Somebody—anybody—save us!
Anyone at all!
A fresh wave of slaughter was about to kick off.
Legs turning to jelly or not, survival instinct hit like a freight train—folks gritted their teeth and bolted.
Jason swept the path ahead with that ice-cold stare, yanking his trusty machete from his belt, lunging back into the hunt.
Tourists window-shopping at Crystal Lake Camp, lovebirds canoodling, tech geeks tinkering... didn't matter. Not a soul was walking out.
Jason was gonna snuff 'em all—brutal as a chainsaw through butter.
Chasing down prey? Jason's favorite pastime. And right now, the more blood spilled, the thicker the fear—and the stronger he got.
Fresh from his hellish comeback tour, ripping apart that stubborn old rival, scrubbing his turf of intruders.
The Crystal Lake boogeyman legend? Back from the grave tonight, howling louder than ever.
Jason was riding high—peak slasher mode. Even his long-gone mom would be bursting with pride if she could see him now!
For some reason, in that beat, Jason's blank mind flickered to his dearly departed mama. Guess that's what growing up gets you—random feels.
Huh?
Jason's dead eyes bugged wide—he spotted something that threw even him for a loop.
Barry? Dude was folded like a cheap lawn chair, mask scooped out like the regen battery it was, then shredded into tripe. By all rights, he should've been toast—critical condition city.
So why the hell was this going down?
In the few seconds Jason got all reflective, the faceless straw-man's bottom half decided it wasn't done—zombie-style. Legs pistoning like mad on the dirt, scooting backward in the creepiest crab-walk ever.
Until it bumped up against its own head chunk.
Flipped around, legs clamped like a vice, tossed the noggin up—it somersaulted a few times and plopped back down. Click—top and bottom fused, just missing the middle slice.
"What're you gaping at? Run, dammit!"
Barry went full sprint, legs blurring like wagon wheels, overtaking the pack from behind like he was late for the apocalypse.
Hmph—think you can ditch me?
Jason's glare sharpened to a razor; he pounded after 'em.
Real quick.
Hey, don't forget 101 Books—your spot for reads!
Freshly taped-together Barry hit the tail end of the group, jogging stride-for-stride with some kid.
"Holy crap, Venom Uncle—you're supposed to be dead!" The boy clocked the wind-slicing freakshow strawman and choked on his breath, soul nearly yeeting out.
Without the midsection, Barry clocked in at kid-height—total short-stack vibe.
"Kid, watch the mouth—Uncle just got quartered like a bad steak. Doesn't mean I'm checking out." Barry even had breath to field the Q&A.
Whoosh! Barry dodged sideways, snagging a dart meant for the rear—body-checked it like a goalie.
Whoosh! Another dart—Barry jittered, then shrugged it off, good as new.
Whoosh! Third strike—Barry's dome got ventilated, dart tip poking out his eye socket like a bad piercing.
"Waaah! Uncle, you okay? You look rough!" The kid was sweating bullets, glancing back to see Barry's upgrade to "total wreck."
"Kiddo, Uncle's just carrying the load so you don't have to."
Mid-sentence—shink—a dinner knife wedged into his backside.
Son of a—where's Jason scavenging all this junk?
The pursuit dragged on.
...
"Aaaagh!"
Screams ripped from up front—pure agony.
The herd slammed brakes: roadblock ahead.
Jason!
Somehow, he'd looped around, set up shop, even had time to rig traps.
That wail? Black counselor Sissy, foot snapped in a hidden bear trap buried in the brush.
The other counselor, Paula, hauled Sissy backward—but the rear was clogged with kids, some straight-up face-planting in terror, pants soaked through.
Only the Brennans were full-growns.
But tossing in their three? Wouldn't flip the script.
Whistle—thwack!
Air sliced—a shadow blurred past.
Pitchfork nailed Dan Brennan square in the gut—three tines punching through meat.
Crimson bloomed from his belly; Dan went ghost-white, body quaking from the fire.
"Daddy!" Maria yelped, raw panic.
Freshly roused mid-escape, Mom Amy rushed with Maria to prop up the crumpling Dan.
What now?
Jason pops back, springs a trap that bags one—then one-shots another on the bounce. And that? Barely scratching his surface.
Check it: Jason's belt was a junk-drawer apocalypse—loaded with random stabby bits. Back strapped with four or five heavy hitters: axe, harpoon, shovel, crowbar, the works.
Dude was armed to the teeth—walking hardware store.
Despair crashed down like a tidal wave: Can't fight him, can't outrun him.
Done for—might as well line up for the chop.
Unless... hero time.
Any takers? They prayed to whatever god was listening.
Fear, dread, hopelessness, agony...
Negative vibes leaked like a busted pipe—unwittingly stacking the deck for their own doom.
The more you freak, the closer death creeps.
Spider-Man, throw us a web!
Hell, even if it's Venom-mode Parker—strutting around all cocky, dunking on rivals like a total edgelord—that'd beat rotting here.
"We're toast this time." The pessimistic kid started spilling last words to his buddies.
"Barry... you still with us?"
Maria called out.
"Kid... always am."
Barry wheezed back, voice like a deflating balloon.
Maria whipped around—clocked Barry in full tragic hero mode: arms gone, midsection AWOL, skull-to-seat crammed with shrapnel. Darts, knives, arrowheads, chair legs, busted bottle shards—you name it. Hell, even a bear trap clamped on for flair.
Looked like he'd just strolled off the set of that epic Red Cliff arrow-dodge scene—total pincushion MVP.
Kids, Uncle Barry's snagging game balls—you're all along for the free ride.
"You're the one shielding us? Barry... you're too damn kind."
Maria couldn't push him to play savior anymore. Staring at his burned-out husk, words caught in her throat—swallowed 'em down.
Barry had tanked way more than his share to keep the group breathing.
Maybe... this was just fate.
Written in the stars: lights out tonight.
But Maria? She wasn't rolling over for the end credits. Time for her big swing—the one bold move of her life.
Schlorp!
She yanked the pitchfork free from Dad's gut—three crimson sprays arcing out.
Dan: Wait—what? Daughter! This... next-level family love, huh?
Amy: "Aaaah! The bleeding—Maria, what the hell?!"
Maria gripped the blood-slick fork, tiny frame shivering from terror, but her face? Pure steel resolve:
"Daddy, Mom... I love you guys."
"Barry... love you too. Get outta here."
With that, Maria charged Jason—suicide sprint.
You demonic bastard—Maria's coming for blood!
The group gawked, jaws unhinged, as she barreled in fierce. The gut-punch of kin biting it twisted into raw "not her" vibes, rippling through their stares.
Jason tilted his head—unfazed.
Seen a thousand last-stand rushes like this. All ended the same: lights out.
Which toy for you, short stuff?
Jason eyed Maria's face, drew a razor-sharp machete.
This time? No escape.