"Scary man!"
"No, Kevvy. Daddy. Can you say daddy?"
The trapdoor opens, and closes, light flapping across the floor, an ordinary family man skipping use of the ladder entirely, landing like a spider on the cold concrete, and like a spider he scuttles over to his entrapped prey, having to duck so as not to crack his skull on the ceiling. In the confined space he looks even more massive, his fast, precise movements circulating waves of panic into every corner. How he can he be so huge and still be so fast. Video games told her that if your character is big, he cannot also be quick. It's not fair, none of it is fair.
Expecting retribution for her rules-breaking, Emily curls up in a ball, but no blows land. A creak of leather shoes and the drag of fabric across concrete, along with a gust of warmer air, hit her senses, and when she gains the courage to look, she discovers her captor crouching over her, his arms resting on his thighs, head raised, one eye catching the dim light as it interrogates the shadows dancing across the ceiling. He's all sweaty and dirty and pale, like he hasn't slept in days, his hands shaking slightly, a streak of blood dried on his neck. So, something really is going on, if only in his head. How hasn't he gone mad, living alone for so long. Well, she supposes he isn't alone, having resurrected his mother mentally, in some form or fashion. An imaginary friend. Not a thing just for children.
The eye rolls down towards her and the children, a hand reaches out, alighting on each head in ascending order of age, lingering on the girls, and then as abruptly as he came, Jason leaves, trailing three long silver lines behind him, Emily and the children's thoughts and feelings. Two of the lines are bright, uncomplicated. The third and thickest is dark, and made of twin cords. Emily imagines he'll be gone for ages again, but no, he returns once true night has fallen, bringing meagre supplies, listening for a long time below the trapdoor, and then passing out without exacting any sort of sexual toll from her beyond a bedtime kiss, and without applying any form of restraint, lying on his side directly on the concrete, his mask slightly lifted for sleep, his back to her so that she's against the far wall of the bunker, part of his jacket stuffed under his head, one hand resting against the gym bag containing his daughter.
The sight is very affecting, although Emily hates him, possibly it's very affecting because she hates him. Because, of course, hate is not the only thing swimming around her soul, and white never looks so bright as when it's placed next to black. He's a sad man, infinitely below the people he detests, terrorises, and butchers as if they're worth nothing. When they die, people's lives are forever maimed, the world is forever less than it was, but when he dies, the world will sigh long and hard in relief. Emily supposes that if she ever had a chance to kill him, or at least hurt him badly enough to allow her to get away, now would be the time, when he's clearly exhausted, when the handle of his machete seems to be reaching out towards her, appearing to wish to escape him as much as she does. It's true though, that the killer instinct infuses some people and not others, and her long minutes staring at that blade, combine to confirm for her that she doesn't possess it, or at least not in this case. Maybe if she were backed into a corner she could lash out, as her body could take over, but she can't do it while she's in control. And she doesn't want to be a murderer. Not even the careful remembrance of the corpses in the lake or the evil way he held her son can squeeze the necessary rage through her system. If she'd been a camper and not a hiker, she'd not be the final girl.
Plucking an extra blanket from the pile on top of her, Emily arranges it over Jason, using the same care she would in placing a blanket on a dozing dragon, and then tries to go to sleep, curling up behind his back, letting both of her hands touch him so he knows she's not trying anything. It's terrible to touch him, but it's not. She half-wishes he would beat her again, so that comforting, concentrated, simple revulsion would return. An arm climbs the hill of his waist. Love the man but hate his evil. That's what she was told after every Incident, confusing her beyond all telling. A quick get out of jail free card for applying justice. Misuse scripture - tactic number one.
Screams snatch at, rip and tear Jason through the multilayered hell of his nightmares, dragging him through lakes of fire and ice and up through walking forests and heaving mounds of rotting corpses, worms and maggots crawling into his eyes and ears and between his teeth. The piercing sound transforms into long brittle blades, wielded by disembodied hands, which plunge and thrust and force their way into his body - all too soft in the end. His eyes open wide on sweetly stinking darkness, endless choking panic stopping his breath, penetrating his very soul with rot. He's going to die, he's going to lose everything and be cast into a bottomless void he can never climb out of, alone, his lungs burning from the effort to breathe, receiving nothing back but fire.
While hurtling up through the viscous surface of dreams, he finds that the screams keep attacking him, so he lashes his way towards them. No one can stop him, no one, he'll always come back, always survive. Try it, idiot, and see. He'll come back, and get you first, smash you to pieces. There is no such thing as mercy for the weak.
Blood splashes across his face in the dark, coating his lips and nose and chin, his tongue automatically lapping up its delicious iron. The air grows moist. Prurient excitement shoots through his lower stomach and groin, like it always does when he's killing or has killed a thing, but he's too tired to hold back a moan this time. The undulating walls of dreamland stop moving at the same time the screaming cuts out, releasing him fully from the black forests of Nightmare with a thud, reality rapidly piecing itself back together, the darkness gaining cohesive weight and shape. But then the screams begin again, much differently toned this time. Shrieks and screams and sobs. Something climbs over him. Lifting a hand, he aims for the creature's throat, another prideful assailant attempting to dominate and bully him. Not going to happen ever again. He's the bully here, and everyone will be forced to know it.
As his fingers close around a narrow neck, they discern by its shape and feel that it's female, the smell very familiar. Reality fully reforms, but lust interferes with proper cognition. The girl, Emily, not an assailant, as such, but a tender little morsel. Extremely excited now, stress forgotten for a moment, he pushes her down, one of his feet narrowly missing kicking the other gym bag and the whimpering baby within it. In the abyss he kisses her, lips and hands smearing sticky blood all over. For the first time she fights him, trying to poke him in the eye, pull his hair, or otherwise push him off, biting at him and screaming whenever she gets a chance, screaming a name. It's not a name he knows, so he simply holds her wrists down and avoids her mouth for the time being, graciously extending a tiny bit of leeway to her on account of the stress of the situation. He doesn't like the bunker, so of course she wouldn't. Hmpf. No one can say that Jason Voorhees doesn't know what love is.
Unfortunately for Jason Voorhees, the world does not revolve around him, whatever he might like to believe, and he does eventually find out what he's done once he recovers from lovemaking and lifts himself off Emily to ignite a lantern. The small, shattered remains of a body lie in a bag full of blood and brain matter, a tiny, unmoving hand caught on a zipper, a pretty pink dress splashed scarlet. The world tears itself out of his crushing grip, the sound of Emily's exhausted sobs consumed by loud ringing that tries to burst his eardrums. Fading memories abruptly recast themselves in blackened bronze and orange resin, moulded into the shape of what happened, an ever living gift from Satan to one of his favourite sons. What an artist you are, Jason. Look at all that red. He can almost hear demonic cackling as he lifts a wildly shaking lantern and gazes down at the broken body of his baby daughter, her unique life smashed out of her in an instant.
Strange, unnatural things happen to her father's vision, and his throat, but he retains the presence of mind to shove Emily back when she tries to crawl over, hurriedly zipping up the bag with his other hand, swiftly picking up the pieces as always, hiding his latest crime from sight. What number are you on now, Jason? I thought you were proud of yourself. Picking up Kevin's bag, he pushes that at the distraught mother, his warning, nay, moralizing stare landing far to the left of her. Be glad, woman. Emily snatches at her son, but can't say anything to his awful father, her face too crumpled, her voice held underwater by tears, mind screaming and screaming and screaming.
Climbing out of the bunker lizard-like, with the body of his child zipped up in the only coffin it's going to receive, Jason dodges and dashes away through the misty dawn light, into thicker cover, disappearing into the brush, vanishing as quickly as animals do.
What he does with the sad little corpse, he doesn't say, because he doesn't return. One reason for this failure is entirely under his control, but the other isn't. The boogaloo he's been preparing for and worrying about, finally pops off, on the day he expected, this, his special day, and yet, in his tired and, some might say, upset state, he very nearly runs into it. His house was not built hidden, but over the years he has cultivated the plants around it so that it's not immediately visible unless you know where it is or stumble into it, so the posse that invades his domain, a group of yokel drug dealers, their drug dealing cop friends, their dogs, and other nefarious men sick and tired of having prime money making land be let out as a serial killer reservation, don't make for it. They make for the old camp, ignoring the 'do not trespass' signs, triggering numerous alarms in Jason's lair. No one really understands much about his habits, you know, since almost everyone that meets him dies, but his history is well known, and where else would a mama's boy lurk but at the scene of mommy's crimes and death? Pump action, sawed off, and double barrel shotguns are the weapons of choice for dealing with tough bastards and other monsters, plus ridgeback, rottweiler, and alsatian to corner and hold while you shoot. No playing around here, no trials, no judges. These days even an abomination like Jason can be granted bail, and this circus has to end.
It's those dogs and those guns that worry Jason, primarily their concentration. Shotgun users know the weapons have a far greater range than is popularly supposed, and their spread and devastating power makes them the king in most situations. And they're loud. The danger can be greatly reduced, sometimes to zero, so long as he can ambush their wielders and grab that long barrel, tossing the weapon away into the brush. But it's daytime, which makes it more difficult, and the men, local men and not out of town tipsy youngsters, are not frightened enough yet to descend into manifest stupidity. He'll have to be extremely careful, more than usual, utilize psychological tactics, focus, this is not a birthday gift, but a birthday kick to the balls.
Hours pass in formless minutes for Emily, who is not allowed to sink down into an ocean of grief because a child has been left to her, who needs her to keep her head to survive. The thing happened, her new greatest fear, but like the former it ceases to be a fear when it finally arrives, transforming into unfathomable horror that crouches on your chest, and stares into your eyes your whole life long. Two things console her, her son being alive, and her daughter being baptised. Jason could easily have struck them both, but didn't, and her faith tells her that dear little Pom-Pom is now in heaven, where she'll never be in danger again. No more dark, or cold, or fear, or hunger. All the hugs she could want. Thank God her son's too young to know what happened, to remember his sister, but some scar might remain on his unconscious, so sudden and violent was that attack, but Emily doesn't know how to rub it out, if it can be rubbed out. In her heart she suspects he's already been affected by these early experiences, a raised voice can make him quiet for hours, and he almost never cries anymore, his large eyes taking on an uncanny look older than their years, his lips tense. She migrates to the opposite wall, and in the dimness she stops him toddling over to where…oh my God…to-to a spot she doesn't want him to go, holding him tight and breathing in that fresh smell from his satin skin, wetting it with tears. Each child's scent is individual, and she'll never smell her precious daughter's again. Why couldn't Jason have let her say goodbye.
The sun sails by overhead but the light doesn't change down in Hades. She hadn't been told anything, so has no reason to imagine that Jason is waging a one man war a few miles away, running almost on all fours through the forest and the mines underneath, punching dogs, wrestling weapons more deadly than his machete out of hostile hands and clobbering their owners to death with them, setting traps that drop men into pits full of spikes, slowly drowning a teenage boy in sand, tricking men into friendly fire situations, crushing opponents with tree boughs and then finishing them off in ways not to be described, tearing around the land, a sapient maelstrom dishing out its infinite agony in extremely generous helpings.
Down in the cult hole it's very quiet, then too quiet, then unendurable, detestable phantoms trailing repulsive fingers along her skin, whispering obscenities in Jason's voice, threats and promises that she'll keep bearing his children, and he'll keep murdering them. It becomes too difficult to breathe, she's suffocating. Enough, enough already.
Stuffing her few poor possessions, if they can even be called hers, into a bag, Emily secures it over her shoulder, straps her son into his carrier, drops a shower of tears across the place she last saw her daughter, and climbs up the ladder, carefully lifting the trapdoor, which is thankfully, still unlocked. Possibly Jason never had a key, as if that could stop him barring any entrance he wanted to. The door is covered with the same thin layer of forest detritus as before, carefully scattered over it so that you'd have to have very keen eyes or be aware of such a thing in order to find it. Or simply get lucky and step on unyielding steel. The air is a fragrant feast for the nose, warm and divine, bugs singing. No Jason lurks amongst the shadowy trees, she stares and stares and stares, but can't see him. There's one way to make sure. Stand up. That she does, crawling out and placing her feet down on the needly soil, wobbly legs gaining strength as she stands and absorbs the sunlight. A trail of blood droplets fades away into the forest, presenting an appalling choice. That path does not lead straight down, and straight down is where she needs to go, the town is down below, not up above, wherever Jason went with the body of their beautiful little daughter, it is unlikely that she can follow far, and she does not want to encounter him, nor can she bring poor little Pom-Pom back to life even if she did locate her remains. Jason tried to hide what he did, but she caught a soul searing glimpse. He might survive other people's wrath, but very few ever survive his...She doesn't even have a photo.
Three hours into a very careful, very slow hike, her eyes alternating between ground and surrounding environment, Emily recalls, unhelpfully, that there are bears and lions (and Jasons) in these woods, and that's before the distant pop and boom of gunfire, and the barking of dogs and shouts of men reaches her. The men are having themselves a latter day Cowboys and Indians firefight, but without any horses whatsoever, unless you count cars, trucks and motorcycles.
From the heights she started in, Emily has more or less figured out which way to go, diverting to the opposite shore from the fatal camp and her former place of residence. She never was the type of hiker who used maps or compasses, being a girl, as well as being casually averse to maths, but of all her friends, she had the best sense of direction.
Another hour and the sun begins to dip. Popcorn gunfire stopped popping a while ago, but when exactly, she can't say, too busy watching for traps and animals. She knows what the clues indicating the presence of both look like by now, and side steps a few on her way. The soft plod of her feet and brushing of her clothes against plants continues, overwritten by bird song. Anxiety pushes her to bend over like Jason does, make herself smaller, shaped like other animals, break up the outlines, but with Kevin stuck to her front it hurts her back and tires her out too much, even stopping to eat and drink is a risk. From previous hikes she knows that stopping can make it so much more difficult to get going again.
Evening falls and it becomes increasingly difficult to keep at this very slow crawl towards freedom. It's still warm and the frogs sing, but darkness impairs her ability to get out of this land of horror and death. Human voices long ceased yelling, except for sporadic, incoherent ejaculations here and there, pain and shock filling masculine curses, swiftly cut off. The last thing she heard on the breeze was 'Sonofabitch!'...Her secret heart bites its nails, even now, hoping the son so described was Jason. She's too tired to pummel sense into it. May as well accept that she's worried.
Time to light the lantern, hoping the kerosene lasts, hoping the light reflects off steel jaws. Wouldn't it be very sad if she stepped into a trap ten feet from the road? Jason doesn't have traps that close to it, but still. She wonders what will happen if she meets the man himself out here, inexplicably confident that he won't kill her. Still, it sorta looks like she's escaping.
She doesn't have to wonder long, when a coincidence hits. Hard, like coincidences do. Down near the shores of the lake, she steps into a silent patch, where no frog and no night bird sings. The fireflies fly in silence. Eerie. A predator is near. Pausing, she listens, something rustles, and she hears her name gurgled, once, and a moment later, Kevin giggles.
"Scary man!"
No time is wasted debating about what's going on here, the lack of animal life tells her all she needs to know. Carefully navigating the soggy ground, Emily even more carefully looks around, spying a single orange fibre lying in a red tinted footprint half wiped away by the swipe of a hand. Half, because Jason can only reach half from his supine position in one of his favourite bushes. Absently, Emily wipes away the rest of the footprint, draining the accumulated blood into the chocolate brown soil. Having attracted her attention in fortuitous collaboration with his son, Jason says nothing more, staring at her with much less contempt than usual. After all that he hasn't been shot, but he has been bitten, clobbered, run over, dropped from a high place, semi-drowned, and finally run through, with a halberd of all things. He pulled it out and a hand is now pressed flat to the wound, but blood bubbles and wells up between his fingers with every shuddering breath. It's difficult to say why he called Emily over, as he's never been in a more perilous position in her presence, but in and at the end, evil men are still men, and they of all people will shamelessly reach for the help and mercy they refuse others. Jason does reach, lifting his free hand, blood drenched up to the elbow, aiming it for her head, before changing his mind and dropping it on Kevin's, staining his pale hair. It's thrown off, Emily's thin fingers encircling his thick wrist.
Letting go and standing up, she steps back from the bush, watching little scarlet rivulets leave its confines to go on exploratory expeditions through the mud. It sounds like a dying animal is expiring in the undergrowth, barely audible breaths heaving against the increasing weight of a collapsing body, Jason keeping quiet and private the way humans usually don't when in extreme distress, unlikely to be found even by hunters. His head tilts slowly, bright and still vital eyes wide and watching her through a mesh of little leaves and twigs. His hands shift position, the right taking up wound duty, the left swinging out, reaching for her boot. As she watches, he attempts to roll onto his side, but cries out, and rolls back.
How dare he touch Kevin, how dare he try and touch her. She doesn't know what to do, her body takes no reins. It would be the good girl thing to finish him off, preferably with his own weapon, it would be the cool girl thing to walk away without looking back, but the world stopped thinking she was good ages ago, the first time a man decided to take what wasn't his, and she's never been particularly cool. If she does something to help him, is she responsible for other people's deaths if he lives? But if she doesn't help him when she could, is she responsible for his death? The films and fiction books say one thing, but what she's learnt says another. Who to believe…the films and books aren't much like real life. There's either too much mercy, or none at all.
"What did you do with Pom-Pom, Jason? What did you do with our daughter?" she asks, but doesn't expect a response. But she's surprised, as a slushy cough and a slow point back up the mountain precedes her answer.
"Buried." he sounds like death, husky, rasping. No apology, no explanation. Death, death never does apologise. It doesn't ask for help either, it's too proud. But he did answer, and he should be rewarded for engaging in such a basic courtesy.
Deciding that Jason is responsible for what Jason does with what he's given, and Emily is responsible for what Emily does likewise, she sits, folding her legs beneath herself and swinging her bag down, getting out a first aid kit. It's been added to, now including his various pill stashes, but there's nothing in there specifically for treating transfixation by halberd, but Jason directs her as if this is not the first time he's taken a medieval spear-axe-thing, to the belly, assisting where he can. Not the first time he's suffered any of these injuries. How tedious it must be to be him.
Field work you say? Good thing he let her do some sewing. It's a mission getting his clothes off as he won't let her cut them and ruin his carefully crafted image, but eventually she's allowed to work unimpeded. Gently lifting his hand, she discovers he was using it to keep his guts in, a slimy pink loop poking through the hole like the head of a baby. Oopsieee. Nothing a bit of thread and a huge cocktail of drugs can't cure. He's also received a few bites that need tending, and a nasty gash to his thigh that requires a thread and needle. After a while, Emily ceases thinking of the flesh and blood as flesh and blood, but as punctures in a doll, her mind applying its own form of wound care to itself.
At some stage near the end of the mending, Jason passes out under the influence of blood loss and the pills and alcohol he'd stashed in the kit, leftovers from Emily's post birth, post beating trouble. She doesn't need to mind read to know it wasn't his intention to knock himself out, she could see the anxiety in his eyes whenever she dipped the nose of the needle towards his precious skin. Like all those who prey on their neighbour, he thinks about what he deserves at the hands of others far more often than they think of dishing it out to him.
The most violent temptation yet passes across Emily's mental landscape, a huge black storm cloud sending lightning bolts striking every which way. Could stab him in the throat and eyes and be done with it. Maybe do some light maiming if you're not up to that. A bit of blinding, a bit of feminisation. He could still live. He's naked and vulnerable and his bits are right there, no less deadly than his fingers, but easier to cut through. He's grimy and helpless, chained down by something more powerful than he is. You remember what that felt like, right? What he did? Just do it. Quick quick, it's easy. He liked to think of you as a cow, a little heifer, well, think of him as a bull(ock). That will be the worst revenge possible.
The whispers go ignored. That slope is steep and slippery with blood. Killing or maiming Jason wouldn't be enough, she'd go on to kill or maim every rapist, and then every suspected rapist, and then every man, and then her son would have not one monster for a parent, but two. Nah. The worst and only thing a bully can do is make you like themselves.
Putting the lid on the kit and leaving it for him, she wipes her hands on Jason's clothes, and stands up, checking to see if she missed a spot. He's visibly undamaged except for the bites, gash, and spear thrust, but she doubts the same can be said for his opponents. She can't imagine being that strong. No human voice joins the night chorus. No dog howls. No man-made lights interfere with the stars. Crouching down, she riffles through his jacket, finding what she hoped was there, a thin, high powered flashlight, rarely needing to be used but kept, just in case. And a surprise, her long missing phone, all charged. Hmm.
There's not much time to spare but before she goes, she bends and lifts Jason's mask, getting one last good look, her mouth thin and drawn, her face expressionless, just the corner of an eye twitching. What a wasted life. He's ugly, but no one is too ugly to be loved. His mother never loved him at all if he didn't learn that lesson. Tossing his clothes and a couple blankets on top of the unconscious man, Emily stands up, and strides off into the dark.