The Voice, still in complete control of Michael Myers' body, moved through the streets of Haddonfield with methodical precision, his every step calculated, his every motion efficient. The town had come to face him, but they had no idea what they were up against. They thought they could stop him, thought they could bring an end to the nightmare, but the Voice was something far more insidious than Michael Myers had ever been.
With each person that tried to fight back, the Voice dispatched them swiftly, its actions calculated, almost slow, savoring the fear, the panic, and the hopelessness. A man with a baseball bat swung at Michael, but the Voice side-stepped with ease, grabbing the man by the wrist and twisting, breaking it with a sickening crack before plunging Michael's knife into his stomach. Blood poured out, but the Voice didn't stop. It never did.
A woman screamed as she tried to pull her child to safety, but the Voice was upon them in an instant. It lifted the woman off her feet, throwing her against a car with brutal force, then turning its attention to the child—before the sound of police sirens drowned out the child's terrified cries. Bullets riddled Michael's body, but the Voice didn't flinch. The shots had little effect on it, piercing through the unyielding frame that was Michael's body, but they didn't slow its pace.
The Voice turned toward the police officers, each one standing on edge, guns raised, trying to hold their ground. It moved through them like a phantom, swiping the air with Michael's blade, cutting through flesh, bones, and resolve in one fluid motion. One officer fell, then another, his body crumpling under the sheer force of the attack. The rest of them fired in desperation, but it didn't matter. The Voice simply walked through the hail of bullets, unaffected, unstoppable.
Blood splattered across the pavement, the streets becoming a grim testament to the brutality of the Harvesting. The Voice wasn't in a hurry. It wasn't rushing to finish off Haddonfield. It didn't need to. The power within was growing, and every life taken fed into that power, made it stronger. Each scream, each drop of blood, was a reminder of how close it was to total domination.
With the last of the police officers down, the Voice turned its attention toward the house. Loomis, Allyson, and the others had made it inside. But the Voice didn't care about them for now. They were only a minor distraction, a mere footnote in the grand scheme of things. The Harvesting would make them irrelevant. The rest of the town's people, however—they were the ones who would feed it.
The Voice moved back toward the house, its pace slow, deliberate. The streets were silent now, save for the occasional whimper of the dying, the chaos fading into the night. It paused for a moment, savoring the silence. This was the calm before the storm. Soon, it would be time to finish what it started—inside the house, where the real power was waiting.
But for now, the Voice stood there, watching the house, waiting for the final moments to unfold. It knew they were inside, plotting, preparing, thinking they still had a chance. But the truth was simple: there was no escaping it. The Harvesting was inevitable.
And soon, all of Haddonfield would fall.