CHAPTER 6- SHOOT TO KILL
That afternoon, at the Crystal Lake police station, Mayor Quincy was repeatedly badgering his police chief, Jim Warren. “Jim, what the hell is going on here?” Quincy yelled, puffing one of his favorite Cuban cigars. “I wake up this morning and turn on my TV, and I see Goldwater’s picture pasted onto every channel. Tell me this isn’t happening. I thought you apprehended that maniac last night?”
“We did sir, but…” Warren replied, but he was quickly interrupted by Quincy. “But nothing! Who was the officer in charge?” Quincy yelled. “I was,” Officer Lewis interceded, trying to get his chief off the hook. “And what the fuck were you doing last night Lewis?” Quincy asked, berating him. “With all do respect sir, what Goldwater did last night was very risky. It could have killed him,” Lewis responded. “I was right outside his room with Dr. Jones checking his chart to see when we could transfer him over here, and just like that, the nurse heard his monitor flat line. When we got in the room, the picture window was smashed out and he was gone.”
“So, what you’re telling me is that while you were sitting around with your thumb up your ass, Goldwater just gets up and jumps out the window?” Quincy questioned. “Give me a fucking break. You expect me to believe that shit?!”
“Yes sir, that’s how it happened,” Lewis answered. But Quincy was not convinced and turned his attention back to Police Chief Warren. “How does this happen, Jim? Tell me. Your ass is on the line here Warren! I want Rob Goldwater’s head on a silver platter today! Not tomorrow or the next day. Today! This town was just getting back on its feet after all that Jason Voorhees shit, and that little fuck Goldwater goes and stirs up trouble again. This is it for you Warren. Either you give me Goldwater, or you can kiss your ass goodbye! And as for you, Lewis, read my lips, You’re Fired! Give me your fucking badge!”
Lewis didn’t hand it over, so Quincy ripped the badge right off of his uniform. “Too proud to hand it over? Then I’ll take it!” Quincy yelled, extinguishing his cigar right on Lewis’ uniform in an act of ultimate shame. Dwayne Lewis just glared back at him as he left the station.
“Guys, let’s go!” Warren responded, yelling for the rest of his officers to follow him out the door. As he rounded up his officers and emerged out into the street, he got on his police radio and gave one final order, “All units, all units, this is your chief speaking, our orders are shoot to kill. You hear me? Shoot to kill!”
Meanwhile, in the town of Crystal Lake, a small yellow cab came to a familiar crossroads and slowed to a stop. Inside, Kevin Staley was settling his bill with Gabriel. “This is as far as I go,” Gabriel stated. “I probably shouldn’t have come this far.”
“It’s alright, this is good enough,” Kevin answered, handing him a huge wad of cash. “Thank you.”
“No problem, thank you, at least now I can say I was here,” Gabriel stated, trying to be funny. Kevin didn’t laugh. He just got out of the car and waived goodbye as Gabriel blared his radio and, blowing dirty exhaust out the back of his cab, disappeared down the windy, dippy road.
Kevin then picked up his Boston U. bag and started hiking down the road, when something told him to stop. He didn’t know why, but it wasn’t time for him to head to camp just yet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an old newspaper clipping, with Krista’s obituary on it. It read: “…Goldwater will be interred at the Eternal Peace Cemetery in Crystal Lake…” That got Kevin thinking. He turned around and looked up at Hope Cemetery, which was directly across the street from the crossroads, and remembered that the Eternal Peace Cemetery was just on the other side of the hill from the Hope Cemetery. Then, in a flash, Kevin immediately turned around and climbed the fence into Hope Cemetery.
Sure, he had unfinished business to take care of at camp, but there was something more important to do first.
“Wassa matter girls?” yelled 35-year-old farmer Jarrett Jefferson as he was trying to feed his chickens. “Paw, what you do to tha’ chiggins last night? Dey wild today.”
“I dint do anythang,” 55-year-old Jack Jefferson answered in a very distinct southern drawl as he stepped out onto his weatherbeaten old porch. “T’was just the stowm thah has them rawled up, thas’ all.”
The Jefferson’s had moved up to Crystal Lake from Mississippi, when flooding had washed out their entire farmland down there. So Jack, his wife Maggie Mae, and his son Jarrett decided to relocate to the hills of Crystal Lake, with the promise of green pastures and sunny skies, as Mayor Quincy had put it. Funny, Jack didn’t remember too many sunny days since they came here a few months earlier. In fact, most days were rainy and muggy just like “Missippi” used to be. But, determined to make it on their own, they relocated in the backwoods of Crystal Lake, far from the rest of the civilization. That’s one thing the Jefferson’s enjoyed. The quiet. And the privacy. Hell, they didn’t even own a TV or radio, so they were far from society. And that’s the way Jack Jefferson liked it.
Jack Jefferson, or ‘Paw’ as Jarrett referred to him (even at the age of 35), felt that there was no need for a radio. According to Paw, all that radios and TV’s did was tell people what to do and how to live. There was no way in hell anybody was going to tell Jack Jefferson how to live his life. He may have been born at night, but it was not last night. Nobody would ever tell him what to do, and he had two reasons why—namely his double-barreled shotgun that he always kept in the corner of his porch. The townsfolk always looked at him funny when he went into town to shop, not only because he was a southerner in “their” land, but also because he lived on the other side of Crystal Lake, a place they said was “cursed.” Paw wouldn’t believe any of that devil-worshipping bullshit. If any devil came calling, he’d fill his guts full of lead.
“Paw, why won’t dey settle down?” Jarrett asked. “Sometin’s not right. Dey never act like dis.”
“Tis probably just dis weatha,” Paw answered, looking up at the gray clouds forming again. “Tis’ gonna storm any minute now. I got da cure for dem chiggins.”
A minute later, Paw returned with his shotgun and fired a blast into the sky. Ahh, much better, Paw thought. The old two-barrel always quieted dem chiggins down when dey was restless.
Just then, they both heard a loud, blood-curdling scream inside the house. “Maggie Mae!” Paw yelled, rushing into the house, shotgun in hand. “Maw!” Jarrett yelled, dropping his bucket of feed and following close behind. When they got inside, they noticed Maw’s stew still cooking away on the stove, but she was nowhere to be found. “I’ll go upstairs, you go down,” Paw ordered. So Jarrett opened the cellar door and quickly sped down toward the basement as Paw lumbered up the stairs toward the bedrooms.
“Maw! Are ya down here?” Jarrett called out. There was no response. Jarrett started to look around the dark cellar for any sign of his mother, but found none. Everything looked like it always did. Messy and disorganized. Hell, even Paw’s old sickle was missin. Paw would kill him if he found out that was missing. That was Paw’s prized sickle, one that he claims harvested enough wheat to feed an entire army one summer. Just then, he turned around and found the sickle.
Or the sickle found him.
Because standing there before him was the masked menace, Jason Voorhees, and with one slice, Jason removed Jarrett’s face from his head and splattered it all over the floor. Then, with a second swipe, Jason removed the rest of Jarrett’s head.
Upstairs, Paw was unsuccessful in his search for Maggie Mae, so he too made his way down to the basement, hoping Jarrett had found her. “Jerry, ya find her?” Paw called out. No response. He then noticed the ground was all wet again, probably from more flooding, so he was careful as he searched the basement. He couldn’t see really well at his old age, so he reached to click on the light bulb. However, when he did, sparks flew everywhere, as he looked on in shock. His wife’s lifeless body was strung up hanging from the light socket and she had a cleaver in her chest.
Screaming, he staggered backward and fell on the wet ground. When he looked back, he was in disbelief as he saw what had tripped him. It was his son’s head. Or what was left of it. Paw then realized that it wasn’t water at all that made him slip. It was blood. In fact, there was blood splattered everywhere.
Staggering to his feet, he clutched his shotgun tightly. When he turned around, he saw a tall, dark man wearing a white hockey mask. “What the Ffff— ” Paw yelled, but his yell was cut short, as Jason stuck a garden claw in his head. Writhing in pain, Paw fired his shotgun, but the shot wasn’t even close to Jason. Paw jerked and jolted on the ground as his life slowly began to slip away. Jason then got re-acquainted with his favorite weapon, a machete, and repeatedly hacked Paw to death, until his body stopped wriggling.
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