Marilyne Monroe's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Marilyne shoved through the back door and the cold swallowed her whole. No path. No moon. Just black trees pressing close on every side. Behind her, boots hammered the porch. Mitchell's voice cut the dark. "Left! Stay left!" She didn't know left from anything. She ran anyway, coat flapping, bare feet slamming frozen dirt. Branches raked her arms. She heard the machete thud into wood behind her, then Mitchell fired twice. The shots cracked loud, then nothing. She glanced back once. A wide shape moved between the trees, mask pale in the dark, machete low. Jason. He didn't run. He walked, and he was still gaining. "Keep moving!" Mitchell caught her elbow and hauled her forward. He fired again over his shoulder. "Crimson, I've got no angle, he's in the trees!" The radio hissed and died. Marilyne's lungs burned. She was lost, blind, and the killer had all the time in the world. Then light stabbed through the woods ahead. White and blue, spinning. She smelled exhaust. She broke the tree line and stumbled onto a gravel road. A police cruiser sat idling there, roof lights turning, doors open. A cop crouched behind the open door, pistol braced across it. He was young, round-faced, and his hands were steady even though his eyes were huge. "Down! Get down!" he shouted at her. "Behind the car!" Marilyne dove past him and hit the gravel. Mitchell came out of the trees a step behind and dropped beside the cruiser, breathing hard. "Lieutenant Mitchell, army. That thing killed my radio and half my night." "Officer Morrison," the cop said, not looking away from the trees. "Heard your shots. Where is he?" Jason stepped out of the dark. He stopped at the edge of the road, machete hanging from one fist, and looked at the three of them like he had nowhere to be. Morrison and Mitchell fired together. The rounds punched into Jason's chest and shoulder. He rocked back a step. He did not fall. He swung the machete up and started walking straight into the gunfire. "He's not stopping!" Morrison's voice cracked. "Get in the car!" Marilyne scrambled into the back seat. Mitchell threw himself in front. Morrison ducked behind the wheel and stamped the gas before his door shut. The cruiser fishtailed on the gravel and shot down the road. Marilyne twisted around. Jason stood in the red taillights, shrinking, unhurried, watching the car go. She sagged against the seat. Warm air blew from the vents. She had a road under her now, and two armed men, and four walls of steel around her. Then the headlights swept a bend and caught three men on the shoulder. They clung together, bloody and limping, waving their arms at the car. One had a bandaged arm. Their mouths shaped one word she could read through the glass: help. Morrison hit the brakes.