It had been ridiculously easy to get Marlowe into bed. He had not been with a woman in over a year and seemed amazed that she really wanted him. She was not experienced with men, since she had only ever been with James, and it had been her father's decision to marry them. She had never deliberately seduced a man in her life and she found it perversely delicious. Touching his big hand, his barrel chest, looking up into his pure blue eyes; showing him that she wanted him, all these things were new and exciting to Val. He was so much more of a man than James had been, and he made her feel things she had never felt before. When they lay together, spent and sweat-slick in each other's arms, she decided that she would stay there with Marlowe. If she went back to the States, she would surely be arrested and put back in that hellish prison. She would not allow that to happen. She and Marlowe could be safe here. Build a wall. Have babies. Be happy.

Val had almost drifted off to sleep when a stealthy sound woke her suddenly. Her hand searched for the .45 before she was fully awake, and her body rolled away and out of the bed as a blur of movement came down swiftly behind her. But her hand found only the small metal rectangle of Marlowe's Zippo lighter. In her foolish state of arousal, she had left her rifle and .45 in the main room with the other equipment and her clothes. The only weapon in the room was Marlowe's machete, and it was on his side of the bed. Stupid. She was naked and unarmed, crouching to face her attacker, but it was not another infected person.

It was Jason. The one in the hockey mask the others had been talking about. Val had never really believed all those crazy stories, but looking at the unbendable nearly seven foot tall truth of him, she had no choice but to believe.

The hulking nightmare in the white mask held the handle of a rusty pitchfork. The tines of the fork were buried in Marlowe's throat. Thick droplets of dark blood dripped from Jason's eye and fingertips, splashing down on Marlowe's face and chest. Marlowe was making a horrible gurgling sound like water going down a partially clogged drain. Val felt a kind of horrible, icy fury gush through her body. How could this happen when everything was falling into place? Why was everything she cared about taken away?

She did not make a sound as Jason yanked back the pitchfork and Marlowe's big body began to convulse and shudder. She sucked in a deep breath and turned to run. She closed the door behind her and made for the main room. Val found Stella at the other end of the hallway, dressed and armed, eyes wide in the light cast by her flashlight.

"Val, get dressed," Stella said. "Jason is here. The tracking device—"

"No shit," Val said. "He killed Marlowe." She reached for her pants and her machete. "Come on," she said, slipping into her pants, tucking the Zippo into her hip pocket for luck. "We can't leave him like that."

"Right," Stella said. "I'll cover you.

The two of them crept back down the hallway toward the closed door. Val had not bothered to put on her shirt and her bare skin prickled with goose bumps. There was no noise coming from the room. The door was unlocked, yet it remained closed. Val put her ear to the door.
No sound.

Val motioned with her chin for Stella to cover her. Stella nodded and then Val kicked the door open and raised the machete above her head.

The room was empty. There was a huge congealing lake of blood on the bed and sloppy streaks across the floor, leading to the window. The screen had been torn away and the ragged edges flapped in the light breeze. The pitchfork was still there, lying beside Marlowe's discarded pile of clothing. Marlowe's machete was gone.

   Friday the 13th: The Jason Strain, chapter 26