Yet Patrick found himself reneging on his stand, terrified thatSlasherhad turned someone into—well, the Slasher.
The Slasher, he slashes,Freddy said in Patrick’s head again.
Not unless Patrick could help it. He scooched into the driver’s seat and fumbled Russ’s keys into the ignition.
The engine grumbled and died.
“No, no!” Patrick said. He smacked the steering wheel with theheel of his hand and twisted the key again. If this had been a movie he was showing the Jumpscare Society, he’d turn to the person next to him and gloat,See? Of course the car doesn’t start.Then he’d predict a masked face would come out of nowhere and press itself against the driver’s-side window. Or an axe blade would shatter the windshield.
This was a sick joke. The tropes weren’t so funny when they happened in real life.
He tried to start the car one more time, his desperation so palpable he could taste it, heavy and acidic on his tongue. The engine coughed like a cat spitting up a hairball and petered out into a whimper. Patrick slammed the dashboard and called the car every swear word he could think of, including the ones in Spanish Jen had taught him.
He slumped in the driver’s seat, completely drained. He was out of plans. Out of ideas. No way to help his friends. Jen had been right. They should have headed for the highway and never looked back. But Patrick had wanted his perfectSlasherweekend.
He’d gotten his wish, in a way.
Utterly lost and bereft, he imagined this was what Clare must have felt at the end. Wheezing her last breath, body going limp as her vision faded to black. That final heartbeat of acceptance that she couldn’t fight any longer.
All that was left was flight.
Steeling himself, Patrick flung open the car door—
—and stumbled backward as a loud bang shook the night.
22
Michael
Michael staggered through the trees, his heart threatening to batter its way through his chest. He’d finally made it back to the cabin, but at what cost? He’d fled the dock as soon as the Slasher swung his axe at Tiffany, squirming from an itch between his shoulder blades as he imagined the blade sinking into his own spine.
And Tiffany’s scream. Michael had never imagined anything like it, not even in his wildest nightmares. It had followed him into the woods and charged every hair follicle on his body. His fists clenched and unclenched. He’d felt so alone on the shore, powerless to help. So useless. He’d carried that feeling his whole life. Scrawny Mikey, an afterthought to everyone, even his parents.
The only time he’d felt useful was that feverish moment when he’d thought Daniel would never bother Carrie again.
He couldn’t believe Tiffany was likely dead. Bubbly Tiffany, full of spirit one minute and gone the next. It was shocking howeasy it was to snuff out a life. He stumbled on, heading in the cabin’s general direction but otherwise unaware of where he was going. He had only one aim: find Jason immediately. The news was going to crush his cousin, and it was better if it came from him.
Michael was so intent on his goal that he was completely blindsided—both figuratively and literally—when a man burst through the underbrush. Michael reeled back and put his fists up. Nothing was going to stop him from getting to Carrie.
He dropped his arms when he realized it was Jason. His cousin wrapped him in a bear hug. “Mikey! Oh my God. I was so worried about you. We thought we heard you calling for help. And then I heard a scream—”
Michael hugged him back, glad to see him but also annoyed that Jason didn’t think he could handle himself in the woods alone. Jason let him go, and Michael was able to get a better look at him. Where had Jason been while Tiffany was being attacked? His normally implacable cousin was a wreck. Cedar needles stuck out of his rumpled hair, and his jeans were smeared with muck and dead leaves. A bruise marred one cheekbone.
But those were only the superficial details. Jason panted like a dog, his blue eyes wide and staring. He’d always been a natural leader, his steady presence inspiring others to automatically look to him for guidance. But without anyone watching, without Coach Ackerman’s scrutiny sucking all the air out of the room, Jason appeared as disturbed as Michael felt.
That was the biggest surprise of the night. Bigger than Russ Meachum crashing their reunion weekend. Michael marveled at how the golden boy had been beaten down to a mortal human being. And now Michael had to offer one more sucker punch.
He put a hand on Jason’s shoulder, as much for his own support as well as his cousin’s. “It was Tiffany.”
Jason seemed to deflate even more. He closed his eyes, trembling. “Is she—”
Michael shook his head, so imperceptibly an observer mightnot have noticed. “She was swimming in the lake. I think she was trying to get to the summer camp.”
Jason opened his eyes, red-rimmed in the shadows. “We have to help her,” he said in a strangled voice, starting to move toward the water.
Michael seized him by the arm before he could run off. Returning to the cabin was the priority. “We can’t. It’s too late. There was a man in a boat. He—he had an axe.”
“Wearing a Slasher mask and costume?”
