Halloween IV: The Ultimate Edition (13 page)

Then Rachel ran.

She darted to her left, hurrying across a nearby lawn like a frightened animal, vanishing between two dark houses. It was only after she leaped over an old wooden fence, ran through a back yard, and into the next street when she finally managed to conjure up an urgent cry. It was then when she realized there were a few lingering groups of trick-or—treaters still making their rounds from house to house, and she knew she was somewhat safe.

“Jamie!”

She called out the name of her foster sister, this time in desperation, and she slowed in her running as a few children turned their masked heads in effort to see what the commotion was about. Regaining her breath, Rachel managed another anguished cry.

Chapter Sixteen

A precipitant crash generated from within the Caruthers’ home, and the sounds echoed to all hallways and rooms, lightly vibrating windows and the glass chandelier situated over the dining table, the room adjacent to the kitchen.

The front door had smashed completely in, splintering partially and knocking a painting of clowns laughing on a beach from the wall. Carefully, cautiously, letting his twelve gauge lead the way, Sheriff Meeker entered. Behind him, stepping into the livingroom with equal circumspection, was Doctor Loomis, his 9mm Smith and Wesson in his hand and ready.

Meeker had been a deputy in those cold, horrific days when death walked into the quiet streets. And at the time, the entire police force knew how to handle this Michael Myers fellow. It was very simple:
kill him. Shoot the bastard down
. But, after all this time, the very thought of merely shooting the bastard down seemed all too easy. Vaguely, this was like a dream to the sheriff. A hazy, obscure sort of dream at that, and he feared that somewhere within the confines of the next few minutes, this obscure dream would detour into the terror of nightmare.

Regardless, Meeker knew that, no matter how hauntingly miraculous the circumstances were, or at least seemed to be, Michael Myers was well, stoppable. To Meeker, the good Doctor Loomis was a desperate, complicated man who had been through hell, and that very same hell was what this damn doctor was somewhat responsible for. Sure, the government stuck their asses in the situation somewhere, but the doctor could have done something, could have fought the orders to first transfer this ungodly murderer ten years back. He could have taken the matter to court could have... .hell, could have done
some goddamn thing
. On the other hand, he had suddenly developed somewhat of a sense of trust for Loomis. And this trust was built upon the fact that nobody knew this monster better than he. Good ol’ Doctor Loomis. Good ol’ Goddamn Doctor Loomis.

But Meeker knew what he was doing, too. If this
was
true, if Myers
had
somehow escaped captivity and returned to Haddonfield, the sheriff was sure as all hell that he was not about to let a repeat of ten years ago unfold this night. He grew up in this cozy Illinois town, and he was not about to let it go into oblivion at the hands of a psycho.

But this man was more than a psycho. He recalled how Loomis had informed him dozens of times that
he’s not a mere psychopath. You must understand....he is unadulterated evil.

But, the sheriff thought to himself,
soon enough, he’s gonna be unadulterated dog shit. That is to say, if he’s actually here
.

***

Loomis felt for the wall-mounted light switch within the darkened room and flooded the room with light. It was a little girl’s bedroom, complete with dolls, an overabundance of them, and brightly colored little girl’s toys and a dresser and bedsheets and.....he noticed the window was open, the wind blowing eerily through the pink curtains. He went over to it, inspected the area outside momentarily, then shut the window and disassociated himself from the cold. He turned, and his attention diverted toward the opened closet. As he held his gun directly before him, he gently used his feet in moving the doors of the closet further open. When he was quite sure all was definitely clear, he eased his way inside for further inspection. There was a scattering of photographs at his feet, and he bent down to examine them. There appeared to be at least a dozen of them. It did not surprise him in the least when he met with the familiarities of Laurie Strode....her husband....and there, there was their little daughter. Their little girl, Jamie Lloyd. So innocent.

His gaze met yet another familiarity, and the mere sight seemed to stiffen his senses momentarily. There, to his left, was the photograph of Michael and Judith Myers.

A shuffling to his side---it was Meeker, stepping up to join him. Loomis raised the picture to eye level.

“Something?” Meeker spoke.

“He’s been here,” Loomis told him plainly. There was a slight tremor in his voice.

Meeker stepped in closer, his eyes focusing on whatever it was Loomis held. “How do you know?”

And with that, the doctor stood aside, disclosing yet another discovery---

The mangled heap of the Labrador.

It was Meeker’s turn to experience the coldness that the doctor now felt.

Meeker spoke, “This thing’s starting to spook me, Doc.”

“At least I’m not alone.”

“Oh?” the sheriff said, being unable to bring himself to believe the doctor could, with his experience, be exactly balls to the wall with fear. “How long have you been scared?”

“Twenty—five years.”

Loomis had seen enough. He turned and moved past Meeker towards the door, and the sheriff followed him out, finding his gaze difficult to remove from the remains of what had once been the family pet.

Downstairs in the livingroom, the two met a deputy who had been waiting for them near the entrance. As Meeker allowed Loomis to exit the front door, he turned to the deputy, who stood awaiting his command.

“Logan,” Meeker ordered, “I want you here just in case the family comes home.”

“Right here, Ben,” Logan replied.

“Look sharp. Understand?”

Immediately, the deputy double-checked the chambered rounds in his .38 long barrel. “No problem, Sheriff.”

As Meeker closed the front door, he secretly wished the man luck; he had an idea what the town would be up against, but a mere idea wasn’t enough.

And this was going to be one hell of a night.

Chapter Seventeen

Jack Sayer awoke, startled, choking momentarily on his own saliva which caused him to cough out yellow phlegm over his steering wheel. A dark dream escaped him as consciousness embraced him with the chilly nighttime air. A soft web of spotlight streamed down from a fixture embedded upon the side of the First Presbyterian Church of Haddonfield, illuminating the vacant lot nearby and Sayer’s pickup truck beneath.

As immediately as reality gripped him, he was overwhelmed by two distinct thoughts---he had passed out while watching for Loomis, which foiled the purpose of the entire stakeout, and something oblong and black was writhing and flailing between his legs at his crotch.

He jolted upwards in sheer fright, shrieking, his hands moving to brush it away, whatever it was. He calmed enough to take a good look at it. He picked it up.

It was a wind-up rubber rat.

Five young teenagers burst into a chorus of laughter beyond the open driver’s window, and the reverend nearly cursed to Almighty God before he caught himself. He flung the toy below the glove compartment.

The kids scurried quickly away from his pickup, all of them garbed in Halloween attire and glowing face paint. One of them stopped running for a moment, pushed aside his Dracula cape and spit out a set of vampire teeth.

“Trick or treat, old man!” he exclaimed, and ran off to join his peers in the distant dark.

Jack Sayer was alone, and it became quiet again, even more quiet than when he’d first arrived. He stared out his windshield, out past the street and at the front door of the tranquil police station.

“Well dammit all to eternal hell,” he spat, and he groped for his whiskey bottle.

He found it, uncapped it and brought it to his lips, his eyes canvassing the surroundings and his mind struggling to come to terms with what to do next. His eyes caught sight of a tow truck, resting vacant and silent at the opposite side of the garbage dumpster he’d parked beside. He looked, but there was nobody around.

Sayer’s fatigue was all but spent from the rudely abrupt wake-up call, but a mild hangover and another plan soon festered in his brain.

He leaned over and fetched a towel, absently wiped off the running wetness from the steering wheel. Discarding the towel, he reached into his glove compartment for a pair of reading glasses.

Hell, he didn’t need them. All the reading he ever
did
was of the Good Book anyway, besides the
Reader’s Digest
and the
National Enquire
, and he knew the Lord’s Word by heart, cover to cover, verse by verse.

At least, on his good days.

From now on, those glasses belonged to Doctor Loomis.
That’s it,
the old reverend devised
, I’m gonna walk right into that there station, let ‘em know the good doctor left his glasses in my cab, and ask for his whereabouts so ’s I can deliver them proper back into his hands
.

Whether the plan worked or not, it was up to Jesus.

He discarded his whiskey and emerged from the cab. As he shut the door of his vehicle, he gave the abandoned tow truck a second glance. Gripping the spectacles, he made his way across the street and towards the entrance of the police station. A sole sheriff’s sedan sat in the parking lot as he passed it. He arrived at the front door and entered the station.

Inside, Deputy Pierce rose up from his desk to the front counter to immediately meet him. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe you
can
help me,” the reverend spoke, adjusted his clergy collar and let out a raspy cough. “Um, I was good enough to give Doctor Loomis a lift into town, officer, and I believe he left his glasses behind. Could you be good enough to allow me to return them to him? Where abouts do you suppose he’s gone off to?”

“If you’ll just leave them with me,” the deputy replied, “I’ll see to it the doctor gets them.”

“If ya don’t mind, I’d like to return them personally,” Sayer told him.

“The town’s in a state of emergency,” said the deputy. “Leave them here, I’ll tell him you dropped them off, don’t worry. A good motel’s up the road, a quarter mile. I’ll tell him you’re staying there if you wish to meet up with him. Can’t tell how long he’ll be, though. This is one helluva night. It’s all I can do for you.”

“You can tell him that,” the reverend said, “but

I’ll keep these for him myself. You understand.” “Suit yourself.”

Sayer nodded to him, clutching the glasses, and solemnly bade him farewell. The face of the Apocalypse would have to wait, he figured, but he knew fate would inevitably cross their paths.

Someday.

It was his destiny.

It was
It’s
destiny.

A motel, a quarter mile up the street
. It was all he had going for him now, and a night’s lodging would do him good.

Turning, he made his way to exit into the night. He opened the door, stepped outside.

There, directly before him, stood the face of the Apocalypse.

Sayer gasped.

The eyes behind the chalky white mask stared down upon him, emotionless, cold.

The glasses fell from the reverend’s hands, dropping onto the ground. Taking a step away from the abomination, the heel of his shoe met with them, crushing them. His screams echoed into the cool breeze and, for a moment, no one heard them until it was too late.

Chapter Eighteen

The smoke filled pool hall and bar lounge was filled to capacity with the town’s usual beer bellied personalities, sucking down beers and shooting eight balls in exchange for a chance of good luck at earning a little sum of money. It was a typical setting for a town such as Haddonfield, where everyone knew how many teeth everyone else had and didn’t really give a shit either way. Friends were friends, and enemies were enemies, and the only enemies in Haddonfield were the out—of-town truck driving brawlers who came into Haddonfield to pick fights, and the winter weather. But now, at this time, they had neither. There were no strangers tonight. Well, perhaps there were a few, but remained virtually unnoticed amid the bar noise and the laughter. There was a woman in skimpy clothes who always had a fancy for the jukebox, which was at the time blurting out Bruce Springsteen. As the Boss sang about dancing in darkness, she attracted the attentions of a young, mustachioed man who offered to buy her a beer and called her Charlene. Across the way, a middle—sized man in overalls knocked over his half-full bottle of beer onto the pool table. He pulled out a flimsy handkerchief from a pocket and frantically wiped away the liquid before it could be completely absorbed by the blue-green felt padding.

Earl Ford was the bartender. His son, Mel, had recently turned legal age and now assisted him, and occasionally there was Hughy who helped him on busy nights like this, but tonight Hughy was sick with the stomach flu. This was Earl’s joint, and that was what the tattered baseball bat read in bold, black lettering up above the half-sized swordfish on the wall behind him. Earl was pretty close to forty-five, but his true age was somewhat of a mystery because he always liked folks to keep guessing. It was a belief among some that ol’ Earl never really knew his own age, or that he somehow forgot. His face was like that of a bulldog, and he had the body of a professional wrestler, but he, in fact, despised wrestling with a passion. He would often tell people he didn’t quite rightly know why he hated it so, but perhaps it was the fact that the matches were so damn fake. Besides, wrestlers looked like a bunch of fags out there on the mat, and the audience looked like a bunch of drunken Nazis. At least, that’s what he thought.

Tonight was an ordinary night, or at least it had been, until something caught Earl’s attention on the television. He was often distracted by the 22—inch television, always watching for Ernest commercials or commercials with Joe Isuzu, but this time what attracted his attention was something quite different. He stepped over to the set and raised the volume. A news anchorwoman was explaining something which seemed to be urgent. Hell,
of course
it was urgent; anything that said SPECIAL BULLETIN in the background was unusual and urgent. And from what Earl’s ears picked up, it sounded like the woman was talking about evacuating the streets.

What the hell?

“By order of the Sheriff’s office,” the anchorwoman continued, “all citizens of Haddonfield are asked to clear the streets.”

Still, the bartender could not hear.
Goddammit.

“Everybody shut up a goddamn minute!” he yelled out, and the bar quieted, heads turning. Still, some people just could not hear straight. “I said, goddammit, everyone shut up!”

Silence. The anchorwoman continued.

“….
remain indoors until further notice. All businesses are asked to close as soon as possible. Stay tuned to the station for updates.”

A tall man, Orrin Wesley, called out, “What’s all that shit, Earl?”

That was exactly what Earl was about to ask Meeker himself, or whoever the hell was at the office. Immediately, he moved to the bar’s wall mounted phone. He picked up the receiver and dialed hurriedly.

“Who you callin’?” another man asked.

Earl replied, “Police station. I ain’t closing down without a good goddamn reason.”

Everyone waited. All eyes in the bar rested on Earl. In the background, a few men continued to quietly resume a game of pool, ears open. After a few lingering moments, Earl angrily hung up the phone. He proceeded to remove his bar smock.

“Well?” Orrin asked.

“It just rang,” was all Earl would reply.

Within the next minute the entire place was ringing with the sounds of chairs moving and shoes brushing against the wooden floor. Voices of curiosity added to the commotion as the crowd proceeded to follow the bartender out into the front of the bar, through the single front door, past the DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE sign, and out onto the asphalt of the car crammed parking lot.

Yet another follower rushed up to the bartender from within the crowd, asking where the hell he was going and why the hell everyone was following him, knowing full well he was just as dumbfounded as everyone else about the sudden urgency of the news report.

“We’re goin’ to see Ben,” Earl told him angrily. “Phone never just rings at a police station. No way, no how.”

Everyone piled up into their respective vehicles... .pickups, four—wheel drive Blazers, Jeeps, Broncos, and the like, all covered with enough dirt to pave a small street. Earl’s Chevy was the first the kick up a wave of dust, and he led the way as the others filled the street from behind.

One hell of a night, all right.

Chapter Nineteen

Guests exited Justin Fallbrook’s palatial home, all dressed in their finest attire, some half drunk, others having had little or none to drink, but all having enjoyed the party. They were walking to the rows of cars parked along the side of the street, wondering what the urgency was in the news flash. Some had attempted to call the police station, but got no answer. Still, they would comply with the warning, and perhaps call the station later from their own homes.

Richard and Darlene Caruthers stepped across the walkway down the front lawn; one of the couples who had apparently very little to drink.