Über Jason vs military batallion

"Okay," said Maloney. "I want fifty troops stationed at the end of Quadrant C."

He consulted the moving red dot on his corneal implant. "Subject Jason Voorhees last seen proceeding due east from the area of the med unit. Save your firepower until he's right on top of you. We don't know what kills him—we'll have to throw in the kitchen sink."

An eighteen year-old NeoAfrican-American in the front ranks snapped Maloney a salute. "Kitchen sink, sir. We hear you."

"Good. I want the second squadron to proceed north across the perimeter—your job is containment. Flamethrowers only. I don't want to see any heroics. Guide him, goad him, do what you have to do, but get that motherfcker in the line of fire and keep him there. Understood? I want this to be tight. Pincer formation. No fckups."

The squadron leader for Alpha Team B, a man named Etchison, saluted. The two groups jogged off to take their positions.

"Okay troops, I want everyone to engage eye-readers. Go to remote visual mode. Got it? See that red dot? That's our guy. And remember what the sarge said. Containment—no hero stuff. I don't want to see any lethal weaponry."

Flamethrowers puffing like anachronistic dragons, Alpha B swept by the tramping soldiers of Team Delta. Dressed head to toe in black jumpsuits, goggles strapped to their heads, Delta was on its way to secure the second floor. Delta's Team Leader made a totally unnecessary hand signal to indicate forward motion, accompanied by the grunted command, "Go, go, go!"

Delta's troops trotted up the spiral ladder that corkscrewed its way to the top of the building.

"Let's move!" yelled Etchison, inspired by the other squad's speed and efficiency. "Come on, get the lead out people!" What the soldiers saw first shocked and stunned them: the slaughterhouse of the Moon Camp dorms. Before anything else, as though in observation of ritual. Graffiti of arterial spray. Cryptic, oozing red letters in Aztec assembly code.

Bodies lay stacked on bunks like piles of cordwood; they hung from the ceiling, wrapped in multiple layers of cellophane, candelabras of smoking flesh. A mountain of astonished girl heads watched the TV in the lounge area. Disembodied eyeballs crawled down the walls like slugs. Arms still bearing wristwatches and neon bangles sat on a blanket of bloody feathers. Detached heads, jaws still animated by fading synaptic sputters, gave forth the latest gossip from the afterlife like a wretched yellow bile.

Two hardened grunts, guys who looked like they would weather the end of the world without much emotion, splashed green vomit in tandem over the scene. Etchison looked for a moment as though he were going to faint. But he couldn't let them see, let them know, the madness behind his eyes.

No. That would not do. Because then they would see the fear as well. And this simply would not do. Not the fear.

He coughed, squared his shoulders and brayed, "There he is!"

Jason Voorhees moved down Quadrant C in a dark, flaming silhouette. Over his shoulder he was carrying a girl's body, a bright pink nude except for knee socks. She was having tiny spasms. He shifted his weight to compensate. Jason snapped her neck in one long, clean movement like a freshly caught salmon.

"I want full flame, guys!" shouted Etchison, perpetuating the seafood metaphor. "It's lobster time.” A dozen troops stepped forward into the hallway, flamethrowers coughing long jets of fire. The flames streaked over Jason's body, oil on water.

The girl? Toast. Assaulted by the ripe, stinging smell of burning flesh, the men stepped back. Its aroma was not exquisite. The corpse was still hot. Blackened, bloody sludge trailed the victim.

"Again!"

Crisscrossing trajectories, the soldiers caught Jason in a firestorm. The air began to boil like metal straight from the static irite foundries of Be-Tang.

"Stop! Hold fire! We're losing oxygen." A haze of heat distortion rippled over Jason's metallic flesh. He stumbled slightly and dropped the girl. She resembled a mannequin. Often, one does. After the accidental barbecue, that is. Scorched earth prophesies from the elder ones. Thick, blackish smoke rolls through the hallway. Much like the effects of the dark molasses.

"Die, fcker, die!”

The soldier had emerged from the ranks with a shoulder-mounted grenade launcher. Etchison was unprepared for a renegade volunteer.

“Soldier, stop immediately! Put down your weapon!"

He didn't seem to hear. The grenade disappeared into the smoke. Detonated. Bright orange afterburn.

"Soldier, what the fck is wrong with you? Stand down!”

The man was crazed. His sister had been among the dorm dead, hung upside down like a broken doll from the cafeteria ceiling. When he saw the monster, something Snapped in his head. The tight restraint of military training pulled apart like weakened elastic.

This was personal. The beast would have to pay.

"I want that man restrained!" yelled Etchison over the tumult. Two grunts grabbed the renegade soldier and buckled him into a body bag, sealing it with strips of nanobar. "Ace of Spades, dudes," said one. "Only fcking card ya need! Whoo hoo!”

"Not like that, damn it! Give him some oxygen!”

The grunts obliged, tossing a portable air tank into the bag and resealing it. "We'll have to deal with that one later, there's no time. Fck only knows what damage he's caused."

They crossed themselves up and down. Mr Fck was a sick, scary son of a btch.

Comme d'habitude, Jason was neither dead, nor injured, nor even badly shaken. Nevertheless, the grenade propelled him the last few steps to the end of the Quadrant. Where a little something calling themselves "Team A” awaited.

"Fire at fcking will!" shouted Team A's leader, Sturgeon.

Invisible bullets whistled and clanged, streaked and skittered over the walls. Affecting very little, actually. Jason's armor bounced them right back.

"Repeat fire!” yelled Sturgeon, who relied on sheer volume for most contingencies in life.

“Photon guns, ready! And fire!”

Straw bullets completed their mission of aimless damage, punching out windows and slicing through the iridescent tubes of track lighting that lined the hallway. Thick yellow goop oozed from the ruined tubes. Hissed in steaming puddles on the floor. Showers of glass rained down on Team B, which was trapped in the smoking darkness. It appeared as though the mission had not been thoroughly coordinated. Headaches induced by close examination of drawings by MC Escher. Packets of compressed photon bullets glanced off Jason's body and redounded on the soldiers.

“Fck, my arm!" yelled a grunt as the light bullet tore through his upper body.

Bite me, Jason's body would Say if it spoke. But Jason has no need for speech. While not a strong suit, Jason might reach back in his early memory for a rudimentary language, a thing of gasps, grunts and sudden fetal tyrannies in the manner of Richard the Third. Jason has no need for speech. He is Mr Fuck. The Endgame Man. The guy who says, “This is the final fucking floorshow. It's over. You will never leave hell again."

A gibbering composite of avant-garde stereotypes. Another boomeranging bullet tore off his arm completely, cleaving it to a useless hank of muscles, tendons, veins and nerve fibers. He fell sideways, trampled underfoot. Jason, however, was not affected.

The most the soldiers could do was freeze him to the spot, stop his advance-no more. Sturgeon looked puzzled.

"Why doesn't he die? Why doesn't he die?" he repeated. He looked genuinely baffled.

Milton's outcast Lucifer, Jason stepped through a pool of nacreous melted shrapnel. He caught Sturgeon by the neck. Wrung him out like a motherfckin' chicken. Using the man's torso for leverage, Jason twisted off Sturgeon's head, caromed it into the troops.

Shitting and pissing themselves in terror, the stalwart men of Alpha Team A retreated before Jason's advance. Sturgeon's head, his mouth frozen in a bemused mask, rolled behind his squadron's stamping boots.

         Jason X: Death Moon - Chapter 13