Chapter Text
Howie awoke with a start, sitting up from his lying position, the sheet falling from his face and into his lap. Immediately he noticed a pressure in his lungs. He began to cough hard, causing clots of black, coagulated blood mixed with lead pellets to spew into his open hand and the pristine sheet covering the lower half of his body.
When his coughing fit ended, he wiped the blood and spit from his mouth before using the now sullied sheet to clean the blood from his hands.
Tossing the sheet to the side, he swung his feet over the side of the metal table his body had been resting on, taking but a moment to realize where he was.
The morgue.
Remembering his gruesome demise, he clutched at his chest, searching for any remnants of the wound. He found none, save for the many rips and tears from the shotgun blast, and a large stain of mostly dried blood.
To his dismay, his coveted jacked had not been spared from the spill of the metallic fluid. Hopefully, it was nothing a little hydrogen peroxide couldn't fix.
His grief was cut short by the sound of a door closing behind him.
He turned to see a young man in scrubs gaping at him, eyes wide as if he had seen a ghost. Well, in a way, he had.
The two remained in unmoving, eyes locked together, for mere moment.
"Hey." Howie offered, maintaining a tone of casualty, as if seeing a previously dead man on his feet was an every day occurrence.
A bolt of terror seemingly striking the poor man, he made for the door.
But Howie, quickly discovering his new abilities, was faster.
He had a decision to make here. Even if he tried to convince the man to keep his status as undead under wraps, once he left the morgue he had no way of knowing if he would tell anyway.
Howie had no idea where Jason was or if he was OK. He had no time to be detained and taken in for questioning.
This young man was standing in between him and his mission.
Taking the man firmly by the collar of his shirt, Howie drug him toward the metal table he had awoken on, where a tray of instruments for performing autopsies sat beside it.
He grabbed a scalpel, placed his hand over the man's mouth and, with one swift movement, sliced open his throat.
The man sank to his knees, desperately grasping at the bleeding wound on his throat, the wet gurgles of a dying man echoing throughout the room until he finally collapsed onto his side, unmoving.
Nausea bubbled up in Howie's stomach as he looked upon the still warm corpse, having second thoughts about his actions.
He would have gotten in our way, dear. We need to find Jason before it's too late. We can't afford any delays.
The familiar voice echoed through Howie's head, snapping him out of his state of regret.
Don't worry dear. I won't be in your head forever.
Pamela's reassurance made him realize that she could hear what he was thinking. This revelation was why he wasn't surprised when she answered the next question on his mind.
You're right. You can hear me now because Jason can no longer. Something has happened that has caused him to stop listening to me. We have to find him before something happens. My sweet boy can never die, but he can be hurt very badly.
Howie heaved the dead man over his shoulder, fresh blood now regrettably mingling with the dried stain already on his clothes, but nevertheless still amazed at his newfound strength.
He placed the body onto the autopsy table, arranging his limbs so that he lie straight.
He glanced at the blood-covered sheet that had once covered his own lifeless body, but realized that it would be a dead giveaway.
Check in the closet, dear.
Heeding Pamela's suggestion, he opened the closet to find a few clean sheets and even some cleaning supplies.
He grabbed a clean sheet and neatly draped it over the body, now turning his attention to the puddle of blood on the tile floor.
He returned to the closet and grabbed the bottle of bleach spray and a roll of paper towels.
After using nearly three quarters of the roll, the floor no longer showed any trace of the red liquid it had previously been tarnished with.
Stashing the damp, deep red stack of paper towels as well as the dirtied sheet in the back of the closet, Howie made his way to the door, opening it a crack and waiting for the right moment to make his escape.
--
After sneaking around the morgue, Howie soon found himself in what appeared to be a locker room, filled with spare lab coats and scrubs.
A plan began to formulate within his mind as he eyed the garments and, with Pamela egging him on, he put into action.
The scrubs slipped over his clothes quite well, and the long white coat helped conceal his jacket.
He stood before the door, psyching himself up to do what he had to do.
Just walk straight for the front door. Keep your head down, don't look at or talk to anyone. Just keep walking until you're out of here.
Howie adjusted his glasses, swallowed hard, and confidently twisted the knob and pushed open the door.
He walked in a straight line down the hallway, swerving only occasionally to avoid a passing employee, maintaining his downward gaze the whole time.
As he passed one pair of chatting workers, he overheard a conversation that nearly made him stop in his tracks.
"Did you hear about the killings?"
"Oh, you mean the massacre last night over at Camp Blood?"
"No! The one at the boat rental place a few miles off the camp! It was called in this morning, apparently some poor bastard went in and found the ladies who owned it butchered!"
"Gee, do you think the two are connected?"
The rest of the conversation trailed off as Howie went further and further away from the two.
It must have been Jason. Oh no... He's heading towards town!
Howie swallowed hard. He knew Jason could handle his own against a few mostly unarmed people, but against a whole town filled with police officers and armed citizens?
As he finally reached the front of the building, he overheard a man arguing with the woman at the front desk as well as a police officer. He decided to linger for just a moment longer.
"I'm telling you, it's Jason! It has to be! I never finished him off and he's back!"
"I've told you, the body we brought in was that of some tranny, not Jason Voorhees. Just some nutcase trying to recreate the massacre is all." an irritated woman said to the man.
A sly smile crept it's way onto Howie's face. They were really pinning it all on him.
Finally having enough, the officer cuffed the man before beginning his escort to the officer's vehicle.
Howie turned around at the right moment, causing him to slam into the young man and allowing him to get a good look at him.
He bore a slightly disheveled appearance, his light brown hair fallen out of place from it's usual combed look. This, however, hardly took away from his rather attractive boyish features.
He wore a well-loved denim jacked with faux fur lapels over a flannel shirt. He stood a few inches taller than Howie, causing the latter to have to tilt his head upward to meet the man's panicked pale green eyes.
"Sorry about that." Howie said with a foreboding smile. They held their gaze for a moment longer before the man was hauled out the door by the officer with an exasperated grunt of "Let's go, Jarvis."
Howie slid the man's keys into his pocket as he watched them leave, feeling but a pang of guilt, as well as another feeling he couldn't quite place.
It was strange, he felt a connection to the man... Jarvis, as the officer had called him. Maybe, in another life, they could have something together.
But his feelings for Jason were far stronger than ones elicited by a brief meeting with a stranger.
After being shaken from his thoughts by Pamela, he made his way out the door and into the parking lot. He spotted an old pickup truck which had definitely seen better days. With a sneaking suspicion that this was the man's vehicle, Howie slipped the keys out of their place in his pocket and tried inserting the big one into the lock on the truck's door.
Bingo.
He hopped into the passenger seat and buckled himself in. As he went to put the key in the ignition, he noticed something on the dashboard.
A police scanner.
Double bingo.
He would easily be able to track Jason's trail of bloodshed with it.
Starting the vehicle, he felt a spark of hope in his chest. A life with Jason was within reach.
He just hoped he remembered how to drive a stick.