Karen knew better than to think he’d give up. Her mother had certainly taught her that much in their years together.
Karen shook her head grimly, waiting…
And flinched as a heavy object slammed into the door.
Then a metal spike burst through the wood, wrenched back and forth until long cracks began to split the door panel. Not a spike, she saw, as the wrought-iron shaft dipped lower through the hole it had gouged—a fire poker.
In seconds, he ruined the integrity of the door, breaking it free of the slide lock. His hand reached down and pulled the damaged door up and out of his way.
Karen shifted her position to stand at the base of the stairs and aimed the revolver up to the dark open space above. She hadn’t noticed Allyson move to her side until her daughter’s hip pressed against hers. Knowing she should make her daughter back away, Karen swallowed hard, unable to speak. Staring at the opening above.
Any moment, he…
“Mom…?” Karen called out in a quivering voice, finding a sliver of hope inside herself, hope she thought had been snuffed out. She had always feared that when the moment ever came—if the moment ever came—she would not find within herself the power to act as her mother had, that she would freeze, never pull the trigger, paralyzed by fear or the inability to take a human life. Now she tapped into those lonely nights of self-doubt and called out, “I can’t.”
Allyson wrapped her arm around her mother’s waist.
And as the moment of self-doubt seemed to have overwhelmed Karen, The Shape appeared, framed in the opening, clutching the fire poker, looking down with soulless eyes from that ghoulish mask. Even at the bottom of the stairs, she could hear his heavy breathing, as if he wanted to inhale her fear and that of her daughter, to saturate himself with it before snuffing out their lives.
Karen whispered, “Got you.”
With her arm rock steady, she squeezed the trigger—BLAM!
The shot slammed into his chest.
He stumbled back out of view.
Standing in the shadows of the kitchen pantry with Michael’s back to her, Laurie stepped forward quietly, grimacing in pain as the fire in her bleeding abdomen flared anew. Her voice measured despite the throbbing pain, she said, “Happy Halloween, Michael.”
Wounded himself, The Shape turned toward her, fire poker in hand, but she had already closed the distance between them and, with no hesitation, plunged the large kitchen knife into his shoulder. He staggered back a step, trying desperately to regain his balance, but she was relentless, chopping downward into his flesh over and over, refusing to give him a moment’s respite from her attacks.
Somehow, he halted his retreat toward the hole in the floor and swung the fire poker like a bat, to strike her on the skull. At the last instant, she managed to duck to the side, taking only a glancing blow to the head, but she lost a step in the process, staggering backward.
As he raised the poker overhead, she dove toward him, knife outstretched. She hit him low as she fell, knocking him back, off-balance, and he toppled down the shelter stairs with a thunderous crash.
Laurie lay prone on the cool kitchen floor, the sudden silence broken only by her labored breathing…
40
Before the dark shape tumbled down through the shelter entrance, Karen had hoped a bullet to the chest was enough to stop Michael Myers, but she should have known better. A normal person would have been incapacitated by the wound. But he was anything but normal. Her mother’s subsequent struggle with Michael had been unnerving, but too brief for Karen to help. Fortunately for Karen, because in that moment of indecision, Michael hurtled violently down the stairs, limbs flailing.
Allyson shrieked in surprise. And Karen had a second, maybe two, to jump out of the way—but couldn’t move fast enough.
Michael’s legs whipped around, splitting the handrail’s middle support post in half, then his body careened down the rest of the stairs and tumbled into the tall supply shelf. As he rolled past her, one of his boots clipped the side of her knee and she fell on her rear, banged her head and lost control of the handgun. She watched helplessly as it spun across the floor and slid underneath the shelf—out of reach.
For the moment, Michael appeared stunned.
“Mom—are you—?”
“I’m fine,” Karen yelled, waving her daughter to the stairs. “Go!”
Eyes wide as she stared at Michael lying on his side, Allyson gave a quick nod and scrambled up the stairs into the kitchen.
As Karen struggled to rise, Michael heaved himself into a sitting position against the shelving unit. His right hand reached back, grabbing the edge of a shelf for support and pulling himself upright. He swayed, unsteady.
The hesitation was all the head start Karen needed.
She took a wider path around him to stay clear, but when she grabbed the lower section of the handrail, it snapped free and she nearly lost her balance. Though she recovered quickly, Michael was already lurching toward the stairs right behind her. As she ran up the steps, she felt his bloodied hand, with two fingers missing, swipe at her heel, unable to get a grip, but causing her to stumble and pitch forward. Her palm shot out, catching the edge of a tread to stop her fall. Then she shoved herself upright and continued to climb.
Halfway through the floor opening, Karen thought she’d made it to safety, but the stairs rumbled beneath her as Michael lunged forward. This time his intact right hand clamped tight around her ankle—and yanked!
Karen fell forward, her arms, head, and torso sprawled across the tile floor, while her legs remained below the shelter entrance. As Michael pulled on her ankle, tugging her inexorably down, her hands scrabbled for purchase, anything to slow her descent, but the smooth tile offered no resistance for her sweaty palms. In seconds, only her head and forearms remained above the kitchen floor. She braced her arms against the edges of the doorframe, wincing in pain from Michael’s powerful grip on her ankle.
Allyson slid forward on her knees and reached out. “Mom! Take my hand!”
With her left hand wrapped around her mother’s upper arm, and her right hand gripping her mother’s left, Allyson pulled with desperate strength. But it wasn’t enough. After a brief stalemate, Allyson faltered. Her knees slid forward, toward the opening, and her mother’s head began to dip below the level of the floor. Grimacing, Karen screamed in pain, tears in her eyes. She knew how this would end, and she refused to take her daughter down with her.
“No, baby, run!” Karen yelled.
Grunting with effort, Allyson said, “I’m not… gonna leave… you!”
But her fingers were slipping.
All Karen had to do was open her hand—
“Nobody’s going to run,” Laurie said.
She held one of the black-and-white security monitors she’d disconnected from the kitchen wall shelf, an old-fashioned CRT display about the size of a basketball.
“Duck!” Laurie told Karen.
Karen complied instantly, lowering her head between her outstretched arms.
Laurie hurled the CRT and, from the satisfying thud of the impact, hit Michael in the head with it, which was followed by another crash, as Michael fell to the bottom of the stairs for a second time. Suddenly, the pressure on Karen’s ankle was gone. Her foot dropped and caught against one of the wooden treads, and Allyson pulled with renewed strength. In a moment, Karen raced up the steps, free of the shelter.
In a flash, she turned to the askew kitchen island, reached under the counter’s edge and pushed a recessed button.
Shunnnk!
A horizontal security gate slammed into place across the opening in the floor—locking The Shape in the basement.