Marilyne Monroe ran barefoot through the black woods, and every breath told her Jason Voorhees was still coming. She wore only a bikini. Her friends had scattered when he broke the cabin door, and she hadn't stopped since. The cold ate at her skin. Her feet bled on the frozen ground. She knew the truth without saying it: without cover, she wouldn't last until sunrise. He would find her by the shivering alone. She stumbled into a clearing and saw an old pine cabin. Its windows were dark. Its wood was warped and gray. She threw herself at the door and shoved it open. Inside, three women in bikinis froze against the far wall. Marilyne knew them. They were the friends she'd lost in the trees. They clung to each other, wide-eyed, teeth chattering, no warmer than she was. One held a torn blanket. It was not enough for four. "We can't stay," Marilyne whispered. "He follows the cold. He'll hear us before he sees us." Then a floorboard creaked behind the women. A man stepped from the shadow, blond hair, blue eyes, a pistol raised and steady. Camouflage marked him as a soldier. Marilyne's hands shot up. "Down," he said. His voice stayed low and flat. "I'm not him." He lowered the gun. "Lieutenant Mitchell. My unit tracked the killer to these woods." He pulled a folded coat from his pack and pushed it into Marilyne's hands. It was thick and warm. "Put it on. You're no good to me frozen." She dragged the coat over her shoulders. Heat spread through her like water. For the first time in an hour, she stopped shaking. "There's more of us," Mitchell said. He keyed a small radio. "Steel, Crimson. I've got four survivors. Cabin, north edge." The radio hissed. A woman answered, calm and clipped. "Crimson copies. I've got eyes on the tree line." A sniper, somewhere out in the dark, watching the ground Marilyne had just crossed. Mitchell handed a spare jacket to the nearest woman and pointed the others toward a stack of wool by the stove. "Cover up. All of you. He can't hear what he can't chase." Marilyne breathed. The killing cold was gone. She wasn't alone anymore, and she wasn't going to freeze in the dark. Then glass shattered in the front window. A machete blade punched through the wood beside the door. Mitchell spun, gun up. "He found the light," he said. "Move. Back door. Now." Marilyne grabbed the nearest woman's wrist and ran. She had a coat on her back and soldiers at her side. But Jason was already inside the cabin walls, and the warm shelter had become a trap.

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.