Chapter 27 Jason #3
The ring of antlers plunged. Straight down onto Carrie, like a merciless coronation.
She didn’t even have time to make a sound.
One sharp prong stabbed through an eye socket; another gored the spot below her collarbone.
She dropped the axe at last and crumpled to her knees, chin sagging, a scarlet blossom spreading across her tank top while a jellylike ichor slid down the yellowing bone from the ruin of her left eye.
The body of the falling phone thumped the crown of her head, driving her face further into the antlers.
The discordant jangle of chimes was the sweetest sound Jason had ever heard.
A prong pierced Carrie’s cheek, screeching like nails on a chalkboard as it grated against her back molars.
Her limbs twitched like she’d received an electric shock and her lips parted, blood drooling over her chin.
She slumped and was still. Ash fluttered and settled around her body. It was over. Jason folded in half, panting like he’d just run a hundred-meter sprint.
There was no time to rest, however. He had to check on Patrick, then get help.
He dragged himself upright, wondering if he had enough strength to make it to the main road.
Or at least try to fire the flare gun with his left hand to signal the summer camp.
Did Patrick pack extra cartridges? The cardboard box sat in a corner, so far away from his jellying legs.
At least the sun was rising. A fragile light seeped through the windows, bathing Carrie’s antler-ringed body with a rosy glow.
Saint Carrie martyred by her crown of thorns.
Her suffering was finally over, and Jason’s was just beginning.
The adrenaline was ebbing away and soon he’d have to pay the physical and emotional toll.
Grief flared across his skin, but it was muffled, far away, as gentle as a warm bath. He was so damned tired.
He took a step toward the box and fell to his knees.
Maybe he could lie down for a bit. Catch his breath. Only for a minute. Then he’d figure out what to do.
He collapsed face-first to the floor, his eyelids fluttering closed.
Only for them to snap open again when a shriek pierced his eardrums. He jolted upright, every nerve aflame with terror.
Carrie bore down on him with the axe, her antler crown caging her head and shoulders, blood welling from every hole it had torn open in her body.
Not a martyr anymore, but a pagan goddess of vengeance.
“I’m the Final Girl!” she screamed. “Not you!”
The axe tilted back as she prepared to swing. Jason tried to get off his knees, but his legs refused to move. He threw up his good arm to shield his face, eyes clenching shut, anticipating the kiss of the axe blade through bone and flesh. The blood in his ears gave a final roar.
There was a loud, wet squelch.
Yet Jason’s arm was still joined at the elbow, and his skull uncracked. He pried open one eyelid, confused.
Carrie still loomed over him, but the axe had dropped by her side. She stared down at the blade that had sprouted from beneath her breastbone, blood gushing over her chin from her open mouth.
Jason suddenly realized the roaring in his ears had been someone’s voice, not the thunder of his pulse.
Carrie tipped to the side, her mouth in a perfect bloody O, revealing Patrick standing behind her.
“I’m the Final Girl, bitch,” Patrick said, his chest heaving.
Patrick. One side of his face was swollen and his hair a sweaty halo, but he was the most beautiful thing Jason had ever seen.
Patrick smiled sheepishly at Jason. “I found the real machete, finally.” Then his smile crumpled as he registered Jason’s state.
He crouched beside Jason and put his arms around him.
Tears sprung to Jason’s eyes. Patrick was so warm, and Jason was so cold.
He wanted to stay in Patrick’s arms until the end of his days. Which might be sooner than later.
“Patrick,” he rasped. “Thank fuck. You’re alive.”
“So are you.”
Patrick’s arms tightened, holding Jason so close to his chest he could hear his friend’s heartbeat. Or maybe it was his own, thumping weakly.
“I told you we should’ve gone to Vegas,” Jason said, the words fading into a whisper. Patrick brought his face closer to his, and Jason stared at his split lip. He brought up his hand and gently traced the cut.
“Hey,” Patrick said, grabbing Jason’s questing hand. Patrick’s fingers burned so hotly it was almost painful. But Jason wouldn’t have let go for a million dollars. “We still can. We’re going to get you out of here. Just stay with me.”
“Sorry.” Jason wasn’t sure if he’d said the word out loud or just mouthed it. He was so cold. But he was happy. Why did Patrick look worried? Their nightmare was over, and Patrick was all right. Now Jason could let go. He didn’t have to be the hero anymore.
“Jason!”
Jason’s fingers slipped from Patrick’s and he let himself get lost in his eyes. They were very, very dark, and shining. They filled his field of vision. There were worse ways to die. Jason smiled, and let the darkness envelop him.