A Nightmare Reborn

A NIGHTMARE REBORN: FREDDY VS. JASON 2

CHAPTER 05

BASED UPON CHARACTERS CREATED BY:

Wes Craven: A Nightmare on Elm Street

Victor Miller: Friday the 13th

John Carpenter: Halloween

Victor Salva: Jeepers Creepers

Clive Barker: Candyman, Hellraiser

CREATIVE CONSULTANTS:

Sean Renaud, Tessa Alexander and Miriam Belle

EDITOR:

Miriam Belle

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

-"This chapter is a little longer than usual, but I had a lot to fit in. And, as always any kids in the story are eighteen or just turned eighteen. Enjoy!" –bluefox07

***

THE CENTER DOES NOT HOLD...

Sunday, May 15th, 2005

"Fuck yes... just like that," Heather Craven moaned against the back seat of her boyfriend's SUV as he pounded her from behind, his cock stretching her ass out with each powerful thrust. Her tits swayed back and forth as they fucked, his hand slapping her ass like he was some kind of cowboy busting in a wild bronco.

"You fucking love it," Corey Cunningham growled through his gritted teeth as he slammed her. He slapped her ass again hard, a growing red welt forming on her left cheek from his enthusiastic encouragement. He looked down at his body, twisting and working like a powerful, well-oiled machine. His cock rapidly sped in and out of her like one of the pistons in the engine of his beloved vehicle. He was almost as turned on by his own body as he was by Heather's shapely figure.

They had pulled off the interstate into Elm Grove and parked in the bushes near the end of the long back road called Saxon Avenue. Cars and semi-trucks ran busily on the hillside above them as they went about their business, the vehicle rocking back and forth in the rainy afternoon. The plan had initially been to go back to his place in Springwood but when they hit the roadblock, it was back to Elm Grove. This would have been fine except for the fact that Heather's mom and dad were home and fucking in her bedroom would have been a death wish.

They had been gone since last night, camping on a dare to Crystal Lake. Corey had never turned down a dare in his life, but when Mickey Terrell challenged him to go camping at Crystal Lake for one night, he had been hesitant. Camp Blood was aptly named, and Corey knew that going there was like putting a gun in your mouth to play Russian Roulette, only instead of one loaded round you used all six. But, being the guy he was Corey also had an image to maintain. He couldn't have the entire senior class thinking he was a pussy.

The night had turned out to be uneventful, if anything colder than usual. Both he and Heather had expected Jason Voorhees to come after them with his machete and hack them up but it never happened. Corey kept telling himself it was all legend and urban mythology. But he knew what had happened there two years back during his sophomore year. He remembered hearing about how they had found two seniors, Charlie Linderman and Kia Waterson there dead. Linderman, one of the biggest geeks ever to walk the halls of Springwood High had been found with a nasty puncture wound in his back. Kia was found nearly cut in half and with the base of her skull cracked.

He had always wondered why the popular "it" girl was found dead with the class nerd. A lot of rumors and speculation floated around, but in the end no one really had any answers. It was a shame. Corey had really liked Kia, and she had liked him. They had spent a lot of time making Linderman's life a living hell. Corey had even come to believe that if Kia hadn't died at Camp Blood, she might've even slept with him. She was always flirting with him, and he couldn't bring himself to believe that she would see Charlie Linderman over him.

It had to be some crazy fluke. Hell, for all anyone knew all those rumors about Jason Voorhees might've just been to cover up the fact that Linderman went ape shit out there and tried to kill Kia. Corey had always believed it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for, and Linderman had been fairly quiet. But then he also wasn't very strong either, and cleaving someone to the point of dismemberment takes more than a little strength.

Still, Jason Voorhees or not Corey and his girlfriend went to Camp Blood anyway. He was so scared of bumping into the infamous killer he "borrowed" his father's shotgun and hid it in his sleeping bag. Normally, being alone with Heather would have meant a round of sexual Olympics, but his anxiety was so high his penis was about as rigid as a bowl of pudding. Heather wouldn't close her eyes at all as they waited in the tent, not really sleeping but rather frozen solid in fear.

Heather had only gone along with it because, like Corey, she also had an image to maintain. The captain of the football team was fearless, and by God so should be the head of the cheerleading squad. When six o' clock that morning rolled around, they had both packed up and gotten the hell out of there. The mist was thick and viscous when they left, and neither of them had said a word until they were safe from the lake and back on the interstate heading from Springwood.

As proof of their visit to Camp Blood, Corey had climbed up onto the roof of one of the cabins and grabbed an old wooden sign. The words "Crystal Lake" were routed into the waterlogged and moldy wood, but it was still clearly legible. He had only seen it because a squirrel had squeaked in the tree branches above him and scared the shit of him. Following the jump and tumble of his knee-jerk reaction he spied the corner of the old sign and made it a point to grab it. Now, the sign was under the back seat of the SUV along with their camping gear and most of their clothes.

"Go easy baby," Heather grunted as he slapped her ass again.

Corey smiled and rammed his rod in harder. This was their victory fuck, a celebration of not having been killed. He intended to enjoy it, whether she did or not.

Then, from out of the culvert that ran under the width of the four lane interstate came a hulking, dark figure. It was dripping wet and wheezing in the rainy air, wisps of steam rolling off the tattered clothes. Carrion breath escaped from powerful lungs in heavy puffs of thick mist. Impassive eyes regarded the rocking vehicle carefully, studying it as the hulk quietly came up along the passenger side of the vehicle.

Jason Voorhees slowly looked into the fogged over window and saw with his keen eyes the broad backside of a young man. The boy's buttock's were flexing and unflexing rapidly as his hips thrusted and pounded the girl in front of him. Jason knew what they were doing. He had seen it many times before. It was always a curiosity to him, the animalistic nature of their habits.

He only really associated it with the bad thing the counselors had been doing when he drowned so long ago. This was what they had been doing when he died. This was what had been far more important than a little boy drowning. Jason remained still as he felt the anger stir inside him. In truth, it wasn't just his rage but the rage of his mother as well.

It was a righteous anger.

He then saw something sticking out from under the seat on which the girl braced herself. He recognized the mold and woodwork of the Camp Crystal Lake entry sign. It was the sign he had torn from the posts that greeted counselors and children to the lake. He had launched it away from him and watched it land on the roof of one of the cabins. There it had remained for years. The rage boiled inside him as he contemplated it. His eyes shifted back to the boy as his lips peeled away from rotted teeth behind his hockey mask.

Jason gripped the handle of his machete.

"Fuck yeah, bitch," Corey shouted, his voice loud even though muted through the glass. Jason cocked his head, understanding the significance of the domineering attitude and yet perplexed as to why the girl was remotely aroused by it. Jason unsheathed his machete and thought of the sign again. They had been to the lake. They had violated the special place that only he and his mother knew. And they had stolen from him.

"You like that, don't you bitch?" Corey hissed as he slapped her full ass cheeks again.

Heather rolled her eyes, and in between his rhythmic pounding, said, "Don't... call... me...a... bitch..."

"Shut the fuck up," Corey thrust a little harder, and Heather felt pain.

"That hurt, you asshole!" she yelled as she made to pull away from him, "I'm done, Romeo."

Corey forcefully grabbed her and turned her back into position, his hands painfully tight on her. "We're done when I say we're done, got it?"

"What the fuck is your problem?" she yelled as she struggled against him. She turned, felt him slide out with a wet pop and covered her breasts with her arms. Her long black hair hung wetly against her face as she glared at him with her bright green eyes.

"My problem is you're being impossible," he growled and made to grab her again.

"You grab me again and I'll bust your balls, Corey," she warned him.

"You need to watch your mouth," he spat, and before he could raise his hands, the side window behind him exploded inward. Plexi-glass showered the interior of the vehicle as Corey was shoved forward. Heather screamed and scooted back against the seat, covering her face as the shards sprayed her and Corey. She heard a muffled scream from her boyfriend, and chanced uncovering her face. Her eyes widened and she found no air in her lungs to vocalize her terror.

Two large hands had covered Corey's head, completely hiding it from view. His naked body was shaking and his hands were pounding against the powerful grip of his attacker. The veins and chords in his neck were bulging out, his hips twisting and penis flopping about wildly. She could hear a muffled cracking sound. It reminded her of when she had eaten lobster on her sixteenth birthday, a strange wet crunch amplified to the power of ten. Blood began to seep through the powerful, gloved fingers as Corey's head compressed and shattered.

"Help me!" he screamed, his voice high like that of little girl, "Get the fucking gun and shoot himmmaughh!"

Heather began crying hysterically, frozen in fear as Corey screamed in pure agony and then was abruptly silenced. There was a final snap and dull crunch as his skull caved in under the vice-like grip of Jason Voorhees. The contents of his brain exploded all over the inside of the SUV in a shower of gore. Corey's hands, which had been the means of delivering so many legendary football plays and touchdowns, went limp at his sides.

A chunk of something hot and gristly landed on her face. Heather picked it off her cheek with fingers that shook badly. Her stomach began to heave and her paralysis broke. She scrambled to unlock the door closest to her. The handle wouldn't give, and she realized that the locks were child proofed. She screamed and tried to climb into the front seat, her bare body slipping against the blood-soaked upholstery.

The SUV rocked violently to the passenger side as Jason yanked the body of Corey Cunningham out the broken window. His shoulders caught for a moment in the frame, too wide to pass. Jason gave the body another mighty tug and the collarbone shattered. From the corner of her eye, Heather saw her boyfriend's body roll and ricochet off the frame of the window before disappearing from her sight. A giant bloody hand pistoned in from the broken window and grabbed her leg.

"Oh Jesus help me!" Heather cried out as she quietly sought forgiveness for having gone to Crystal Lake. She knew who it was attacking her. She didn't need to see him to know. As her left leg was crushed in the grip of the killer, she cried out and began kicking with her right.

"Help me!" she screamed.

Her mind toppled off into the abyss as she felt the still warm remains of Corey's broken face and brain slide beneath her naked skin with a thick, meaty wetness. She managed to grip the steering wheel and there was a moment when she thought she might actually escape him. Then, she was jerked back hard. Her hands struggled for purchase as she was dragged through the window. Shards of plexi-glass broke off in her skin and she was pulled through the hole in the same manner as Corey had been. Heather fell to the ground with a heavy thud that knocked the wind out of her lungs.

Standing above her was the gigantic frame of Jason Voorhees. She could smell the rot of his body and the ungodly radiance following years of unchecked body odor. He was foul and rancid as he towered over her. His hockey mask was like a ghostly demon's face in the rain as he coldly regarded her. Heather finally sucked the air back into her body and gasped, screaming, "Please! We're so sorry! Please no!"

Jason gripped the door handle and opened the door wide. He grabbed the Camp Crystal Lake sign and held it in one hand as he held his machete in the other. He looked at the sign and then glared down at her. Heather began crawling backwards but then bumped into Corey. She bit her lip as she felt his still warm body against her back. He was slick and wet, and she knew it wasn't just the rain.

"Please let me go," Heather sobbed as rain pelted her naked body, "Please."

Jason raised the sign up in the air and the drove it down hard. She made to scream again, but was silenced as the wooden sign smashed through the middle of her face, splitting her skull open. The dull edge crushed cartilage and bone alike as it passed through and then lodged in the gravel-peppered soil. The force of the impact literally popped one of her eyeballs out, sending it into the air along with a spray of brain fluid and ropy veins. The remains landed with a quiet splash yards away, her spoiled eyeball rolling a few more feet and then coming to a rest near the roadside blacktop.

Jason's barrel chest heaved in the heat of the moment as he looked down at her and then at the boy. He sheathed his machete and after a moment of reflection, turned and continued on his way. He stayed in the bushes and the trees along the road as rain fell harder and harder. He could feel the dream killer was here somewhere.

Jason hated the dream killer more than anything. His was the only name Jason had ever been able to remember. Even his own mother he could not recall. He knew what she looked like, he could remember what she sounded like but he could not remember her name. But he could remember the name of the dream killer.

Freddy Krueger.

***

Rain fell in thick, relentless sheets as the lone police cruiser turned onto Elm Street. In the distance, sirens and the bass reverberations of the armory at the police station exploding rolled like thunder across the sky. Elm Street seemed to be undisturbed by this, remaining as silent and secretive as it always had been. Perhaps there had been a time when the street played host to the families and picturesque homes of Springwood happily, even enthusiastically giving it a glow only Middle Americans could truly appreciate. Before the evil that was Fred Krueger laid special claim to Elm Street and all those who lived there, it was a great place call home.

Now, it was in its death throes. But to understand that death, so long in the coming, so prolonged and staved off by the good people of Springwood who chose to fight rather than succumb, it's necessary to under the history. If one had been privy to knowing those that determined the ultimate of the town, one might have known that Springwood had been close to death since Freddy Krueger first infected the heart of the community.

It was a dark secret, a hidden disease that rotted and festered inside the morale of the population. Even killing Krueger, immolating him in his own lair with the blessing of a decidedly moral final justice didn't cure the ailment. Those that committed the act lived day to day with the responsibility of their brutal act, as necessary as it was. Some, like Marge Thompson fell into vice to deal with it. Her alcoholism was well known but kept away from the world. Others, men like Clyde Lantz, fell into depression and ended it all.

Everyone else who hadn't lit the fires that killed Krueger simply looked the other way, not wanting the blood of a child killer on his or her hands. In the end though, the good people of Springwood only attacked and killed half the problem, relieving the symptoms of Freddy's evil for a while.

There had been a time once before in the late nineties when Springwood had almost died, the heart of the town blackened and putrefied by Krueger. He spread like a virus unhindered by anti-bodies or medicines strong enough to kill him. For the children of Springwood he was a terminal affliction. But for the parents, he was a maddening illness of the mind.

In the aftermath of his killing spree that claimed every child within the city limits, the population was reduced to raving lunatics and head cases. They were the parents left destroyed in the wake of Freddy Krueger's murderous reign. The streets were left cluttered with trash while noble houses fell into disrepair. The children were all gone, taken in the night by an evil the adults could no more understand than they could see the air around them. A few of them realized the truth, shouting it from the street corners and the empty classrooms like religious zealots convinced the end of the world had finally come. But the parents of Elm Street, the original lynch mob that knew the truth, were all but gone. Everyone else was too afraid to speak.

In the following months the feeling amongst the local government changed from disbelief to outright fear. Those who had heard of Freddy Krueger and initially dismissed it as mass hysteria were now silent having experienced a conversion to belief in the impossible. What worried the men and women who were privy to the truth wasn't that no one would believe them about what happened but rather that people would believe.

The one conclusion everyone had agreed on was that Freddy used fear as his source of power. An unknowing nation could easily spread fear of him like an airborne virus. People would hear his name and read about him, or ask about who he was. Once they realized he was a killer and he was rumored to be able to come after people in their dreams, the fear would intensify. And all Krueger needed was enough fear of him to invade dreams. They feared he would spread beyond the borders of Springwood, Ohio to the rest of the country.

So they engineered an elaborate cover-up. Freddy Krueger had to be forgotten. He had to be erased.

That's what the many judges, politicians and policemen told themselves as they mopped up Springwood and covered up the legacy of Freddy Krueger. The hope that he could simply be faded out by ignoring him was attractive to everyone. Nobody wanted to lose any more children to him. It was the driving thought behind the lie they told themselves, that if they could only find a way to make people forget the truth there would be peace.

And they did find a way to suppress him, though it did not last long. A disease can't be killed by ignoring it.

When governor of Ohio requested a secret council be formed to repair the damage to Springwood, his staff assembled a team of experts from all over the country. Most were people who had experience in the world of paranormal phenomenon, but the core of the brain trust was composed of those who knew Freddy Krueger best. It turned out to be a short list, as mostly everyone who had dealt with the killer ended up dead.

Sheriff Thomas Williams, who had taken the position shortly after Springwood went belly up in '91, was the de facto leader of the group. He had seen the fall of Springwood as a deputy and had tried to keep order as mass hysteria flooded the town as though some dam had been broken. He saw children killed in their sleep, hacked up and brutally murdered. His initial disbelief was quickly dissolved as he realized the raving parents of Springwood were right. Freddy Krueger was real.