Run—gotta run the hell outta here!
In the pitch-black night, only slivers of moonlight pierced through here and there.
All Alan could do was pick a direction and keep hauling ass, even though her body was screaming for a break. She didn't dare stop.
As for Lily in that Porsche? She couldn't worry about her right now.
Snatching Barry's big ol' head in the middle of that chaos? That had taken everything she had.
So, all she could do was wish Lily good luck.
Fainted Lily: What the actual fuck—why me!
The malice behind her clung like a bad rash, impossible to shake.
In that moment, Alan's will to live hit an all-time high, raw and desperate.
She'd just started tasting how sweet life could be, and now death was crashing the party—why couldn't it give her even one full day?
She wanted to live.
Why, why, why...
Alan had a million questions burning inside her. She was pissed, she hated it, it hurt like hell.
Why did Barry—the guy who'd seemed invincible in her eyes—drop dead in a single clash?
Why did the dude who got flung like a ragdoll just pop back up without a scratch?
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Why was she the one being hunted?
Alan bolted in pure despair, her makeup streaked from tears, her carefully picked outfit shredded by branches and thorns.
She'd always figured she had Maria beat—smarter, braver, the whole package.
From her long-time seat as the quiet observer, she'd rolled her eyes at Maria's wimpiness. But now, staring death down? She realized she was no different. Under that tough, icy shell, it was the same scared-soft core.
Alan had always sucked at sports, and after that adrenaline dump, her body was toast—pushing limits she didn't know she had.
With Maria's introverted shut-in build, getting this far? It was straight-up superhuman. Hell, a miracle.
But now? She was done. Legs like jelly, couldn't go another step.
Alan gasped for air, stumbling forward, her feet numb like they weren't even there.
Is it... still coming? The footsteps stopped, right?
But why hasn't that creepy "being watched" vibe faded?
In the dim wilderness, Alan tripped over some root or rock—didn't matter—letting out a yelp as she face-planted.
She whipped around in terror. Nothing. No one chasing. But before she could catch her breath—
As she pushed up to stand, she looked up... and there he was. The guy in the hockey mask—Jason.
Jason gripped a machete, eyes cold as steel, locked right on Alan's neck... and Barry's head clutched in her hand.
"Finally... found you."
He didn't say a word, but that masked glare said it all.
Flash back a bit.
Jason's human body had gotten zapped by lightning—pure accident—flooding him with raw power, cranking up his link to his hellish soul.
In their last cage match.
Both he and Barry had clawed back to the living world, but Barry ripped a chunk of his soul clean out, claiming it for himself.
Jason was incomplete now. Immortal soul or not, his healing tanked—he'd need ages to patch up and get back to full throttle.
So when he sensed the revival mojo from his mask? He bolted after it, no pit stops.
Jason had waited too damn long for this. His bloodlust was off the charts.
Alan was cornered, no way out. She tried to scramble up—sprained her ankle. Shit!
Game over!
Jason closed in, step by relentless step.
Alan scooted back in panic, her free hand shaking as she scooped up handfuls of gravel and chucked them at him.
The pebbles she hurled with all her might bounced off his rock-hard frame like nothing, not slowing him a bit.
Her palm got sliced up by the sharp bits, blood trickling. In that second, she hated how weak she was. Jason loomed closer, the machete catching moonlight, throwing off a killer chill.
Wah... am I dying tonight?
Alan's back hit rough tree bark. Jason stood against the moon, his twisted shadow swallowing her quivering form whole.
Her pupils shrank to pinpricks from sheer fear.
Next second.
The blade sliced the air, death's breath hot on her face.
Terrified Alan didn't know where it came from—some fresh burst of fight-or-flight—but she rolled sideways on the dirt, dodging by a hair.
Her pale face dripped cold sweat, broken strands of light brown hair plastered to her cheek. She had zero gas left.
Enough already?
Jason stared down at the spent Alan, silent as death, head cocked. Then—slash.
The moon vanished behind clouds right then, plunging everything into black. Only the whoosh of the blade cut the quiet.
Alan was beyond hope.
Boom!
A massive crash echoed through the still woods again.
In her daze, Alan swore she saw a little choo-choo train barreling in, pulling some pro-level drift—sideways slide that straight-up launched Jason into the brush.
Is this... a hallucination?
Am I dead? Why's the dream so weird?
"Kiddo, I'm back." A familiar voice hit her ear.
Clean moonlight spilled down once more.
Alan saw it clear as day.
No train—just a freakish, stretched-out monster, over ten feet long.
The thing was elongated to nightmare levels, like a supersized stick bug, but with bits that screamed "human." Six spindly, arm-like legs; a rail-thin body with spine and rib vibes; a neck stretched a full yard... ending in nothing. No head. Missing the big one.
That was what had bowled Jason over!
The beast glowed pale yellow all over, woven from straw head to toe.
Alan felt a weird, cozy familiarity from it—plus this unshakeable sense of safety, like home.
"Hey! Sweetie. Mind handing back Uncle Barry's head? Pretty please?"
The wormy monster waggled its floppy, noodle-neck, but the voice? It came from the chibi-fied head she was white-knuckling.
"Eeeeek!"
Alan's scream ripped out, high-pitched enough to rattle eardrums.
Good thing she was alone out here.
"Quit yelling—hurry up! He's stirring."
The head kept yapping. Now up close, the mental link snapped back online.
Earlier, the ambush had severed Barry's body—head popped off, connection fried.
Then Alan grabbed the noggin and ran, leaving his lower half in the dust.
When his awareness kicked back in, Barry realized: no skull. Senses tanked hard.
Lucky break—the split wasn't too long or far, and that pendant he'd given Maria acted like a GPS. He shape-shifted into the fastest ride: a headless human-stick-bug deal, and hauled ass to catch up.
"You... you're... Barry?" Eyes still wide with leftover terror, Alan stammered, shell-shocked.
"It's me."
"Wahhh, you're not dead!" Alan's words cracked with sobs, her grip on the straw doll finally loosening.
"You grabbed Uncle Barry while running—that made him happy. But you only snagged half of him? Uncle Barry's not thrilled."
A long arm snagged the head back, pressing it to the neck stump. Hundreds of straw strands shot out, twisting and weaving together.
Barry was whole again.
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