce and hackles raised. Arnold flanked her side, his arm behind him.
"Why don't I check, when I rip out your face?" he rumbled back; Helga's still ferocious, but going pale despite herself. That humor returned, rank on his monstrous features as his lips curled back, all gums and canines, his claws fanned out, catching the light. He slowly twisted up, like a drawn coil rearing to snap…
And lunged.
Stone-faced and bracing in place, Arnold yanked hard on a line—and a harsh, rushing sound tore the air.
WereWolfgang stopped.
And recoiled, drawing back with his claws smothering his snout.
"Urgh! What—is that…?" he demanded, yakking.
He stared, his savage features twisting with stupefied incredulity until finally pinpointing the identity of that which revolted him so.
"...Mistletoe?"
His face dropped in a moment of dubious self-reflection, muttering, 'Really? I hate that now?' under his gravely breath.
"So, whaddya say, Wolfgang?" Helga taunted, her shot drawn tight—but he was still too far for a guarantee if they needed the backup, "still want a kiss?"
He snarled a scoff, but jolted back when he looked over his shoulder and saw another line of mistletoe had been hoisted on a second clothesline behind him. And from the way he started and stalled in place, gesturing as if he could ward off the revulsion as wrong-footed confusion and disbelief leapt to his features—he was trapped.
The noises he made as he slowly shook his head, his thinning glare leveling them with the glinting shards of eyeshine, were a mix of furious snarling, human-like exasperation, and a chopped, unnatural laugh that flared his ribs with each ragged inhale.
He smirked at last, with anything but amusement.
"Oh, you mean from me?" he asked mockingly, with far too many teeth, "or are you two on a reject date?" his brow cocked, pointing at them standing below the safety of the hanging mistletoe.
Helga's face—was it really pale just a moment ago? It was beet red now, her arms trembling as she held her charge. And—God, Arnold was keeping his stare fixed on WereWolfgang, but as if avoiding hers—and he was blushing, too. Oh, criminy, she thought with a nervous gulp, likely from humiliation, if nothing else, her mind eagerly assured her.
But for crying out loud, he was so handsome and daring in his black, cut suit, his plan to trap WereWolfgang was working and his hair smelled amazing and she could only tell that because he was so close, and when she looked up, holy crap he was right, they really were right underneath the mistletoe together, are you freakin' SERIOUS—
Barking a laugh that was so loud and sudden, Helga started, WereWolfgang's guffaws breaking her out her trance, and—
Her grip on the slingshot.
The silver ball went off, aimless and at full speed; ricocheting off a brick wall before clattering and rolling off into the darkness.
Helga and Arnold—and the rest of their crew, out of sight, all gawked in horror.
"Oh f—FUCK!"
WereWolfgang actually bent over and facepalmed as he lost it, snorting between gruff, wheezing sniggers.
"So," he wiped his eyes, recovering, "Football Head and Unibrow, huh? That's rich! I bet your kids'll be hideous."
His smirk took on a particularly nasty lilt, his laughter finally dying down.
"Not that you'll be surviving long enough to have any."
Pale, sweating, and turning hollow as the ramifications of her fuckup hit Helga all at once, she was rendered unable to even breathe, let alone live with herself—for whatever time she didn't deserve and had left, anyway.
Criminy. Facing the mouth of Hell head on, and doubtfully trapped for long, she figured it was just as well that she was in front.
She should just go ahead and die first, anyway.
Flinching at the sensation of a firm, supportive touch at her shaking elbow, she went impossibly still… and dragged her eyes, finally, agonizingly, back to Arnold.
He gave her a sympathetic, reassuring look, radiating a confidence that simmered the longer his gaze lingered on hers, that seemed to say:
'Believe in me.'
At that moment, he wouldn't even need to tell her. She had to.
They all did.
Dragging his briefcase over with his foot from behind the dumpster while keeping his eye on WereWolfgang, he opened it one-handed and reached in. He then took one step past her—but still behind the protection of the mistletoe barrier, and…
…Brandished an ornate bouquet of gorgeous, purple flowers like a sword.
WereWolfgang snorted, giving a light, uncertain shake of his head with a bewilderment that may have mollified his bloodlust, but whose growling voice still dripped with disdain.
"...What the fuck?" he wondered aloud, with genuine, weirded-out confusion. "I mean, freaky way to propose to Shit-For-Aim here, but—"
"Listen to me," Arnold cut him off, his voice crisp. "Do you know what this is, Wolfgang?"
He indicated him with a sharp tilt of the bouquet.
"This is wolfsbane, in its natural form. I brought the mistletoe," he pointed above them, "to stop you—and this," he raised the bouquet to emphasize his next point, but WereWolfgang cut him off in turn.
"To what?" he tossed his grotesque hands out, "Gross me out with how gay this is all is?"
"This," Arnold ground out, his features hardened and determined, "is to cure you!"
There was a tense pause, where WereWolfgang didn't move, or respond. Until, finally, he tilted his wolf/human head to a fur-tuft shoulder, his clawed hand splaying across his enormous chest in mock offense.
"Oh, cure me, huh?" he countered slowly, his voice rasping and light. "And what's wrong with me?"
Arnold's jaw dropped, eyes sharpening incredulously under his creasing brow as WereWolfgang growled out a facetious chuckle.
"After all, aren't you, like, the King of Self-Esteem?" he crossed his broad, furry arms, the corner of his darkened lips drawn in a mocking sneer. "You know, the cheerleader for 'self-love and acceptance,' and all that fruity crap? So, why the long head, Football face? Shouldn't you be giving me a high five, or whatever?"
There was an odd, mortified silence.
"...Yer kiddin' me, right?" came Stinky's voice from behind a trash can, further down the alley.
"Yeah! A—and I mean," Sid stammered, from behind the same trash can, stalling to summon an argument, "w—what about your mom?"
"Yeah!" Harold's voice cried out from behind another one, even further down the alley. "What about your mommy, huh? How do you think she'd feel?!"
WereWolfgang tossed a shrug.
"She doesn't really like other kids. Besides, she won't have to feed me as much. In fact," he pivoted brightly, "I could even feed her! Save on that grocery bill."
Helga's face turned along with her stomach, and from the revolted sounds exclaimed by her nimrods in arms, the feeling was mutual.
"What? Oh—oh, come on," WereWolfgang threw his claws out with exasperation, "I mean deer meat and shit, you fuckin' idiots! What, you thought I meant I'd actually feed my own mom people? What do you think I am, a monster?"
Arnold had enough.
"You ARE a monster!" he shouted, strengthening his stance. "But not just one! And whatever you say, whatever jokes you might make, or people you hurt, I know you're still the real Wolfgang under all that! I know you're still human, deep down! And you know you'd have never done all the things you did tonight if you'd never been cursed!"
WereWolfgang's jocular sneer slowly fell, tilting back slightly as his arms dropped, steadying Arnold with a long, unreadable look that didn't relent. Not even to blink.
He pressed on, the wolfsbane flowers crossing in front of his body like a shield.
"You may not have even had a choice then—but you do now!"
Arnold stared back earnestly under those glowing, unrelenting, unshifting eyes.
"What do you say, Wolfgang?" he asked, his voice softening, yet no less intense. "Will you let us help you?"
No one in the alleyway made a sound.
WereWolfgang, his face impassive and set in an indecipherable trance, kept his night-shining, neon eyes locked with Arnold's hunter green, even as he eventually, slowly, lifted his clawed, open hands, palms up. As if in an offering—and the optimistic watched with bated breath…
And flinched, when the air broke at last at the sound of fabric shredding apart, as WereWolfgang tore the last, burnt, recognizable remnants of his green cobra shirt off his body; all while holding Arnold's gaze with that tense, unblinking stare.
The wad of crisped fabric crumpled and flaked, half-bundled in his claws. Left only in the torn remains of his burned shorts and the fur covering his body, he paused.
And then, slowly lowered his center of gravity…
Just as Arnold took an instinctive step back—and pushed Helga aside, WereWolfgang bristled with braced, otherworldly revulsion, and jumped, smacked the mistletoe off the clothesline with his charred shirt as a barrier, swept his other arm out toward Arnold, and slashed his claws across his chest.
Throwing his body, along with the mistletoe, down the darkness of the alley.
The crew all screamed, but it was Helga who lunged for WereWolfgang.
Who felt the air blown out of her as he backhanded with a life-altering force.
She landed at a distance down the littered alley—injured yet unscratched, but what did it matter? If she hadn't fucked up before, she could have stopped him—could've covered Arnold, and not left them all hopeless. She didn't even know where her slingshot was, let alone the silver ball.
What was it she always used to say in dire situations? Oh, yeah.
We're all gonna die.
The alley erupted with heaving fury and chaos. Her body wracked with pain and not listening to her command to move yet, she saw Stinky scramble out to briefly check an unconscious Arnold, drag him toward Eugene's corner, who was still passed out, and quickly tied his cloak around his bleeding torso.
She stared.
He turned to check on Helga next as she braced herself up on her elbow as if on autopilot, but was interrupted by Gerald's booming voice, leading ahead.
"WE CAN'T SAVE THEM IF WE ALL DIE!HURRY!"
Limping her way shamefully to Arnold, she pressed her shaking hands down on his chest to slow the bleeding. A fool's errand if there ever was any, she figured, but one she couldn't stop herself from doing. As she did so, she paused, something glinted down the cluttered alley that caught her eye through a watery veil of tears.
Gerald threw a stash of open, sloppy tuna cans at WereWeregang with a violent passion, and roared, "DO IT, SID!"
Sid, crouched down over a wrapped object, which burst with startled, hissing yowls once he yanked a heavy layer of fabric back, revealed a pet carrier. His face warped in a fierce wince as he unlatched the gate. WereWolfgang's eyes blew wide, flailing back against the remaining mistletoe barrier behind him as he freaked, finding his superstitious path not only crossed, but also viciously attacked by a ballistic pair of black, angry cats.
"FUCK! Argh!" he swatted back half-heartedly, afraid to touch them. "Are you kidding me?! That's fucking LOW!"
In the fur and claw flying chaos that ensued, something bumped into Sid from behind—who whirled around in a panic, nearly staking Stinky the Vampire. Who said, "Two stakes? Great thinking, Sid!" when all he received was Van Helsing Sid's torn, vacant stare in response, grabbed the stakes from his numbed hands, and braced in position behind a howling and thoroughly distracted, cat-ravaged WereWolfgang. Waiting for the time to strike, he muttered, 'this'll hurt me more than it hurts you,' under his breath, before taking his shot at last and leapt, forcing the driven stakes through the beast's back with the force of his entire body weight.
WereWolfgang arched like a livewire and roared.
"THROW THE SALT, SID!" Stinky shouted as he gripped, dragging the stakes out with torrents of blood as the movement bowed his body backwards.
Sid stalled, stupefied. When Gerald screamed "BEFORE HE REGENERATES!" he scrambled, his hands panicked as he fished through the many poorly sewn DIY pockets inside his cloak, until finally pulling out an old faded salt container—then paled. The lid was up, and lighter than expected. Trembling, he upturned the container experimentally into his hand, and…
It was empty.
"ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS, SID?!"
"I'M SORRY!" he cried, "IT MUST HAVELEAKED OUT!"
An agonized, gargling wail tore through the alley, the force of its resonance scattering the cats and freezing their very hearts. They went white.
"OH,"WereWolfgang began, the pitch of his voice scouring its way out his throat, "You cunts are SO fucking DEAD!"
The boys screamed, turning tail.
Except Rambo Harold, cowering in the spot he hadn't left since their foe returned as WereWolfgang cornered him, crushing the dropped wooden stakes into bloody splinters. Harold whimpered, stammering under the moon-lit shadow of his towering form and the sound of its gnashing teeth before his jaw unhinged and taloned-claws sprung open, ready to strike.
"Mah… Mah… MOMMY!"
Grabbing fistfuls from the pockets of his army pants, he hurled whatever he had at him; change, ketchup packs, a yoyo, and condiment packets, some already half-torn as they flew through the air.
WereWolfgang recoiled, howling in pain against the wall as his burning tongue hung out, when one of those half-opened packets scattered its contents into his open mouth. Bewildered, Harold examined the current un-thrown fistful he currently held, and gasped.
Salt packets.
Sid sputtered.
"Y—YOU had extra salt this WHOLE TIME?!"
"Wh–why are you yelling at me?!" Harold defended, panicky. "Sometimes I just want my food to have more flavoorr!" He sobbed.
"Dang it Harold, we coulda thrown it in his wounds when I had 'im staked!" Stinky snapped back, blood-soaked and sounding particularly miffed. "Now his back's done gone an' regenerated!"
"I just forgot I had them, okay?!"
"Forget it! We gotta grab our friends and regroup, now! Try again before sunrise!" Gerald cut them off, watching WereWolfgang cursing and holding his face as he whined, and barked a bitter laugh over his shoulder before turning back to gather Eugene and Arnold as Helga crept around the ground a ways away, muttering 'How do you like that, you salty bitch?'
His black dress loafers kicked up dust as he jaw-dropped, skidding mid-run to a halt.
Arnold, pale and pressing his bloodied hand to the cloak bundled against his chest, had staggered to his feet.
"...We can't give up," he took a struggling step, his free hand braced against the brick wall. "Come on—help me find that mistletoe—and the wolfsbane! If my Grandpa's right, we can still cure everyone—and him," he ground out, gritting his teeth. "Whether he wants it or not."
Soft, gravely cackles slowly grew further down the alley, the sounds of WereWolfgang's amusement building until they barked out in sharp, choppy bursts of laughter.
"And how do you plan to do that, huh?" he goaded, eyes twisted and alight as he smirked. "I know all your tricks, now! And you think you can get away—from me?"
He flashed his bloody teeth at them.
"That I'd let you?"
Drawing up to his full, monstrous height, every sinewy line of tension in his body etched with threat as the full moon silhouetted from above, setting his claws aglow as they flexed back.
"Tonight's where your story ends, and mine starts!" he declared, taking a step. "The 6th graders I've spared, the ones I'll let survive their injuries, will join my pack—with me as their rightful boss! And we'll never have to deal with any other scrawny snot-nosed brats," he leered, "or little shit-stain 5th graders again!…Now."
He took another step.
"Just cuz I could use a little fun again, I'm gonna say this one last time—"
And another, lowering his gnarly, enormous body onto all fours as he salivated, preparing to charge.
"—Run."
As Stinky and Sid practically tripped over themselves backtracking to grab Eugene and make a run for it, Helga, gripping her bloody, scraped shoulder, had to sidestep to avoid a collision with Harold down the alley—who actually did trip, falling by her feet. She looked down, eyes widening at the display.
And with opportunity.
When he stumbled trying to get to his feet again, she kicked out her Viking boot, blocking him.
"Ditching the fight so soon, Rambo?"
He whined, hyperventilating in his terror as he kicked his legs in the air—too distraught to summon the wits to overcome her makeshift barrier as their classmates clamored up the alley.
"Aww come on Helga! This is just a costume! You can't e-expect me to stick around an–and try to fight him! It's hopeless! You saw me back there," he protested, wrapping his arms around her leg pleadingly as he sobbed. "I—I'm the most useless person heerree!"
Her teeth glinted, catching the light of the moon as she smirked.
"Not yet you're not."
As the others ran past her, WereWolfgang charged.
And Helga, standing her ground as she cocked a brow, expanded her chest as she took in a big breath, and hollered:
"DAMMIT, PIG BOY, WE ALREADY GOT ONE FULL MOON OUT TONIGHT!"
The sound of claws skidding the asphalt to a stop screeched in their ears, making everyone tremble and still as if someone had scratched a chalkboard. Everyone turned around and hesitated despite themselves, watching as WereWolfgang stood, slack-framed, and paused.
And wheezed.
And doubled over howling, nearly collapsing on all fours, as he pointed, for the second time that night, to Rambo Harold. Who'd not only tripped on his combat pants and dragged them down again, but had done so while kicking his legs in the air with renewed panic—and, this time, while exposing the bare, naked, beauty-marked ass the Lord gave him.
With his eyes closed, streaming tears as he positively crowed, Helga flicked her lighter, took aim, and, to everyone's jaw-dropping astonishment, chucked a flaming molotov cocktail at his raw, gaping mouth—shattering into his throat.
They covered their faces from the heat as the whole alley lit up.
WereWolfgang shrieked.
And thrashed, and wailed, clawing away charring, melting flesh in desperation as the fire ate him alive. Tore, hacked at his throat and stomach as if to tear something inside of him out.
This time, as the slowing flames licked and chewed and he twisted helplessly on the ground, he wasn't regenerating.
WereWolfgang—what was left of him, cooked and parts of him stuck—fused together, contorted onto his back as he smoked. As the survivors tentatively approached, he reached a trembling, clawed hand toward them, and made some kind of noise. Words, perhaps, but if they were, they couldn't make out what he said, before he stopped moving entirely.
All they could tell was that whatever it was, it was spoken with a voice that didn't sound like a monster.
For a long spell the kids said nothing, as the alley stank of refuse, burnt fur, and smoke.
"...Helga," Sid began, his voice hoarse, distant, "I thought… where, did you…?"
She gave a short nod, her gaze never leaving the smoldering corpse.
"Lost my slingshot, of all things. But found a half-drunk bottle of vodka back there. And, an old styrofoam coffee cup… and one, genuine ball of silver," she answered, before leveling them with a meaningful look, "and I nabbed some of Harold's salt packets, while I was at it. So…"
"...Damn, Pataki," Gerald replied after a lull, "you saved our fuckin' bacon."
"Yup," Stinky concurred, nodding sagely, "an' instead, you went an' turned him inta bacon."
"Well," she conceded with a wry smirk and casting a sidelong look at Harold, "couldn't've done it without Rambo here flashing his bacon."
"Hey… you're right," said Harold, bewildered, "my ass saved the day!"
"Wait," Gerald double-taked, "what?"
As the Idiot Trio broke into their own side banter, Arnold stared at their slayed opponent, his eyes thinned with hard emotion. Helga watched, keeping her distance as his fingers tightened their grip on the bundled cloak pressed against his chest as his face twisted in a frown.
"We could have cured him," he uttered, bitterly.
Helga the Viking, the conqueror and exterminator, bit her lip.
Gerald sighed—and with a shade of disappointment his best friend was thankful to know was honest, as he patted his shoulder.
"I know, man. I wish we coulda, but…"
"...I know," he admitted with a heavy sigh, and grimaced. "Not everyone—wants to be helped…"
"Hrm. Hard lesson," Gerald murmured back, then paused. "Shit lesson."
"Yeah," Arnold concurred, a shadow over his eyes. "Still. Doesn't mean they can't be. If things'd been different, maybe I could've done it."
"Arnold," Gerald gently rebuked, wrapping his arm around his best friend's back, tugging him into a side-to-side bro-hug. "You can't go beatin' yourself up like that, man. We ain't never done this before! Right? And we tried. You tried. Man, you nearly died trying. Just a few more inches, and…"
Gerald paused to shudder, his tone firm and with a shade that went darker than mere reassurance when he continued.
"Look. He was a monster, alright?" He eyeballed him for emphasis. "A literal monster. And," he added with an honest dose of levity, "the biggest bully around!"
Arnold's face scrunched up.
"I know…" he relented again, quietly, before doubling back, his free hand gesturing in grief and frustration. "But—he was just cursed! That voice at the end, I don't know what he said, but we all heard it—he was still human, and…"
He paused, lingering on with a pained grimace, the corners of his mouth twinging with something hesitant, almost wistful.
"...Besides. It's not like…all bullies are bad…"
On the sidelines, Helga's heart raced.
Gerald nodded grimly—partly to himself, like he'd just truly swallowed several truths down at once, and they weren't settling so well in his gut.
"Well—one way or another," he said, "we're saved. And you're saved, and all his other… 'slice 'n dice' survivors are saved, and…"
Gerald sighed, patting his best friend on the back.
"Gotta look on the bright side, Arnold."
… … …
In exchange for saving their humanity and ultimately their lives, the surviving 6th graders agreed to a temporary truce… at least until the end of Halloween. And, considering it was already past midnight, there really wasn't much to say for it. At the end of the night, they all either went home, or to the hospital; the cause of their injuries dismissed in the realm of public belief; but a new tale was woven that night, that would be passed from kid generation, to kid generation, to kid generation.
Either way, the world was a better place, they told themselves. Though an origin was never found, when the news of victory spread, there were those who were able to sleep soundly in their beds at last.
And those who never would.
As the face of the full moon slumbered below the clouds and the first whispering colors of dawn broke on the horizon, a soft, warbling howl called out through the city sky as if to herald the night's end, that soundly, oddly enough, like someone left behind, was saying:
"...I'm okaayy..."
-End-
… … …
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is actually the first multi-chapter story I've ever started and finished. So… TADAA… *jazz hands*