“Did you hear that?” D.J. Starks stated quietly, peering out into the hallway from one of the empty patient rooms.

“Hear what?” echoed Nurse Marissa Jones, who was inside the room somewhere behind him, but shrouded by the darkness.

“I think they just announced a code white,” D.J. informed her. “It’s hard to tell because the intercom system is all fucked up down this end of the hall.”

The east wing of Haddonfield Memorial Hospital was typically the quiet wing. It was where all the non-emergency and outpatient procedures took place, with the rooms merely serving as recovery quarters. Tony Wilson was nearly given a room in the east wing, but Dr. Kennedy opted for one closer to the nurse’s station so that his medication could be monitored more carefully.

“I told Duke to get that shit fixed,” D.J. continued. “It’s been busted up ever since that thunderstorm a while back. Now it just fades in and out whenever it damn well pleases. Piece of junk.”

“D.J., what’s a code white?” Marissa cautiously asked, fumbling with her nurse’s outfit back inside the room. “I haven’t had that training yet.”

Turning around from the dimly-lit hallway, D.J. glanced back toward her puzzled, his gray jumpsuit unzipped halfway down the center. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he assured her, trying both to calm her nerves and keep alive any chance he had of scoring.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing, Donald James!!!” Marissa fired back, using a tone D.J. absolutely hated. She almost never used his real name, except when she was either really pissed or really scared. D.J. hoped it was the latter.

“Code white means there’s suspicious activity somewhere in or around the building, but nothing is confirmed,” D.J. explained, completely ignoring the fact that Marissa called him by his real name.

“Suspicious activity?”


“Like what?”

“Could be anything,” D.J. clarified. “Look, they run drills like that all the time. Duke’s probably got it all under control.”


“What, Marissa?”

“What if it’s that psycho on the loose?” she questioned, feeling a chill roar down her back. “The news said they still haven’t captured him.”

D.J. laughed. “Babe, that report was like an hour ago. I’m sure the police got him by now.”

The mere mention of Michael Myers shuddered through D.J. like a bolt of lightning. After all he’d seen and heard tonight, picking up body after body in town and delivering the bloodied, out-of-control survivors, D.J. wasn’t so sure that Marissa was entirely wrong.

Peeking out into the hallway again, D.J. decided to take a look just in case. Turning his head to the left, he saw the dark corridor go from dimly lit to completely black at the far end. He’s lucky he turned to the left, because if he would have turned to the right, he would have seen the pale white mask of Michael Myers staring right at him from the next room, the remnants of smoke still rising from his head. When D.J. did finally turn that way, he was gone, leaving only a flickering fluorescent bulb in his wake.

“Hun, I gotta get back on the floor,” Marissa stated, brushing her amber colored hair and re-positioning her hair clips. “You sure everything’s gonna be alright?”

“Positive,” D.J. said with a smile, leaning in to kiss her.

Marissa’s lips met his, and within moments, it was back to being hot and heavy, like it had been prior to the announcement. D.J. wrapped his strong arms around her, causing Marissa to lose her balance and struggle to stay upright. Seizing the opportunity, D.J. moved to lay her down on the bed, but she suddenly pulled away.

“Now what???” D.J. complained.

“Oh, nothing,” Marissa smirked, winking at her boyfriend as she approached the door.

“You’re leaving me hangin’...AGAIN??!”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she replied seductively, rolling her tongue across her lips until she was sure she had D.J.’s undivided attention. “You want to finish what we started here?”

“You know I do,” D.J. responded, his eyes totally locked on hers.

“Then wait here,” she ordered. “I just have to go check in with Katie and the others. It shouldn’t take more than five, ten minutes at most.”

“Alright,” D.J. finally relented, smacking her on the ass playfully.

Marissa yelped, clearly caught off guard by D.J.’s antics.

“Sit tight,” she chuckled, still feeling the effects of D.J.’s little love-tap. “I’ll be right back.”

Nodding in agreement, D.J. placed a fresh toothpick in his mouth and sat back down on the bed as the sounds of Marissa’s soft tennis shoes squeaking in the hallway dissipated, then disappeared.


Across town, the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Ever since the last ambulances left the sheriff’s house, nearly every man in the town was out stalking the streets, armed with pistols, shotguns, and even two-by-fours. Anything to protect their wives, their children, and their town.

Police cars came by once or twice, but with most of the force decimated, Deputy Josh Barnes needed every able officer to aid in the investigation and secure the town.

What was left was nothing short of an eerie unrest. Tons of people were out on the streets, yet it was dead silent. No one was walking. No one was even talking. They were just stumbling around like a bunch of zombies from a George Romero film. They just stood there, watching. Waiting.

Then, all of a sudden, the quiet was disturbed by the sound of squealing tires at the top of the street. Nearly everyone turned their attention toward the old Ford pickup truck roaring down the middle of the lane. Most drew their pistols or cocked their shotguns, but when they saw old Sonny Piati behind the wheel, they stepped aside, figuring he was out on another one of his drunken excursions.

Inside the pickup with Sonny was Steve Spencer, his co-worker from the mill, and two others. In the back of the truck riding in the bed were Benny Roth, Jack Hairston, and Charlie Nelson, also patrons of the Field Lounge. Even Johnny Porelli, the bartender, was with them.

Shouting and screaming at the people in the streets, they sped down the road approaching the sheriff’s station. When they got there, they were shocked at what they found. The phones were ringing off the hook, but there was no one in sight. The lights were off, the doors were locked, and the place was deserted. There weren’t even any police cars parked in front of the building.

“What the fuck is this?” Sonny barked, brandishing his shotgun as he led his group of rebels toward the front door. There, they found the doors chained shut and locked with a padlock.

“Something’s goin on here, and I don’t like it,” Steve Spencer added, adjusting his tall red trucker’s cap emblazoned with the Haddonfield Mill logo in black across the front.

“Me either,” echoed several of the others.

“Where’s the damn sheriff? And why ain’t that pussy deputy here?” Sonny questioned, to one in particular. By that time, several of the townspeople had joined the party, standing side-by-side with the other rebels.

“The bitch on the news said they were investigating the area around Billow’s Woods,” Charlie Nelson reminded them in his raspy voice. “So maybe that’s where they are.”

“Even at this hour?” Benny Roth asked, not so sure of himself.

“He’s right,” Sonny commanded, nodding in agreement with Benny. “They wouldn’t be out there this long unless they found something.”

“Or someone.”

“Guys, let’s load back up. We’re gonna get that son of a bitch this time.”

“Where we goin’?” Charlie questioned.

“To the Tower Farm. Everyone knows that’s where the trail from Billow’s leads. If that fucker managed to escape the cops, I’m gonna be there waitin’ for him. And I’m gonna blast his ass back to hell once and for all.”

Proceed To Chapter 21
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