Smoke rose from the wrecked Greyhound bus. The vehicle had crashed off the side of the Arizona desert road and all the passengers were dead. However, only two of them had been killed by the accident itself; everyone else had been torn into body parts by the passenger they should never have stopped to pick up.

Jason walked from the debris, oblivious to the tree of grief he'd just planted. He'd crushed the driver's head and massacred everybody on board, as soon as he boarded the bus. Now he was back on foot, trudging north-east in a pitiless diagonal of death.

   Friday the 13th: Carnival of Maniacs, epilogue