Voorhees had killed five of the guards, by now. Tear gas cannisters exploded and Staig swallowed his tongue, choking quickly to death. Three hefty officers in transpex riot gear jogged through the door, and levelled their guns. Rubber bullets bounced off Voorhees' broad chest, and spanged against the bars.
"Don't freak around," shouted a sergeant who was trying to hold his arm onto his shoulder, "kill the motherfreaker…"
Herman Katz cringed at the bad language.
The riot bulls levelled semi-automatics, and filled Voorhees's chest. The hulking moron kept stumbling onwards.
"Come on guys," shouted the sergeant, "plug the fat…" He was cut off by the next burst. Ricochet bullets slammed into him, and he relaxed, his arm slipping into his lap. Three other officers died in that volley, and Voorhees kept walking.
The riot bulls put ScumStoppers through Jason Voorhees's eyes, and the back of his bald head exploded.
"What a mess," said Herman. "This will never wash out, you know, never. This dress is ruined!"
They were still screaming. Tendenter dipped his fingers in Voorhees's spilled blood and brains, and raised the chunks to his eager lips.
"Freak," said Officer Kerr, "it's time we settled these bastards' hash once and for all."
He shot Tendenter between the eyes, and the Bachelor Boy slumped, still smiling, in his cell.
Childress realized what was happening, and ran to the back of his cell, hiding behind his bunk. Officers shoved their rifles through the bars and shot the chainsaw murderer through his bedding.
"Who's got the keys?" asked Kerr.
"No one."
"We do it through the bars then," said Kerr. "Sandall, you take Myers with the burpgun. He's the worst of them."
Sandall shoved his weapon through the bars, and looked into the empty eyes of the Haddonfield Horror. Even without a mask, his face was a blank. He flipped the safety catch, but the murderer moved too fast for him, and he found himself hugged to the iron. His head wouldn't fit through the gap, but Myers pulled it into the cell anyway, leaving ears, hair and chunks of flesh on the metal.
"Myers has got a gun. Take him."
The sirens stopped, and more officers arrived. Myers tossed the gun into the corridor, and sat down again.
"What's going on here?" asked Deputy Warden Crighton.
"The monst…the inmates attempted escape, sir."
"There'll be a full enquiry, Kerr."
"Yes, sir."
Crighton looked down Monsters' Row, at the corpses jumbled against the walls.
"Freak, what a mess! This is worse than the Tasmanian Devil's leftovers."
Rex Tendenter was buried in the asylum grounds while an overwhelmingly female crowd of over 300 piled lavish floral tributes against the walls of the institution. The widow of Officer Lyndon Sandall, who had been one of five mourners at his modest funeral a week earlier, threw a petrol bomb into the crowd. Sixteen died, forty-one sustained serious burns, and Clara Sandall moved into Sunnydales' Low Security Wing.
The home had kept Dr Proctor's "confinement area" empty for him, just in case he was ever recaptured. Nobody really wanted him back.
Meanwhile, Jason Voorhees's body disappeared from the morgue.
Krokodil felt the Jibbenainosay's arm pumping lethal filth into her spirit body. Concentrating, she reversed the flow, and sent the darkness rushing back through the tentacle into the body of the demon.
Physically, she was just standing there, the Jibbenainosay towering over her. But spiritually, she was containing the Dark One, spreading her power around the invader.
This must be the Seventh Level.
Dr Proctor thought he wanted to go home now. He wanted his books, and his cartoon videos, and his lawyers, psychiatrists and interviewers.
He turned away from the dog-and-cat fight, and walked into the desert. His home was out there, somewhere.
In the Surfside Pyramid, Gari the Guru raised his arms, and the Congregation joined in one long "ommm." The House of Worship was on the strip, within sight of the best surfing beach on the coast.
Gari told his tanned and even-teethed flock that it was okay to make money and still be spiritually healtily. He put them in touch with their selves, and purged them of any residual feelings of guilt they might have over their worldly success. He taught them to actualize their potential, and not to look out for the other guy. After all, in life there were winners and losers, and there weren't any Gods for losers.
In his audience were the heads of three Hollywood media conglomerates, four ostentatiously anonymous movie stars, a world-renowned porno stud who had recently turned devout, a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who claimed to be second only to Dr Zarathustra in the field,
Sonny Pigg of the Mothers of Violence, Shirley MacLaine's personal astrologer, a gaggle of surfie chicks and dudes Gari could have sworn were runaway sexclones, the CEO of the LA GenTech subsidiary, the West Coast editor of Guns and Killing, ZeeBeeCee TV personality Lynne Cramer, author of best-selling roadway action fiction Derek Duck, bonsai tycoon Mike Miyagi, sonic sculptor Ritchie Bassett, the Deputy Governor of California, and the religious affairs correspondent of the Los Angeles Times, Harlan Ellison, who would be writing the Pyramid up in his Church of the Week column.
"Today, I want to rap with you about one of our former co-worshippers," Gari said, waving his crystal-tipped wand.
He pulled down the poster-size picture of Bronson Manolo. The Op was standing beside a surfboard, with a bikini babe, caught by the camera in mid-jiggle, on either side. His teeth shone, and his implanted chest hairs could have been painted on his sculptured pectorals. His ballsack swimming pouch made him look as modest as Michelangelo's David.
"When you look at Bronson Manolo, guys," the guru said, "I want you to see a loser!"
The Pyramid People hissed like Dracula confronted with a crucifix.
"Loser, loser, loser," they chanted. Some people threw things of little value: gold fountain pens, diamond earrings, last year's wristwatches. Gari would have them picked up later.
"Here was a cat who seemed to have it, but inside he was just a zeroid waster or else he would be here today."
They were shouting now, screaming their hatred at the outcast.
"Remember, guys, the beautiful never die!"
"Never die, never die, never die!"
Gari was happy. He had his people at the pitch he wanted them. The collection later would be his best yet.
"Winners never die," he shouted, "never die, never die, never die!"
He stopped shouting, and let the Pyramid People's adulation get to him. It hit him like a cocaine rush, but it was better than that. It gave him a thrill in his penis, and he knew he could convert this feeling into anything. Afterwards, he could have any of them, have all of them if he wanted. Promise people eternity, and there was nothing you couldn't get out of them. Nothing.
"Never die! Never die! Never die!"
Gari showed his teeth and extended his arms. His multicoloured robes caught the light.
From the back of the Pyramid, looking out through the clear-glass windows down to the beach, Gari the guru was the only one who saw the tidal wave coming.
"Never die, never die, never die," chanted the Pyramid People.
It was a pity Branson Manolo was dead. This was one wave he would have given anything to be on top of.
Raging against the Adversary, the Jibbenainosay dwindled, its matter being compressed in on itself. The process introduced it to the concept of agony. It felt the whole physical universe pressing against it, and yet knew there was no way back with honour into the Outer Darkness. The Ancient Adversary squeezed.
"This is Lola Stechkin, interrupting your scheduled broadcast to ask the question that's on everybody's lips this afternoon, October 8th, 1998. Just what the freak is happening? Later, we'll be going over to our weather bureau, our correspondents in Washington, Moscow, Tokyo and Rome, to our espers and to experts from the Universities of the world. And we'll be asking you to interface with your datanets to give us your suggestions. But first, here's a message from GenTech…"