Utterly silent and desperate to remain unnoticed as much as possible, Allyson watched The Shape kick the window again, determined to break free of the police cruiser. In the front seat, Sartain spoke calmly, as if he were unaware of the turmoil right behind him. “What greater spectacle than to reunite two old friends. Michael Myers and Laurie Strode. An historic reunion.”
Cloaked in shadows, The Shape sat motionless.
Was he listening?
Allyson couldn’t tell. His body language was impossible for her to read.
A moment of quiet passed, broken by Sartain. “Michael,” he said. “She’s been waiting for you. Are you ready?”
Sartain turned in his seat to look over his shoulder as Michael lunged forward, ramming the steel barrier with ferocious strength. Possibly loosened by his earlier fit of violence, the entire barrier bowed inward and broke free of its restraints, striking Sartain violently in the head.
Michael drove himself forward, over the front seat, fingers gripping the loose barrier as he slammed it repeatedly against Sartain’s head until he was motionless, pinning him against the steering wheel. The car horn blared like a banshee’s wail.
The sudden burst of violence shattered Allyson’s stoic resolve. She’d been utterly still and silent, but the brutality of the attack rekindled all her suppressed fear, and she screamed.
“Something’s wrong,” Phillips said. “Why is he sitting there?”
The flare of the cruiser’s headlights blinded them to whatever was happening inside. Was he waiting for them? Suffered a mechanical breakdown? Injured, unable to drive the rest of the way? Those and other questions ran through Phillips’ mind. But now he heard…
Phillips rolled down his window to the blaring of a car horn.
That settles it. Squeezing his shoulder mic, he called, “606, 601? 606 to 601? Hawkins. Turn your fuckin’ radio on. Hawkins?”
Not a peep. Not even a burst of static.
Francis nudged his shoulder. “Let’s check it out.”
Nodding, Officer Phillips put the car in gear and pulled out of Laurie Strode’s driveway to investigate.
With Sartain motionless, slumped against the steering wheel, Michael settled back into his seat.
Allyson clamped a hand over her mouth.
Michael raised his left elbow and drove it through the fractured side window. Chunks of glass exploded outward and rained down on the concrete. He reached through the window opening and yanked the handle to open his door.
Inhaling deeply through her nose, Allyson fought against the wave of panic that would overwhelm her. She pressed herself into the shadows, hoping—praying—he would want to get away from the cop car, that he would somehow forget about her and disappear into the night.
After he had climbed out of the back, Michael pulled open the driver’s door and grabbed Sartain by his feet, dragging him out onto the road. Sartain’s head whacked against the concrete with enough force to make Allyson wince. Not that she cared what happened to the doctor at this point, but she feared she was next.
The blow seemed to have roused Sartain, unless he’d been playing possum all along, hoping Michael would move on. He struggled, but his feeble resistance could not deter Michael, who dropped to one knee beside him and began to choke the life out of him.
When the radio suddenly squawked, Allyson bit down on a reflexive scream, drawing blood from her lower lip.
“Hawkins, please respond.”
The Shape released Sartain’s throat, standing to look down the road, in the direction of Laurie’s compound. Allyson looked, saw a car approaching—another police cruiser.
With Michael distracted by Sartain at his feet and the oncoming police car, Allyson scooted across the backseat, ducked below the window’s edge of the open door and slipped out of the car. This was the moment she’d been waiting for, her one chance to slip through Michael’s grasp and certain death.
Once again, she ran for her life, veering right into the line of trees beyond the shoulder of the rural road.
As The Shape stands beside the injured doctor, watching the approaching police car, the girl slips by, running toward the trees. For a moment, The Shape turns to follow her progress, but she is lost in the shadows. At his feet, the doctor reaches out, clutches his ankle to command his attention.
The Shape looks down expectantly.
The doctor speaks, his voice weak and raw, “But you promised I could watch.”
The Shape no longer needs the doctor. As The Shape lifts a boot over Sartain’s head, the doctor grins, blood oozing from his split lips and loose teeth. The Shape wonders if this is what the doctor wants after all. To serve The Shape’s purpose—but only for a moment.
The Shape stomps on the doctor’s skull, feels bones crack and give way. Raises the boot—stomps again, harder. The skull caves in completely, blood and wet chunks of brain splatter across the road.
Crouching low beyond the first line of trees, Allyson couldn’t help herself. She had to look back, but then wished she hadn’t. She turned just as Michael shattered the doctor’s skull. She gagged and felt the burn of bile surging up her throat.
In contrast, Michael looked down at the splinted bones and lumpy gore, and tilted his head, as if curious about the result of his violent actions.
No disgust, no remorse, no humanity.
He had an emptiness inside him he could never fill.
Turning away from the madness, Allyson ran as fast as she could.
37
Phillips stopped their patrol car right in the lane, facing Hawkins’ car. For safety’s sake, he flipped on their light bar, bathing the night in blue and red flashes of light. Last thing they needed was some lead-footed speed demon to plow into both police cruisers. Both he and Francis strained to see what was happening beyond the glare of the headlights. At least one standing figure, indistinct beyond the light…
Phillips switched on his spotlight, adjusting the handle to turn the beam toward the dark figure. The pale mask and dark coveralls were unmistakable.
“It’s him,” Francis said.
Phillips turned on the unit’s roof-mounted megaphone, brought the mic to his mouth and pressed the talk button. “Hands where I can see ’em! DON’T MOVE!”
The Shape raised his hands, but to shield his eyes, then abruptly dropped to the ground, out of sight.
Steeling his courage, Phillips said, “Let’s go.”
Francis nodded nervously.
They were small-town cops who dealt with vandalism, juvenile delinquents, the occasional stolen car, and maybe even an armed robbery once in a blue moon. They had no experience with mass murderers, serial killers, or raving lunatics.
First time for everything, Phillips told himself. Nobody comes fresh out of the academy with this kind of experience.
He and Francis exited their cruiser, weapons drawn, separating to approach Hawkins’ car from either side. In the military they called it a pincer movement, designed to attack the enemy on both flanks. All Phillips could think about was the distinct possibility of crossfire. If one of them got an itchy trigger finger, he could inadvertently take out his partner.
Phillips circled to the left, checked the side of the cruiser and the back, but found nothing. Francis took the right and paused by the side of the car. Phillips thought he heard Francis gag.
“Oh, Jesus…” he said, back of his hand to his mouth.