Part II

The wound burned brightly in contrast with the darkness surrounding him. Jason winced as the pain bit at him relentlessly, even after he'd switched the pillowcase containing his mother's head to his other hand. He'd left the pickax and all of his tools in the shack, he knew he couldn't manage to carry a weapon and Mommy simultaneously, not with this painful gash in his body even now leaking alarming amounts of blood. The blue flannel was sticky with his own blood, and he felt vulnerable, unarmed in the woods so soon after his little go round with Ginny and Paul. Perhaps they were even now alerting lawmen to the location of his now abandoned shack.

He was doing the right thing leaving, although the slightest twinge of longing for the only home he'd had for so many years stung his heart. His shack might have been poorly constructed, dirty, cold and drafty at times, but it had been his. It couldn't be helped however. They might discover the shack, the tools, the corpse offerings, Mommy's now empty shrine, all of it, but they would not discover him. He'd be sure of that.

Jason was taking a lesser-known trail along the lake, and even though he had taken a longer route than necessary for fear of discovery by law enforcement he knew he was rapidly coming up on Higgins Haven. The thought of somewhere quiet to rest for a little while spurred him on even when the burning pain in his body cried out for him to stop. He could see a familiar landmark, an ancient oak tree that had been the victim of a bolt during an electrical storm many years ago. The split trunk reassured him, he was going to make it there despite the pain, for he was getting close, so close

The smallest ghost of a smile lit on his twisted lips. With any luck at all, the property would still be empty. During his past raids for easy supplies, he had not seen any sign of the Higgins, and hopefully the trend would continue. He often wondered exactly where they lived when not occupying the cheerful summer home, but it didn't really matter, he supposed. As long as they didn't plan an impromptu trip to the long quiet Haven, he and Mommy would be safe.

Like a shining beacon, Jason could see the familiar structure of the barn and the house ahead, and the little wooden placard bearing the words Higgins Haven still hung there to welcome him. The weariness and pain he'd been fighting during his grim trek began to tug insistently at him now that he was standing before the possibility of resting and recouping. The back door was Jason's preferred mode of entry, and the fact that the latch was still broken was a good sign.

Letting himself into the dark house, he breathed a shaky sigh of relief. He was out of the woods, both figuratively and literally. No one would think to look for him here, and even if that girl Ginny led the police straight to his shack, it didn't matter. Pain tugged at him again, reminding him that he need to go see to his wound. The bleeding had slowed, but the pain was as fierce as ever.

He padded into the bathroom where he gently set Mommy's pillowcase carrier down onto the soft rug. He didn't pull her head out just yet though; he didn't want to upset her with the sight of his wound. She had always been upset whenever he'd hurt himself playing as a child, and even when he'd been unfortunate enough as an adult to suffer a scrape or gouge in the course of hunting or home repair. No, Mommy didn't need to see this.

The machete wound wasn't gushing blood anymore, and his previously sticky shirt was beginning to stiffen against his skin, caking with dried blood and dirt from the shack's floor. It would have to come off now, before the wound ceased to bleed and the fabric became stuck tight. He knew from experience that was extremely painful. Slowly, carefully he unfastened the overalls and began to unbutton the torn shirt. It was already beginning to stick, so turned on the tap and dampened the area above the wound. It worked, and he was able to pull the shirt off without too much resistance.

Strangely, the wound did not look as bad as he envisioned. In fact, as he examined the sliced flesh he found it hard to believe that not an hour before his machete had been lodged within. Yes, it was still a very nasty wound, but something about it was off almost. Perhaps she had not cut him as deeply as he'd originally believed, he reasoned. He shoved the recent memories of feeling blood rattle about in his lungs and of coppery red fluid rising to froth and foam at his lips further back in his mind, choosing to ignore the unpleasantness of it all. Ginny just had not had the strength to drive the machete that far into him, that was all.

The shirt was obviously ruined. Although Jason was never one to be terribly concerned with his clothing's appearance and condition, even he had to admit that this shirt was beyond salvaging. Well, what else was there to do but go into the closets and hope something serviceable had been left behind for him to scavenge. The Higgins seemed to be well enough off that they frequently left things behind, much to Jason's advantage. The pantries were always overstocked when they vacationed, and they never seemed to notice the missing linens and sundries he had appropriated on his many trips.

Jason walked into Mr. and Mrs. Higgins room and began rifling through the drawers. As well as leaving the pantry stocked with more than they ever would ever eat, the Higgins also would leave clothing, as if it were nothing to relegate perfectly good clothes to a dresser in a mostly unused summer home. Of course, he didn't suppose that any of the Higgins had ever had to cobble together a wardrobe out of other's castoffs and laundry line thefts. They just went into the department stores and charged away, exiting with new, unworn clothing packaged in crisp brown and white shopping bags.

Yes, Mr. Higgins had left an array of shirts, and he quickly found one that would fit him as well as a pair of jeans that looked about right. He carried the clothes back to the bathroom and went about scrubbing the grime and blood away. The warm water raining down from the showerhead was a major improvement over bathing in the frequently cold lake any day, and the warmth soothed his jangled nerves considerably. He was in a good spot.

If now one had busted the door open yet to catch him, they were not likely to. Ginny and Paul surely had already had plenty of time to alert the police, and even if they discovered the shack empty they would focus on the dilapidated cabins and store rooms of Camp Blood.

No one would think to come here.

With that comforting thought in mind, he donned the borrowed clothing, trying not to dwell on the fact that the wound looked even shallower and less severe than before with the filth and blood washed away. Now he and Mommy could find a place in the house and settle in for some very needed rest and recuperation.