Hollisfield City Center, 3 am, Saturday, Oct. 27th

Adjusting his new leather jacket, Freeman peered around the town, trying to find something that might help jog his memory more…at least into something that weren't just broken fragments.

He had picked out a new outfit for himself. It wasn't all that different to what he was used to; a dark gray shirt that was quite similar to his old one, with the arms bare, though it covered his stomach this time. A black leather jacket with some chains, loops and a couple of spikes scattered about; not as short as a biker jacket, but not quite a duster. A pair of leather trousers, albeit dark red this time-almost the color of dried blood, with a chain for a belt. These were attached to a pair of heavy black boots, with heels that weren't quite as tall as his old ones even though they were thick, but they had some buckles up the sides, steel at the front and heavy soles. It was an outfit fitting of a fellow like himself.

It was clean, for now, at least. He had broken into the shop, picked out what he wanted, gotten changed and left. No alarms went off; those little stores rarely had big alarms like the department stores did.

There was no one really around Hollisfield this time of night. A car would drive by perhaps once every half hour, but no one paid a random man just walking down the street any mind, and clearly, no one had seen the store yet. Not that it mattered, if anyone were to end up bothering him, he would drop them where they stood.

He continued to pop the bubble wrap that he got from the store. He had found a bunch of it in the store, and found himself drawn to it for some strange, unknowing reason. He grabbed it and popped one…and then another…and another. The sound almost soothed him…as much as his savage, sadistic brain could be soothed, that was. So he grabbed it and stuffed a bunch in the pocket of the jacket, occasionally popping one as he walked.

At this point, Freeman wanted to find a music store. He knew that he was involved with music before, and he remembered some ties. But again, not details.

Looking around again, he glanced up at the night sky. The moon would be full soon. He knew that according to a calendar he had seen in the city center, it was near Halloween.

Could be time for some fun later tonight, perhaps.

Paul Burton's Apartment, 4 am

A heavy knocking at his apartment door woke Paul with a start; seeing that it was four in the morning, he was almost alarmed at this. Quickly pulling on a pair of sweatpants by the bed, he moved into the living room and looked through the peephole.

Jimmy stood there with his jacket on and a fairly worried look on his face, glancing back and forth.

Shaking his head and unlocking the door, he let the man in.

"Jimmy? What the hell? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, but holy shit, stuff's going nuts right now, Paul."

Paul locked his door-pausing to fasten the deadbolt and flip all the lights on while Jimmy went to sit at the kitchen table.

"Give me a sec," he said. He ran into the bedroom to grab a t-shirt and his slippers for a moment, as the apartment could get a little chilly during the night, even with decent heating. He turned on the kitchen light and sat down across from the concerned looking man. "Okay, what the hell happened, Jimmy? Did you get in some kind of trouble?"

"No, it's not that. I'm fine. But we got more dead. Five officers."

"Five?"

"Yeah. All of them at the Magistrate. It's bad, Paul. Feels just like that night, all over again."

"So you're saying this guy ambushed five armed officers and killed them all?"

"Not at once," he said. "But yes. Two went to check the place out yesterday morning. When they were seen or heard from for some time, they sent three more. One of them radioed in some garbled stuff, but by the time more backup came…this time heavier armed-they were dead and the killer was long gone. They got dogs out in the woods trying to find him, but the dogs don't seem to be wanting to pick up the trail. Like they're afraid of it."

"This…" he trailed off, immediately grabbing his cigarettes, despite it being four in the morning. "Is a lot to take in, Jim. Like…what are you saying? This copycat sounds like some kinda insanely trained fighter? Was he a special forces guy who went crazy? What the fuck is going on?"

"I really don't know, Paul. But I think your old man might have been onto something."

"You mean…"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't have believed it before, but I don't think we're dealing with something…normal right now. Like…"

"Supernatural?"

"That word might be a bit strong…but maybe?"

"I admit, I never knew if I believed in that," Paul said thoughtfully, looking at his cigarette. "I used to not. But there's just too much shit happening right now." He rubbed his shaggy hair; he hadn't cut it in awhile. "I was thinking about something, though."

"What's that?"

"I'd like to go to South Town. And Second Southtown. I admit, I'm not quite sure of the difference."

Jimmy blinked, shifting his weight in the chair. His leg was acting up somewhat, given the damp, chilly weather. "I remember when your dad went. He didn't find out a whole lot at the time. But…I wouldn't stop you. What do you think you'll find?"

"I feel like my dad didn't get a chance to really interview the rest of the band properly. Not that I blame them for not wanting to talk too much after that. And from what I saw, he never ran into them down there when he went." He took a drag of his smoke. "Maybe it's been long enough now that I could ask about him. Or, well, see if they're even still there."

"And let me guess. Make sure they aren't involved."

"Doesn't hurt to check. Police aren't doing much…though I suppose they got their hands full."

"Boy, do they. Officer Stanley-the bastard who tends to get in our way-has been ranting and raving a lot, I hear. Kind of impossible to work with."

"He was the uncle of the one fellow, right?"

"Yeah. Shouting how they're useless. Not that he's pulling his weight. Or ever pulled his weight, for that matter. He's a bit of a bully and a coward. You know the type. Always has been."

"The State Patrol are here now, aren't they?"

"Yeah, and some of the locals don't like having them here. It's like having supervisors around, as far as they're concerned."

"They just had five men ripped apart. I'd be grateful for the help."

"Most of them are, from what I've heard." Jimmy shook his head. "The fact this killer hasn't left anything at all behind…no weapons, no blood-well, not his , anyway, gallons of the other guys-and any fingerprints they managed to find? Still haven't had a match. They've been running them all the time. They'll have to hit something at some point, I imagine."

Paul leaned back in his chair, sighing. "I take it that a curfew is coming into play."

"Oh yeah. Last time, everything happened in one night. This time, they're going to be having a pretty strict one. Anyone under 18 in by sunset. The one large supermarket is allowed to be open. Bars are allowed, but everything I heard tells me most of them are choosing to close up. Patrols will be out and about…but given the numbers, even with State Patrol on hand, there's a lot of square miles to cover with a few. I think they're going to station a few of the SWAT team over at the Magistrate overnight."

"Probably for the best."

"Good luck to them, though. All the other officers were armed. One even discharged a weapon, from what it's told."

"And nothing?"

"They haven't been able to separate out the blood yet. There's too much of it. And…everything else."

"Right." Paul shuddered.

"My contact on the inside is giving me what info he can, when he can. He has to be a little more careful with State around, of course."

"Guy is pretty brave."

"Yeah, that and I think he likes to push them to work a little harder."

"To give them credit, they only apparently get one of these extravaganzas every decade and a half, by the look."

Jimmy chuckled, understanding that dark humor was indeed a way of coping. His father had been similar. "Yeah, I'm not sure this is something that they want to do more often. Besides, the mayor's trying to keep this as quiet as possible."

"Kinda hard to hide with it all over the local news."

"Yeah. Local news. He's trying to keep it from getting too out of hand. Quaint, historical Hollisfield and all. It already has its notoriety that draws morbid tourists from around. Not as many as Salem, of course, but enough of them that go to Salem first and decide to drop by here afterward. Not that he minds the extra money the tourists bring in…but after tonight, he's afraid it's gonna go too far." Jimmy chuckled. "I'm trying to figure out why he just doesn't go all in on it."

Paul rolled his eyes. Truth be told, he thought that ship had long sailed, but their long-running mayor apparently had other ideas. "Alright, look. I'll make plans to hit South Town, if that's alright with you. It's only about a three and a half hour flight."

"Right. I would like you back by Halloween, if possible."

"If I leave this afternoon, I can start my hunt. If I don't come up with anything by Tuesday morning, I'll head home and be back by the evening."

"Sounds good. Be careful down there. It's a rough place."

"I know. I'll be fine. Stick to the nicer areas."

"Can you get computer access?"

"I'll get a hotel with one."

"Oh yeah. Another thing. Look into the drummer down there. See if his grave's been disturbed."

Paul blinked. "He wasn't buried in Greenville?"

"No, they sent him home after they did what they could to him. I imagine there wasn't much that could be done, though. Dunno about the guy's family or anything. I faintly remember he didn't have too many in the way of direct family. But it might not hurt to check."

"Think some crazy person is running a state-wide grave-robbing ring for dead heavy metal musicians?"

"In this situation, I want to make sure any and all doors are closed. Which is more than our finest seem to be doing, according to my source."

"Gotcha. I'll ask around."

"Thanks. I'll send you an email when I know something."

"Alright." Paul nodded, standing up and looking over at the corner. "Want any coffee?"

"Yeah, why not? Will keep me awake on the way home."

Aaron Chester's House, Saturday evening

The four friends were all at Aaron's house instead of the mall that evening, as his parents were away on business. As such, he thankfully had the place to himself and took advantage of it.

Given the current curfew, they were mostly sitting around, bored. Aaron at least had a fully furnished computer and rec room for them to bum around in, and a decent enough internet connection to boot. Everyone else's houses had parents lounging around in some format, or in Susan's case, siblings as well. No one minded that they were staying over, though, as they were all eighteen and their parents trusted the neighborhood, anyhow.

Running the air purifier so any smokers could smoke inside, they had picked up three pizzas and a couple more two-liters of soda before heading home and locking in.

"This curfew sucks," Jeremy snorted, throwing some darts at a dartboard in the corner. "Was hoping they'd get rid of all of this by Halloween."

"They still got a few days left," Kat replied, standing to join him in the darts; he handed her a couple. "Halloween is Wednesday."

"And this city is small," Aaron replied, swirling the soda in his glass. "A guy who's been making this many crazy kills has to be leaving a massive blood trail everywhere. They'll get him soon enough." He turned back to the computer to keep checking a few websites for news.

Susan looked up from the evening paper, which she had been reading. In the background, the local news blared, though it was fairly quiet, given some music was being played over it. "Are you sure about that? Five cops were apparently ripped limb from limb at the Magistrate."

"I still can't believe that shit." Jeremy flung his last dart and took out a smoke. "Like that's the shit we heard about at the Magistrate before."

"Maybe the ghost of the crazy guy came back," Kat chuckled. "He could be haunting us all right now."

Aaron shivered. "I dunno why that gave me chills just then. But it's probably just some jacked up copycat killer."

"That's another thing. He's gotta have an arsenal on him," Kat pointed out. "Surprised he hasn't dropped anything. They think he's using a bunch of gardening tools or something, going by the injuries."

"I just wonder who snapped," Susan added. "Like, I know this town can be boring, but who snapped so badly to do this?"

"Could be an out-of-towner. Weird hitchhiker or something."

Checking out a few news websites, Aaron shook his head. "I just hope shit's handled soon. I don't wanna be bored this Halloween."

"Any costume ideas?"

"...Not yet. Thanks for reminding me. I don't know if those good local stores have sites yet, though."

Jeremy went back to the pizza box, grabbing another slice and some cola. Wandering over to the TV, he shook his head.

"Damn. Still rough that five cops got taken out. This dude's a monster. No wonder why they got curfews almost everywhere."

"There's some places left, I think?"

"Bars and shit are allowed. I guess they figure enough people go there that nothing will happen. The owners can close up if they want, but they aren't subject to the curfew laws."

"I guess they'll risk it. The chances of the killer barging into one of them starting trouble is next to zero."

"Killer might decide to visit one, at least. But will they know who it is?"

The group all looked at each other for a few moments and shrugged.

"Guess we'll find out?" Kat finally said, throwing another dart at the board and managing to land a bullseye.

"Good eye," Jeremy said, swigging some cream soda. He reached down to pick up the Phobia CD, which they had brought inside. "Wanna listen?" he looked around at the rest.

Aaron chuckled. "Why not? We might have to celebrate Halloween in our own way if they shut it down this year."

Whitechapel Bar, Hollisfield, 1 am

"Hey! Calm down you lot! Don't make me tell ya all again!" The bartender looked at the corner table, his irritation present.

A lot of folks were on edge, and as such, a handful ended up at one of the local dive bars to drink. Hollisfield didn't have a whole lot of these, but there was one somewhat on the outskirts of town that was known to be a bit of a rougher place, at least compared to its picturesque suburbs. The owner chose to keep it open, and as such, some of the less behaved folks that did live in the town all came out. The bartender on that night, Randy, was just about sick of the people who were disappearing into shots of cheap bourbon. Fights nearly broke out at least three times, and he had to eject more than one person.

"Hey, we ain't gonna fuck your bar up. Settle the hell down." The corner booth had a few of the more unsavory types. Hollisfield might have been a fairly tame suburban place, but it did have a few other areas that were more questionable…as well as a small contingent of bikers who liked to scrap a little too much sometimes. Things could get a little violent with them, and more than a few did some time in the county jail, and one occasionally got sent up to the state prison.

Looking around, Randy wished that this crowd would head out. It wasn't the biggest crowd, but half of them were rowdy types and getting rowdier. He noticed a couple people slip out of the door after seeing taxis pull up outside.

Eyeing the TV above his head, the news blared again, this time talking about the insanity that seemed to be going on in the town. Randy had been working that night-at another bar, that had since closed down-and while nothing had gone on there, it was all over the news later that night and the next day, between the standoff and the slaughter that was like something out of a horror film.

He kind of hoped that this situation would deal with itself on its own sooner than later, but bodies had been turning up since Thursday morning.

"Gimme more!" a slurred voice at the end of the bar shouted.

"You've had enough."

"Fuck off," he said.

Shaking his head, he didn't feel like arguing, so he slid the jackass another shot. "Tell your buddies they can get more for themselves. Any trouble and you're gone."

"Yeah, whatever." The blustering fellow went back to a table that was several other rowdy men and a couple of ladies, also biker types.

"Bastards," the irritated bartender muttered under his breath. He went over to the corner of the bar to take another's order-someone else who was also a little too drunk for his liking-when he saw the door open and a new patron walk in.

Not everyone paid attention-a few people were just trying to get some drinks and go home, while a couple of others were too involved in a game of darts or cards. But a few of the more rowdy regulars took notice of the young man with the bright orange, shaggy long hair, wearing the leather, chains, and heavy boots. He looked somewhat like a drifter; no one who was looking at the moment could recognize him.

The bartender blinked, thinking he may have seen him somewhere before, but had trouble placing him.

The man quietly walked in and stood by the bar, looking up at the TV for a few moments before looking off to the drinks in the back. There was something…odd about him. Randy couldn't place it, but the person at the bar who he had stepped next to looked up at him and shivered, walking off toward another part. The red-haired man paid no mind. It was almost like they sensed something was off about him, and no one could really tell what.

Shaking his head, he walked over toward him, getting a bit of the shiver himself.

"You want anything?" he asked slowly.

He shook his head slowly, seemingly still looking.

"Just let me know when you're ready."

He nodded once.

He went back toward the other side of the bar, ostensibly to make sure the bikers didn't get out of hand, but truthfully he really was a little bit nervous around the new patron.

Someone else passed by him and sort of stepped aside, cocking their head to the side and rubbing their chin, as if they also recognized him. He still said nothing, simply standing there, looking over at all of the bottles. He seemed to be almost trying to remember something.

Realizing that weird or not, he was still apparently a customer, he stepped back over toward him, trying to push aside the strange, uneasy feeling.

"Figure something out yet?"

"Hey!" one of the bikers at the end of the bar yelled. "We need some more here!" The voice had a rather thick slur at this point, and Randy had just about enough of them. Trying to figure out a way to get them to leave without them trashing the place, he looked over and sighed.

"You had enough. Cool off first." He turned back toward the strange man with the red hair. He shivered again as the young man's eye peered at him. The eye was cold, almost empty…and made him take a step back.

"What did you say?" The biker's loud, obnoxious voice brought him back. He noticed the young man's eye peek off to the side for a split moment, before looking back toward the shelves.

"Look, you can get the hell out of here if you want. I'll call the cops to take your ass out."

A few patrons started moving away from the bar rather quickly; a couple grabbed their coats and slid out the door, wanting to avoid getting caught in the middle of what looked to be a bit of a tussle that was about to start.

A decade from now, these people would look back to their decision as possibly one of the best of their lives.

The loudest of the bikers-nicknamed Vigo from the sound of it, bullied his way to the middle of the bar, right next to Freeman, pushing the man aside somewhat. He looked at him for a moment and made a face, as if the red-haired man was weird, but pointed his finger right in Randy's face.

"You do that, and you're dead, " he hissed. He reached into his pocket and snapped out a switchblade; the rest of his biker buddies were standing off to the side, letting him do his thing, but seemingly ready to jump in. A couple of rubberneckers remained, too, deciding to take their chances, probably because they were a little drunk and thinking they might see something interesting happen.

Freeman turned his head slowly, looking the big man up and down. He was perhaps about Freeman's height, maybe bulkier, but probably not as muscular, judging by his build. He looked tough enough, though, and like he certainly knew how to handle himself in a fight. The scars on him said that he had seen more than a few in his time.

This interested him; perhaps this fellow might offer him some of that feeling he was looking for. He said nothing, though; he simply stared.

Randy gulped, though surprisingly did not stand down. He knew how these types could work; he only hoped that Vigo wasn't so drunk to forget. Some bikers he knew actually caused no trouble at all; in fact, he knew plenty who didn't. This lot, however, was one of the more notorious groups, from the town over, who for some reason decided to come out to Whitechapel tonight. They might have heard about the 'action' and wanted to try to get in on a bounty, or something.

"Don't threaten me if you don't mean it," he said calmly.

Vigo spat on the bar, his face turning red; but after a few seconds he decided to turn his head when he felt the other man's piercing gaze on him.

Freeman simply stared at him, not moving. As usual, his hair was hanging in his face, with one cold, almost malevolent eye peering out.

"The fuck is your problem?" Vigo asked, moving to look directly at him. Behind the counter, Randy caught the man looking away for a split second, but he didn't say anything. He regained himself and attempted to go back to the staring contest.

"Nothing," Freeman answered coldly. His voice was harsh.

"You're fuckin' weird," the biker said, getting some sort of uneasy feeling around the guy, but not wanting to show it. He really couldn't explain it; it was almost like a bizarre feeling of something that shouldn't be. "Stay outta this and mind your damn business."

In answer, Freeman kept staring straight ahead at the man. One hand reached into his pocket and began casually popping the bit of bubble wrap he kept with him.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

"Do you fucking mind?" Vigo began to look clearly unnerved, but was trying to hide it.

Randy stood back, unsure what to make of this. He almost wanted to say something, but he was also incredibly unnerved by the other man as well by this point. Part of him almost hoped the weird new fellow would clock him one and knock him on his ass. A couple of the biker's friends started to stand to back him up, though one of them raised their eyebrow at him, also, like everyone else, getting that weird feeling.

Freeman suddenly grinned. It was slightly uneven, and his eye took on a glint that made one of the bikers stumble back.

"That's it, freak!" Vigo lifted the knife, slicing in front of him. Freeman lifted his hand, letting him cut him for a second, the grin staying on his face during this. Blood ran from his hand as he looked at it, before looking back at the man.

Vigo stared at him, nonplussed. Before he could act, however, Freeman's one hand snapped up to the top of his head, his fingers sliding into his eyes as his bloodied one went forward, both of them digging into his face and squeezing through the man's screams. They got higher and higher pitched, until a disgusting crunch went throughout the bar as he obliterated the man's face, dropping him on the spot.

He unfortunately barely felt that cut. He was disappointed.

This lot would find out just how much.

A couple of people in the bar yelled out in disgust and fear, others in shock. Some were so drunk they had no idea what was happening. One biker grabbed a pool cue and another a knife.

Randy-still behind the bar-quickly backed against the wall, trying to parse what he had just seen, but it felt like the signal from his eyes to his brain refused to make the connection.

Chaos erupted within moments after Vigo was dropped to the ground, his head misshapen and oozing blood...along with other colorful, grotesque things.

Freeman turned toward the thug with the pool cue; the fellow looked like he could hold his own. He ended up deflecting his clumsy hit and snapping the cue off in his hand before sending it through his shoulder, down and at an angle. As the man fell to his knees, his deadly hands ripped out the man's neck, spraying it on the woman next to him with a knife. She tried to send the blade home, as well, but her clumsy strike was knocked aside, as she was span around, her spine severed with a single swipe of the killer's fingers.

WIth three people down in moments, the rest of the gang decided to try to attack him en masse; three managed to surround him to grab his arms, but it mattered not; his long leg lashed out at the man in front, his heavy boot kicking him under the jaw, shattering it. As he fell in front of him to his knees, a second vicious kick smashed his head against the side of the booth, crushing it like an eggshell and sending its contents everywhere. He then shook his arms out of the others' grip, as easily as could be, showing that he would have shaken out at any time.

The two on his arms backed away, attempting to escape as the floor grew slick with blood, making it a lot more difficult.

Randy shook his head, trying to snap out of his state of shock; he had seen bar fights, but not… this . It reminded him of what he heard about…

…The incident at the Magistrate, after the concert over a decade ago.

It was then that he recognized the man; he had seen his face on the news when it had happened. A death metal band played there that night, and one of its members went on a rampage. He remembered the man's shaggy, unnatural looking orange-red hair, and his eerie, cold eyes peering out from the photograph shown on the news; apparently it had been taken from a shoot that night before the gig.

He didn't remember his name, but this man was the spitting image.

That was impossible, though-he had killed himself at the magistrate, apparently ripping out his own throat. At least, that was what the news reports claimed.

This had to be a sick Halloween costume of a copycat…right? He thought this to himself as he started to back slowly toward the one phone in the little bar, off to the side. Taking a step and sliding on some of the blood that had gushed all over the floor, he tried to regain his footing as he saw the insane killer neck lift another biker, squeezing until his neck snapped. He kept squeezing, digging his hands into the man's shattered neck until his head popped off; tossing the body aside he picked up another biker, slamming her around several walls before impaling her through the chest, unceremoniously over a pool cue that happened to be leaning against the table.

He had no idea where this person got their abilities from. Drugs? Could drugs make someone this strong?

Several people managed to escape and were running for their lives; he did not bother giving chase with some of the more 'fighter' types left behind. The bikers seemed either too drunk or too bold to try to see this out to the end; Freeman had decided to try to get at least a little entertainment out of them. A few of them managed to get some pokes and stabs on him, but they did nothing, and that sort of upset him again.

Where was his rush? Where was the fun he used to get from living on the edge?

Why had he returned?

Gritting his teeth and snarling, the masochistic side of himself seemingly denied its pleasure, he would, at least, take his fun as much as he could from the sadist route.

Randy was almost at the phone as he saw Freeman tearing into another man with his large hands, holding them in a claw shape, his fingers digging into flesh as easily as a knife would…only much less cleanly. But he also fought; he was clearly trained in some sort of martial arts. Self-trained or otherwise, he was able to dodge and throw out roundhouse kicks and other moves that clearly weren't something that a common thug would use.

The bartender was hardly able to function, however; he was trying to force his brain to make a decision, but he couldn't get past the fact that he felt like he was looking at a dead man who was living again.

That's insane, though. That doesn't happen. Focus!

He managed to get the phone off the hook…only to realize that it wasn't working.

That's impossible. The guy didn't get close to the phone! He slammed the receiver down and picked it up again, tapping on the buttons to try to get it back. He heard another gurgling shriek behind him as Freeman dispatched another biker; out of the corner of his eye he watched as he tore out the man's throat, flinging pieces of his neck to the side.

Freeman turned toward another man who had managed to grab a broken bottle. Facing him down, he blocked the bottle with his arm, the thick leather of his coat defending against the glass, though he allowed the man to cut his chest once. The dark red blood-seemingly far too thick to be normal-oozed from the wound, causing the man to look at him somewhat surprised.

The fighter responded by backhanding him across the jaw hard enough to crack it, sending him spinning toward the pool table. As he leaned against it, choking out blood from his jaw and only somewhat still standing because of the copious amounts of booze in his system, Freeman swung his leg around to smash his heel into his head, crunching it against the hard surface of the pool table. The blood quickly stained the old, green cloth as his head opened.

Randy was not able to get the phone working; he started to wonder if one of the dead bikers had fucked around with it.

The bikers. One of them might have a phone! He crawled slowly over to one, fumbling through his jacket. Nothing. Crawling over to another, he muttered under his breath as he heard the final couple of people expiring in some probably awful ways; he heard meaty thwacks, wet, tearing sounds, the crunch of bones, and at one point, something that sounded like disembowelment.

Being unable to feel much in the way of pain anymore…his heart wasn't even thumping in his chest. In fact, it wasn't much thumping at all. Barely so. He swore he felt it pump once in a while, but whatever power had brought him back seemingly brought him back to the very brink of life and death that he used to like to dance upon before…but it felt far different than he remembered.

Freeman didn't even realize that breathing was not something that came naturally to him. He sometimes did it on habit, sometimes not.

He remembered the feel of his own hands in his throat and guts that night…and that was the last time he had felt true pain.

Over in the corner, Randy lay on the ground, the phone in his hand. He flipped it open, doing all he could do and dialing 911.

He heard the footsteps coming over toward him as he did so. He dropped the phone in the growing pool of blood, looking up for a moment, at the bloody, gore-flecked red haired killer above him, who cocked his head curiously to the side.

As he made his way out of the bar and through a few alleyways, he heard the police car sirens in the background. He probably tracked some blood around, but he would be gone before they would find him, as skulking around town gave him a few areas where he could go. It wasn't that he feared the police-he knew how that fight would probably end-but he didn't quite feel like getting into it with them quite yet. He had more to figure out first.

Why was he around?

Having wiped his hands off on a towel inside, an alleycat prowled around the trash cans, probably looking for something. He let it go about its business; it looked at him rather uneasily and went the other way, getting the same, strange feeling around the fellow, but he had no issue with the creature. While some killers might have taken it out on animals, he faintly recalled in life he never understood people who did that, unless you were fighting a bear or tiger or something that could actually bring you close to death. Animals were killers, too-he felt like he had more in common with an animal stalking prey than a human, anyway.

As the alleycat hopped up around the top of a building to go about its catly ways, Freeman was already well away from the officers-who had also been called by some of the folks who had escaped-were starting to head into the Whitechapel Bar to try to sort out the latest night of terror. A few, of course, started to scatter around the town to try to maybe find the culprit, but the rain that started up had already gotten to work washing away what few blood trails they could have followed, and there weren't enough of them there at that moment to send out everywhere, given a bunch of their number were already looking out over other places.

Just as well for them. It probably bought them a few more days to live, at least for now.

A/N: As the body count piles up, we do have to remember, Freeman popping bubble wrap is part of his character. It's listed in his bio. And, well, we were due for the Horror Movie Bar Killing Spree. Those aren't used ALL the time, but Freeman needed to try to find a challenge *somewhere.* I sort of want to utilize detailed deaths as well as some gnarly background/offscreen deaths. I always liked when movies did both.

A little POV change here with a new body for that part, too! Hope he enjoyed his ten minutes of fame.

The "Computer Room" was a concept in the 90s that families with PCs usually had. IN the late '90s, it wasn't a case where every single house had a PC yet. In '99, worldwide PCs shipped were in the 100-million mark; while a lot, this was by no means 'everywhere.' These teens live in what was considered at the time probably slightly upper-middle class families(again, picture a typical Horror Movie Suburb(), so they might've been more ubiquitous here.

In the '90s, fingerprints and such also took longer to run-especially, in their case, them having to go through about anyone around there. Given Freeman wasn't from that area in the first place, it took them some time to pinpoint it.

The people in the bar who felt something was 'off' about Freeman was a little inspired by Pet Sematary(at least, the book.) Some of the creatures brought back to life by the place felt 'off'. While Freeman does not smell of the grave, or 'look' undead(we dunno if he's living, dead, or in between at the moment, to be honest), it's clear that there's something 'not right.'

You can probably figure out the Whitechapel reference. If not, at the end of this movie I am going to have a huge list of references. Randy looking for a phone could've happened easily as well; in the late '90s, mobile phones were not in everyone's pocket yet. Some people didn't get their first ones until the early '00s! Regular old landlines were certainly still in use back then.

As for the cat, I never really saw him as being against animals. I am sort of reminded of an interview with Kane Hodder about Jason; the director wanted him to kick a dog, and he said that he couldn't see Jason do that. He might be evil and kill the hell out of a person, but he didn't really see him as kicking a random dog.

Stay tuned for more! The Kill Count at the end of this one promises to be pretty good, I think.