CHAPTER 5- SO IT BEGINS
Dr. John Loomis had returned home as ordered, but found himself staring at a blank television screen for hours. He could do nothing but sit, stare, and contemplate how everything he’d worked so hard to keep in order was now becoming unraveled.
Sighing, he took a sip of his scotch on the rocks, like he almost always drank when he was nervous, and noticed a picture of his uncle, Dr. Sam Loomis, on the table nearby.
“You would have never let this madness happen,” John said to the picture. “And by god, neither will I.” But what exactly can I do? That’s the problem, John continued to ask himself in deep thought.
“He looks like a man, but he’s not human. He thinks like a man, yet no man thinks like him. He bleeds like a man, but he doesn’t die like a man dies,” John echoed, remembering the voice of his uncle when he first asked him about Michael Myers. And then, suddenly, John realized what he must do.
He could no longer contain the evil inside that sanitarium, and now he simply must kill it before it’s too late, even though it may be too late already.
He had called his old Marine buddy, who was now captain of the S.W.A.T. team, and made arrangements for them to be ready at the gate just like last year. After what seemed like hours of deliberation, the captain agreed, yet John still felt like it wouldn’t be enough this time around. Something deep inside his subconscious told him that this would be the year he feared most since agreeing to take Michael Myers as his patient. He accepted the responsibilities of both the medical side and his family’s side of keeping Michael Myers under custody. He knew that if Michael were to ever escape again, he must find him just like his late uncle did, or die trying.
John then took another sip of his scotch when his cuckoo clock chimed three times. It would be Halloween tomorrow, and he was desperately running out of time.
“What the hell am I waiting for?” Loomis asked himself, knowing it was a question he couldn’t answer.
He had no other options, but knew what he had to do. The only problem was how to do it. ‘He bleeds like a man, but he doesn’t die like a man dies.’
“If he bleeds, I can kill him uncle,” John said, turning his attention back to the picture of his uncle. “I’ve been trained to kill, and even though I may now be old and slow, it doesn’t show in my heart, or my trigger finger.”
Determined, he threw on his black trench coat, grabbed his walking stick, and secured his .45 in its holster. He then made his way toward the door to do what should have been done many years ago, when his cell phone rang.
He closed his eyes when he answered it, knowing any news at this time of the night could not be good, and he was right.
The nervous voice on the other end of the phone spoke only two words before John hung up and bolted out the door: “Michael’s escaped.”
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