Halloween: The Official Movie Novelization

10

After the Wildcats game, fourteen-year-old Kevin and his father stopped at Parisi’s Pizza Palace for an early dinner of their “world famous” deep dish pepperoni and sausage, which had become a bit of a tradition after they attended one of Northwestern’s games. Though, with each passing year, Kevin viewed the “world famous” claim with a little more skepticism. But the trips were infrequent enough to stir a bit of nostalgia for father and son, which made it worth sitting in traffic and waiting for a table.

By the time they began their return trip home in the old Bronco, the sun hung low in the autumn sky. Within thirty minutes, darkness fell, and the weight of the long day settled in. Traffic thinned to the point of occasional headlights becoming lonely beacons zipping by in the northbound lanes while, in front of them, the scattered string of red taillights dwindled to single digits.

Still miles from home, Kevin realized they were alone by the time his father turned onto a state road that would complete the final leg of their journey. Without streetlights, the rural road gave the impression that they were driving across an uninhabited island of encroaching darkness. The Bronco’s headlights revealed the dashed line in front of them separating the two lanes of the road, narrow dirt and gravel shoulders on either side edged with tall grass and weeds. But beyond the reach of the headlights and immediately behind them, darkness ruled. The science geeks in school would probably love the lack of light pollution. Perfect for stargazing, they’d say. Fine, if you didn’t mind a swarm of bugs eating you alive.

Rather than gaze up at the stars, Kevin imagined what would happen if his father’s old Bronco broke down out in the boonies, and what a massive pain in the ass it would be to walk home. Because he had no doubt cell reception would suck—if it existed at all out here. No chance of calling a tow truck to rescue them from bugs-burg.

Radio stations had become few and far between. As one faded, the next was slow to come into range. His father worked the radio dial, searching for anything that sounded better than an annoying jumble of static punctuated with snippets of news programs or blips of top-forty radio. But static ruled the night.

“I can’t get reception on this thing,” his father grumbled, “ever since the antenna was bent at the car wash.”

“Maybe there’s nothing out here,” Kevin said.

“Oh, there are plenty of signals, believe me,” his father said. “I should’ve made the car wash pay for a new antenna.”

“On this car?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s old, Dad.”

“Vintage.”

“Fancy word for old,” Kevin said. “You could buy a new radio.”

“How many times—?” his father began. “It’s not the radio. It’s the antenna.”

“Whatever.”

“Now that I think about it, maybe you’re right,” his father said. “Maybe I can get them to pay for a new radio. That’s what I should have done. But no, try to be the nice guy. Oh, no big deal, just an antenna. Don’t worry about it, Mr Carwash Owner.”

Kevin chuckled. “You called him that?”

His father frowned. “No, of course not. Don’t know the man’s name. I just—didn’t want to make a fuss.” Sighing, his father gave up searching for a station and turned the static down to a soft buzz, hoping something would resolve. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Great, Kevin thought. First the radio craps out. What next? Maybe it’s a warning, a bad omen or something, that the Bronco is about to throw a rod or explode or something. Weird how the darkness—the complete isolation—made him worry. He’d heard the expression of whistling when you walked past a graveyard, a way to avoid dwelling on unpleasant thoughts. And Kevin kept circling back to the idea of the Bronco dying and him becoming an unwilling blood donor to the airborne bug population of Illinois, so he was happy to talk about his favorite subject. College football. “Can you believe that game?”

“Can’t win ’em all,” his father said, which seemed like someone ending an uncomfortable conversation.

“Imagine if they had won last week,” Kevin pressed on. “They got hit with that eighteenth-ranked offense, but they totally failed in ball protection. The season-worst marks of negative-eight rushing yards, 295 total yards and five turnovers.”

“When it rains it pours.”

“Five frigging turnovers,” Kevin said. “Doesn’t that get in your head?”

“You play the game, you gotta have short-term memory, Kev.”

“Yeah, right,” Kevin said, unwilling to give up on his argument. “Randall scored twenty-eight points off those takeaways, including twenty-one in the decisive second half.”

“They got rolling, never lost momentum,” his father said with a slight shrug, hands remaining on the steering wheel. “It happens.”

“Our guys completely lost confidence after that,” Kevin said. “Played scared. And if you play not to lose, what usually happens?”

“You lose!” they said in unison.

Static crackled through the speakers, rising above the low hum. His father turned up the volume and started punching buttons for preset stations, but they were probably still out of range. Frustrated again, his father worked his way up and down the dial, trying to find anything listenable.

“Let me try,” Kevin said. “You just… drive.”

“The hell you think I’m doing?” his father grumbled. “Been driving all damn day.”

Kevin had the image of his father, distracted by the radio, veering off the road into a ditch and busting an axle. Cue the bug swarms. So, he fiddled with the dial, trying to tune in music or a talk show. Hell, he’d settle for a weather report. Wispy patches of fog hung in the air on both sides of them, with some low over the road ahead, further reducing visibility.

For a moment or two, a man’s voice came through the speakers talking about bond yields and rising mortgage rates. Figures, he thought, a bunch of boring crap. But maybe it would calm his father down. “There—I’ve got someth—” A sharp burst of static swallowed the lone voice in the radio wilderness.

“Dammit!” his father said. “Can’t we just listen to the silence?”

“Sure, Dad,” Kevin began, looking up as his father happened to glance down at the radio, and seeing—

“Dad, look out!”

At the farthest reaches of the headlights stood a gaunt man wearing a white shirt over white trousers standing in the middle of the road. Initially, Kevin thought he was a ghost, as insubstantial as the patches of fog the Bronco passed through. But details formed quickly—wrinkles in the man’s shirt, smudges of dirt on his pant cuffs. Kevin’s father slammed on the brakes, swerving to avoid a direct hit. The Bronco skidded to a stop, with the driver’s side door inches from the placid man, who had made no attempt to avoid the collision. Like a deer in the headlights, Kevin thought. But it was more than shock, as if the man didn’t care what happened to him or didn’t believe the Bronco could hurt him. If Kevin had looked up a split second later…

“Christ,” his father said breathlessly, face pale, hands trembling on the wheel. “He came out of nowhere…”

But he’d been there the whole time the Bronco bore down on him, cloaked in fog and darkness until the headlights revealed him. Not behaving as a normal person would. “Something’s wrong with him, Dad.”

“Lucky he’s still alive,” his father said. “Why is he dressed like that? Like a dishwasher or an orderly?”

“Don’t know,” Kevin said. “Guess you could ask him.”

“Right,” Kevin’s father said, rolling down his window. His hands seemed a bit unsteady but no longer trembled. Looking out the window, he called, “What the hell happened to you, Hoss?”

The man focused on him for a moment. Then, distracted by something only he saw or heard, turned away without a word.

“Oh, shit,” Kevin said. “Dad, look.”

To their left, several men wandered aimlessly in the tall grass, like ghosts risen from a graveyard, dressed alike in white shirts and trousers. A few had the letters “S.G.” stenciled on their sleeves or pant legs. So, not their own initials. They looked confused or lost… or ill.

“Are they hospital patients?” Kevin asked.

“Here—now? What? A field trip at night?” his father said. “There’s no hospital near here. Unless…”

Kevin had a follow-up question but lost his train of thought when he spotted the transport bus, near a thicket of trees, as if it had veered off the road and rolled to a stop down the steep embankment. Under a canopy of tree branches, its emergency lights blinked.

“Look,” Kevin said, pointing. “By the trees.”

His father saw it, nodded. “Didn’t crash,” he said. “Probably broke down. But who’s in charge?”

Kevin shook his head.

“Stay here, Lumpy,” his father said, calling him by the nickname he hoped he’d outgrow before it became permanent. “I’ll check it out.”

Before climbing out of the Bronco, his father took a mag light from the glove box, then reached behind the front seats to grab one of their two hunting rifles from the hanging rack.

“Dad, what’s up with the rifle?”

“Nothing,” his father said quickly. “Better safe than sorry.”

The gaunt man had wandered away from the Bronco, back toward the wild grass and the other hospital patients. Kevin’s father strode past him toward the larger group, calling out, “Hey! You okay? You fellas all right? Need some help out here?”

“There’s no hospital near here. Unless…”

That one word, “unless,” lingered in Kevin’s mind. Whatever his father had chosen to keep from him seemed like something he should worry about. Maybe there were worse things than blood-sucking insects in the boonies. Praying he’d have a signal strong enough to make a call, Kevin took out his cellphone and checked the display. Low battery, but he had a few bars. He dialed 911. One bar flickered off. The line rang, the audio glitching as the digital signal tried to recover. Come on, he thought, willing the connection to—

Slap!

Something struck his window, jarring him.

“Jesus!”

He nearly dropped the phone—just as a calm voice rose from the tiny speaker.

Alarmed by the loud noise to his right, he turned his attention toward the window. One of the wandering apparitions stood on his side of the Bronco, meaty palm pressed to the tempered safety glass. Tearing his gaze away from the large hand, his focus shifted to the round face staring at him, smiling like a madman. He imagined the voice behind that smile saying, “Wanna come out and play?”

Unable to speak, Kevin shook his head.

Still smiling, the large man finally turned and wandered off.

Kevin saw a chain around his waist like a belt and what looked like an opened pair of handcuffs dangling from another chain attached to the belt.

The reassuring voice on the phone speaker gradually registered again, bringing Kevin back to the task at hand. “Yes? Hello? Yes,” he spoke quickly, afraid the emergency operator might decide he was a prank caller and hang up. “There’s been an accident or something… There’s a bus. People running around in the road…” Of course, she wanted to know where he was. “Lemme check.”

Kevin looked out the window. It was too dark behind the Bronco, nothing ahead within range of the headlights. An idea struck him, and he flipped on the high beams, expanding the range of the headlights. Raising the phone to his mouth, he said, “Yeah. Looks like mile 227.”

“Are you on Marla Road?” the operator asked.

“Yes. That back road just past Old Gibbs Bridge.”

“Is anyone injured?”

“My dad went to look. I don’t know. Hold on, I’ll go check…”

A quick scan of the area revealed nobody lurking near the Bronco, so he opened his door and stepped out. Without a flashlight of his own, he couldn’t be sure, but all the patients had vanished. He’d only been distracted on the phone for a few moments, yet the whole area seemed deserted—silent.

He called nervously, “Dad?”

No answer.

Where could—?

Of course, he realized. They must have gotten back on the bus. But what about his father? No sign of him either. Would he—?

“Unless…”

Kevin reached back into the Bronco and grabbed the other hunting rifle from the seat rack and clutched it in his sweaty palms. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. A few minutes ago, his biggest fear was biting insects. Now he wasn’t sure what they had stumbled into…

Eyes locked on the bus in front of him, its emergency lights winking at him, he crossed the road onto the shoulder, feeling the gravel shift and crunch underfoot. His next step took him into the tall grass and the unrelenting darkness beyond the illuminating cones of the Bronco’s headlights. Here the ground was uneven, littered with rocks—treacherous, if he had to run. Slow and steady and—

—an arm flailed out of the grass, the hand clutching his ankle.

Kevin gasped, stumbled—almost fell.

Eyes straining, he made out a dark uniform, a man with a hard face and a crewcut that made Kevin think: military. The man’s face was drawn, streaked with blood. He was dying. Kevin was certain of that. It seemed like he’d used the last of his strength to stop Kevin with his outflung arm.

“Help.”

Crouching, Kevin examined the man, who was covered in blood. Nametag on the chest pocket identified him as Kuneman. “The police are on their way,” he assured the man. Give him hope, maybe he can hold on. “What happened? Where’s my dad?”

Kuneman opened his mouth, muttered something unintelligible, then turned his head and spit up a clot of blood.

Is he bleeding internally? How bad is it? What’s happened? He’d tried to tell Kevin something, but his voice had been faint, too muddled for him to hear. “Can’t understand—” Kevin began.

Kuneman gurgled, more blood gushing out of his mouth.

Rising, Kevin said, “Wait there. I’ll get my dad.”

Kevin knew nothing about first aid, couldn’t help the man and couldn’t bear to stand there doing nothing while he bled to death. His father would know what to do. They’d figure something out until the police and an ambulance arrived.

“No,” Kuneman said, the sound coming out like a desperate cough. His hand flailed around, trying to clutch Kevin’s ankle again, but he’d stepped away too far for the dying man to reach him. “Run.”

Kevin thought he’d say more, but his head fell back, eyes rolling up as he passed out. For a moment, Kevin thought of checking for a pulse, to verify if Kuneman was dead or simply unconscious, but the idea freaked him out. Either way, there wasn’t anything he could do for the man. He looked around, straining to see in the darkness. This far from the Bronco, only the pulsing emergency lights of the bus helped reveal his surroundings.

He wiped each damp palm on his pants, then clutched the rifle high, aiming it now, but not seeing a target. Heart racing, he took one meticulous step after another, closing the distance between him and the bus, wondering if any second another hand would reach out and grab him.

Closer to the bus, he could finally see the lettering on the side, which read, ILLINOIS DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS. A prison bus…

“Dad?” he called, hoping his father would step off the bus and assure him the situation was under control, and tell him to go back to the Bronco and wait for the authorities. But he heard no reassurances. His old fear, the child’s fear of the dark, felt as real as ever at that moment, the monster under the bed, the Boogeyman lurking in the closet. As the open door of the bus loomed ahead, the years melted away. “Daddy?”

Raising the sights of the rifle close to his right eye, he stepped onto the dark bus and up the stairs, his weight eliciting a creak of metal.

Before he reached the top of the steps, he saw the bus driver, slumped over the large steering wheel. If the driver had had a heart attack, that would explain the bus veering off the road, rumbling to a stop by the trees. But something looked off, the driver’s neck…

He peered into the back of the bus, past the dead driver and a front section divided from the rear by a metal partition, which hung open. But nobody else was on the—

Then he noticed a man in a guard’s uniform sprawled on the floor, partially hidden by one of the seats, his exposed neck wet with blood.

“Oh, shit!” Kevin whispered, trembling. “Dad…?”

Sweeping the rifle barrel left to right and back again, he took a cautious step forward, then another, seeing noth—

A blur of motion as someone rose from under a seat.

“Don’t shoot.”

BLAM!

Inside the dark bus, the roar of the rifle was deafening.

The accented voice had spoken a split second too late. Fearing a disturbed patient—or prisoner—had been about to attack him in that sudden movement, Kevin’s index finger had convulsed on the trigger.

The shot hit the gray-haired man in the left shoulder, twisting his body.

Kevin suddenly realized the man wore a business suit—not patient scrubs or an inmate uniform. Then the man collapsed.

“Aw, ffff—”

He’d shot the guy in charge!

Panicked, Kevin ran, thundering down the bus steps, racing through the high grass, heedless of any grasping hands that might try to stop him, making a beeline for the Bronco. He stumbled once, felt his ankle rolling, recovered, crossed the shoulder of the road and ran to the driver’s side door. Fortunately, his father had left his keys in the ignition. Fumbling the door open, he tossed his rifle onto the vacant passenger seat and settled into the driver’s seat.

Kevin couldn’t recall where he’d left his phone. On the dash, he thought, but it wasn’t there. And he couldn’t remember if he’d closed the passenger door before checking the bus. Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Worry about it later.

He turned the key in the ignition. Though he didn’t have his license and was too young for a driver’s permit, he’d had a little experience behind the wheel when his father indulged his curiosity by letting him drive around an empty shopping center parking lot. Besides, the road was deserted. No other cars to hit. Take it slow and steady.

About to shift the car into drive, he adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced at the road behind him. The red glow of his taillights on the back window blotted out—

—as a dark shape rose from behind him.

His breath caught in alarm.

He glimpsed an emotionless face half cloaked in shadow—a dead left eye—a white tunic and—

Strong hands clamped around his throat, bearing down mercilessly until darkness bloomed around the edges of his vision, closing in…