The instant the pickup veered out of control, Jason shot out of the vehicle like a human missile. His feet, his legs and his body all slid onto the dirt in swift succession, only for his hockey mask to get caught on a jutting piece of metal where the fender used to be. And suddenly he was being dragged full length behind the truck. His limbs shook and thrashed over each bump and hole in the road. Sparks flew up from the heels of his boots, columns of dust mushroomed all around him, and his twitching, juddering frame was center stage in Kyler's one good headlamp.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. At long last she had found the man who had killed her mother: Jason Voorhees was real.

"Watch out!" cried Tolleson.

But the sight of Jason had distracted Kyler long enough for her to miss the sharp right bend. She wrenched at the wheel but the car was already committed. The pickup disappeared round the corner of the hillside, pulling Jason with it like a hogtied bandit, but the Chrysler went flying over the edge. All four wheels left the ground and the FBI agents found themselves falling towards a slope of dense pinewood.

Back up on the road, the sudden turn had caused the rear of the pickup to yank sideways, and had sent the travel bag spinning past Jason's head. The fabric carrier tumbled in the red glow of the receding taillights and bounced along the dirt before catching on a stray branch and ripping wide open.

Tolleson screamed as the automobile rolled over to meet the serried treetops of the forest. Pine needles lashed through the windshield, his body was jostled by the pinball descent. From the moment they'd left the road, his life had turned into a game of cards: and until the vehicle stopped moving, he wouldn't know if he was pulling twenty-one or bust.

Sitting in the open bag, the head of Pamela Voorhees was bathed in glorious moonlight...

And Jason was no longer the rag doll in the exhaust. His body stiffened and he frantically reached round for whatever it was that was holding onto his mask. He lifted his legs and tried to run with the scrolling of the road, but his boots slipped on the sandy earth and his lower body swayed in an outstretched wave like a sidewinder with a V8 engine up its ass. And yet slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his arms and clamped them on the top of the bed. Then, almost as if he were bench pressing three hundred and fifty pounds behind his head, he raised himself just enough to unhook the mask from the twisted shard. The feat seemed impossible, yet Jason continued to defy possibility.

Next he placed one hand on the side of the truck and then climbed up onto the trailer. For all the distance he'd just been dragged, and for all the jolts that would have broken any other man's neck, Jason stood victorious on the back of Freely's pickup, seemingly unaffected by the vehicle's lurching, haphazard motion.

   Friday the 13th: Carnival of Maniacs, chapter 14