Once Randy was gone, Dwight walked over to the kitchen sink and turned the faucet lever. He could see his reflection in the sliding arch window. It was a sorry sight; inky beads gathered in coagulated clusters with trails of dried red flakes behind them. Long streams of blood were distributed across the skin with uneven smears. His tears had washed some away, creating semi-blank streaks and patches under his eyes. They stared widely back at him with a firm resolve and an unhinged flair in his shaking, unequally dilated pupils.
Cold water splashed onto his face, stealing the heat from his pores. The blood of his victims stubbornly stuck to his flesh. It pooled in the sink, tainting the water with its color. The solution saturated from a faded poppy into a bright vermilion like paint diffusing in a rinse cup.
No matter how much he scrubbed, he could still feel the sticky plasma clinging to him. The Halloween soundtrack continued playing in the other room. The semitone dissonance rang in his ears under the persistent hiss of the running faucet. His reflection hadn't changed. He could still see the blood on his face, his hands, her body. Blood running down her cheeks from the gaping slice in her forehead.
He quickly shut off the tap and braced himself on each side of the basin. He hadn't realized the volume of his hyperventilating until it was one of the only sounds in the room. The film's score had stopped and only the ambient sounds of Laurie Strode's movements remained. He tried to shake off the phantom sensations plaguing his body. Water dripped off the tip of his nose and off the wet strands of hair hanging in front of him. He slowly backed away from the sink to dry his hands.
The officer walked through the kitchen doorway, stopping dead in his tracks at the pantry door. He could hear the feeble whimpers of Neil Prescott behind it. Barely audible, any passerby could easily mistake it for an injured animal.
Due to the friendship between Tatum and Sidney, the Riley and Prescott families had grown relatively close by proxy. This gave the boy an opportunity to bond with the Prescott patriarch. Neil was kind and soft spoken, something the young man admired since it was a far cry from his own father. Dewey's heart ached at the sound of the older man reduced to a pitiful heap of tears and bruised flesh wrapped in duct tape. Neil had always been friendly and welcoming to everyone. He loved his family above all else. Even after the tragic loss of his wife, he continued to be a pillar of support for his grieving daughter. Neil Prescott was a good man. He didn't deserve this.
Dewey began to reach for the doorknob when a muffled "Hey!" interrupted him.
He quickly turned to see the ghastly rubber visage of the Father Death mask staring back. He yelped. Not only startled by the sudden approach, but also thinking Stu had returned for revenge.
"Where have you been?" asked the voice from behind the mask. The low mumble made it easy to identify as Billy Loomis.
Once he recognized the voice, Dwight's jaw clenched in anger. His face tightened in an attempt to hide the extent of his hatred from the teen. "Busy," he replied through gritted teeth.
"Yeah well, we've all been busy," Billy moved their conversation into the living room, Halloween still quietly playing in the background.
"Sorry, when you said you'd be with Sidney, I thought I'd have more time." There was a brief flash of offense in the boy's expression, giving Riley the satisfaction of knowing his comment was heard.
"Whatever," Billy said, "The last thing we need is you getting cold feet and screwing us over."
Riley decided to let the passive aggressive remark slide. "Where's Sidney?"
"Outside… somewhere," he said dismissively. "Did you deal with the fourth estate?"
Dwight picked up on his nickname for Gale. "She's been dealt with. Kenny too."
"Who?"
"The camera guy," he stated with an obvious inflection in his voice.
"Well, good. That's one loose end taken care of." The boy adjusted his gloves as he spoke. "All that's left is Randy and we can get to the grand finale," he said with a fiendish smirk.
The older man glared at him.
His smile dropped back into its usual annoyed frown. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
He didn't respond.
Billy scoffed. "Don't tell me you're upset about that reporter lady. C'mon, you knew her for like a day!"
"Is that what you think this is about?" Riley asked softly with an accusatory step forward.
The teen raised an eyebrow and took a reflexive step back. "Is there something else?"
"I don't know, why don't you tell me?" The man crossed his arms and waited expectantly. After a few beats of silence and Billy staring back with that stupid, clueless look on his face, Dwight continued. "Do you think you can just make decisions for the rest of us? Like you're top dog? Like we won't notice?"
"What?" he asked flatly.
"Cut the act, Loomis. You know what I'm talking about." His accomplice's ignorance just aggravated him more, feigned or not. "You might have Stu wrapped around your little finger, but I'm not putting up with it. You have officially crossed a line."
Billy put his hands up in a sarcastic gesture of fear. "Ooooh, now I've done it."
Dwight swatted the boy's hands back down, closing the barrier between them. "Are you even taking this seriously?" he asked.
Billy's face immediately darkened. "Oh trust me, I'm taking this very seriously," he replied gravely before adding a cheeky, "I just can't do the same for you."
Riley's blood boiled at the utter disrespect. He took deep, controlled breaths to keep his temper.
Billy visibly relaxed and backed off. He lowered his head in thought for a moment and brought it back to eye level. "To answer your question, I make the decisions because I can't trust you two to get things right. I mean Stu is… Stu and you're a walking conflict of interest. Sometimes it feels like I'm doing all the heavy lifting around here."
The officer huffed incredulously. He'd spent the night fighting and lugging bodies around while that little punk fucked around with Sidney and played dead for ten minutes. "You can't trust us?" he reiterated, emphasizing the pronouns. "That's rich coming from you."
"Oh, don't take the moral high ground with me," he taunted. "You think you're better than us because you feel bad? Because you had a last minute change of heart?" Billy took a step closer. "You're just as guilty as we are. Who's the guy that decided to team up with the killers instead of turn them in?"
Dewey looked down shamefully.
The teen subtly smiled at the reaction and lowered his voice to a quiet yet articulate growl. "You might think you're the only sane one in our little group, but you better stop acting like you're a hero."
The man's shoulders slightly fell. As much as he wanted to remain intimidating and unfazed, Billy's words got to him. He couldn't deny he was right. Dewey was far past being a good person, let alone a hero.
"So if you wanna have your little face heel turn moment, you should probably reconsider cause the only way you're getting out of this alive is with me." Billy condescended with his self-satisfied smirk. "It's not like you're a necessity," he continued, "If we needed to trim the fat, you'd be easy to get rid of."
"Like Tatum?" Riley asked, finally looking up to Billy's eyes. Those two words cut through the boy's self-indulgent monologue with a cold precision. The dense cloud of shame occupying his chest turned into burning hatred once again. The anger at Gale, the teenagers, the precinct, the town, Stu, Billy, himself; every bit of kindling to stoke the fire was all directed at the boy in front of him who just lit the proverbial match.
After pausing to take in what his accomplice said, Billy rolled his eyes and asked, "That's what this is about?" with the annoyance and flippancy of a teenager being asked about his failing grades.
Dewey was appalled at the complete lack of remorse from the boy. "You… you said she would be safe," he seethed, "You promised!"
"There was a change of plans," he responded casually as if he had booked a flight earlier than expected and not just murdered a schoolmate. "I told you we'd have to be flexible tonight."
Dewey gawked at him in disbelief. How could someone be so irredeemably cruel? To kill someone with no hesitation, no value for life, just out of pure convenience? He stammered, trying to organize his fog of thoughts and emotions. Memories came flooding back to him.
If someone is willing to break the law for their personal gain…
He had blackmail on them. Why would they betray him? He thought he had the upper hand.
Who's to say they aren't willing to sacrifice their integrity for the same reason?
Did Stu agree to this? How did Billy convince him? Stu cared about Tatum didn't he? They'd been dating for a while. Was the whole relationship a sham? How long had those boys been planning this?
You wouldn't trust them to keep up their end of the bargain?
He was naive. And stupid. Just like everyone said. Why did he trust them? Why did he get himself into this in the first place? Why was she dead when it should've been him?
Would you?
"We had a deal!" Riley screamed. Despite his efforts to remain threatening, he couldn't keep his voice from breaking and his eyes from tearing up.
"I altered the deal," Billy stated matter-of-factly. There wasn't an ounce of regret or guilt to his tone. "Tatum was never meant to survive this. She's a side character not meant to make it past Act III. An irrelevant supporting role who's only good for padding the body count."
Riley's fists shook at his sides.
"Stop making such a big deal out of this. She played the game and lost. That's what happens when you don't follow the rules. She gave it up way too easily. A little slut like her just isn't final girl material-"
Riley socked him in the face before he could speak another degrading word against his sister.
Without missing a beat, Billy retaliated and thus began their death match. Due to the Father Death costume's lack of pockets, the teen had to reach underneath his robe to retrieve his knife. This gave Dwight time to draw his first. He pushed Billy against the fireplace and aimed the knife at his head. It may not have been the most strategic approach, but he wasn't concerned with strategy. Right now, all he could think about was mangling that pretty boy's face like he had done to Tatum's.
The blade was inches from Billy, his strength being the only thing keeping it from diving into his eye socket. For a few tense seconds, it was close enough to graze the skin, leaving a thin red line down his cheek. With a shift of his weight, he pushed the knife far enough to the side to avoid his face and attempted to disarm the older man. A little pressure around his hand made the shallow cuts on Dwight's palm sting, loosening his grip enough for Billy to take the knife and stab him in the stomach. Much to Billy's surprise, Dewey grabbed the handle, ripped it out of himself, and tossed it aside. He intended to get the weapon away from both of them, so he didn't risk getting disarmed and stabbed again, but the feeling of gushing blood from his middle made him realize what a stupid idea that was. He doubled over, whimpering a small, "Fuck, why did I do that?" under his breath.
Billy grabbed him by the front of his jacket and shoved him against a bookshelf that housed the Macher's home entertainment system and stacks of cassettes. Riley pushed him away and the boy stumbled back, giving him a brief advantage. Thinking on his feet, he ripped one of the stereo tape decks out of the wall, swung, and cracked it over Billy's head. The teen was knocked back and fell onto the coffee table, sending a bowl of popcorn flying. Riley dropped the damaged device, not caring much for Stu's possessions, and scanned the room for a weapon. The only wieldable objects in reach were pieces of post-party trash littering the scenery.
Billy stirred and looked up at him, gingerly holding the side of his head. "You Rileys pack a punch," he said, sounding impressed, but Dwight felt slighted by the comment. The way the boy sounded surprised by his abilities bruised his already fragile ego and the mention of his pluralized family name was a painful reminder of his sister's demise. He couldn't help picturing Tatum in her final moments, fighting with every ounce of that abounding energy she was known for.
Riley leaned against the bookshelf to catch his breath with a discarded bottle of alcohol in his hand, waiting for his opponent to stand. He was trying to unsheath his knife from under his robe, so when he got up to ambush the officer, he'd be armed. This surprise could've worked if it wasn't so blatantly obvious what he was planning. The boy had the nerve to provoke him, as if that would distract him from wanting to rip his tongue out through his neck.
"I gotta hand it to you, you put up one hell of a fight." Billy rose to his feet, brushing popcorn kernels off his costume. He concealed the knife in the long sleeves of his robe as he approached his accomplice who's back was still turned to him. He could see Billy in his peripheral vision, but his gaze stayed glued to the floor, as if his mind were somewhere else entirely. The costumed teen slowly readied his weapon, telegraphing his intention to strike. "I didn't think you'd last this long," he taunted, "She sure didn't–"
*SMASH*
Riley turned and broke the bottle against Billy's head, showering him in shards of shattered glass. He immediately recoiled, instinctively bringing his hands up to protect his face seconds too late, losing his knife in the process. He dropped to the floor on his hands and knees. After a couple of seconds, the pain fully registered and Billy released an agonizing, throaty scream. There was blood, real blood, HIS blood, all over his arms and running down his face. Its dark cherry blended with the brighter corn syrup. He thought he'd done a decent job at replicating the real deal, but when compared side by side, the difference in viscosity and hue was noticeable. The leftover alcohol in the bottle had drenched his greasy hair and seeped into the fresh cuts across his face. Every wrinkle and crease in his facial expression was met with burning pain like lemon juice on an open wound.
Before he could attack again, Riley examined the remains of the bottle. The bottom half was gone, but the rest of the glass was mostly protected by the label's tempering effect, meaning that he couldn't stab him with the broken end like he'd seen in movies. What a shame. He was looking forward to shoving the cylinder of glass into the boy's eyes until he cried blood. Disappointed, he figured he'd settle for second best and began looking for Billy's discarded knife. He had to end this fast before his adrenaline ran out and he finally succumbed to his injuries.
While on the ground, Billy noticed the officer's blood-stained pant leg, explaining his limp. Before his opponent could move out of reach, he grabbed the man's injured left calf, sinking his fingers into the exposed muscular tissue. Dewey yelped as his leg gave out, making him collapse onto the floor. On his way down, he tried to break his fall on the TV stand, instead knocking over the pile of VHS tapes and a few objects placed atop the VCR. It sounded like Billy shouted something at him, but it was too muffled to make out over the intense ringing in his ears. The boy climbed on top of him and tightly wrapped his hands around his accomplice's neck. In a desperate panic, he tried to pry the teen's hands off of him, but he was already too weak.
In his dazed state, the man spotted the handle of a Buck 120 under the couch. He stealthily brought a shaky hand to it and stabbed the demented teen in the stomach. While Billy briefly withdrew his hands to reel back in pain, Dewey took a deep breath, hungry for fresh oxygen. Billy looked at the handle protruding from his gut. His hand hovered over it for a moment, considering removing it to finish this fight, but ultimately decided it wasn't worth the risk of bleeding out even more. It was far deeper in than he and Stu had planned.
Instead he gripped the officer's neck and squeezed tighter than before until his fingernails dug into the tender skin. He shifted his legs to put as much of his upper body's weight into downward pressure on the throat. He positioned his thumbs above the man's Adam's apple and pressed in, effectively cutting off his victim's air supply. A malicious smile crept onto Billy's face as he relished in the use of his favorite murder method. His eyes were ablaze with murderous intent, a look that Riley knew all too well. His face was a grimace of pure, unchained wrath that reeked of booze, iron, and corn syrup.
Part of Dewey wanted to give up and let Billy kill him. What good was there in staying alive any longer? He lost the first woman he may have loved. He betrayed everyone who trusted him. He failed to protect his little sister. He didn't deserve to live.
A sleep-like peace came over him. The blood hungry boy throttling him began to blur and be consumed by an encroaching vignette of darkness. His hearing faded into a low, droning buzz accompanied by the pounding heartbeat in his ears. He almost didn't hear the voice of a young girl in the hall.
"Dewey!" she shouted, frantically searching the house for any remaining survivors.
Then he remembered: Sidney. That's who he had to live for. The poor girl had already lost so much that night. Dewey wasn't going to be the next victim. He had to stick around. If he couldn't be there for Tatum, he'd be there for Sidney.
He croaked out a strained, "S-sid… h… elp-" Sensing his accomplice would try to call out, Billy tightened his grip. He knew if he didn't act now, the young boy would successfully crush his windpipe. When all hope seemed lost, his saving grace appeared in the living room doorway: Sidney Prescott.
Sidney sprinted across the room and jumped on her boyfriend's back. Clinging onto him for dear life, she wrapped herself around his torso and leaned them both to the side, forcing him off Dewey who immediately gasped for breath. His windpipe still felt compressed, barely letting any air through. His racing pulse finally slowed to a quiet rhythm.
He wanted to help. Sid needed help. He tried to stand or at least get to his knees, but his body refused. Every part of him was in pain. Multiple bruises, profuse bleeding, a splitting headache, difficulty breathing, and he was pretty sure his hearing and sight were working at half capacity. He'd lost track of where each injury came from. It was an effort just to think clearly at the time. The two blobs of color he assumed were Sidney and Billy moved out of his view.
As the world around him faded to darkness, his burgeoning guilt and shame were the only thoughts his brain could form before he slipped into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.