The Opposite of Innocent | A Sequel to Unexpected Roommates [DISCONTINUED]

Chapter 6: Jailbreak, Part 1

(A/N): Just hit 4K reads. That was so fast, guys, thank you so much. Here- have my Slasher Spotify playlist as a reward.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2kByJjNuWl0iYCtOVCBDrI?si=79f60b35c7374d5e

Also, I literally can't put this book down. I want to write it until my fingers fall off.

Lights out couldn't come fast enough. You knew you wouldn't be able to sleep, even if you had wanted to. You also knew that Stu and Billy felt the exact same way. Every time you looked out of your cell, you'd see one of the two staring back at you, a dark look in their eyes. It was something similar to the look that would glow in the eyes of your killers when faced with danger, a lust for blood. It was the same eyes you saw on Danny that night after he killed the guy mugging you in that alleyway. The time when you had spilled your precious bubble tea. This time, however, you weren't afraid. In fact, you could even imagine yourself with the same look in your eyes, ready to do whatever it takes if it means getting everybody home safe. When the time finally clawed its way to night, and the lights finally shut off, you were restless and ready for the action.

"Soon." You say aloud, and you don't get a response. You don't need one to know that they're ready too.

-

Kennedy glanced left and right, staring into locked, empty cells, making sure nothing was out of the ordinary as he followed the footpaths of his usual patrol route before he turned in for the night to let another guard take over. The hallways were dim as they always were after lights out, a flashlight in his hand. The harsh beam danced as he strolled at a leisurely pace, nearing the end of his second-to-last hallway. There was a sharp right turn five cells in front of him, and then that hall lead to a dead end. From there, he'd turn and backtrack to the bunks in the guards quarters.

"Stupid Donoho," He cursed to himself, because that asshole running away made it so that he himself was obligated to stay overnight while the Bates kid finished getting his feet under him. "Stupid night shifts." He pouted as he walked, nearing the corner closer and closer. He reached a hand up to rub at his eyes, which were heavy with sleep, as he turned. "Stupid, stupid coffee, not doing a single fuckin' thing." When his hand dropped again, he was well around the corner; he stopped in his tracks, hitting the brakes so quickly that his light beam bobbed and convinced him he was seeing things. "What the... fuck?" It wasn't October, it wasn't Halloween- so, why the fuck was there a 6 foot 5 mannequin at the end of the hallway? Kennedy squinted, his footsteps slowing as he forced himself to continue forwards. Kennedy was 6 foot 3, arms thick with muscle. He was not a force to be reckoned with, and yet, he found a bubble of fear growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Who's joking around here?" He called out, the timbre of his voice echoing ominously against the walls. There weren't any prisoners on this block. He was alone, save for the mannequin. As he grew closer, he made out the features. On its face were two black pits for eyes, the holes in a well-worn hockey mask. There were faded red features, a torn jacket, and a shining machete gripped in one decaying hand. The way the machete shone made him think that maybe it was real metal. "Whoever it is, show yourself now and I won't get you fired! I'm your superior, and I'm someone you do not want to become enemies with!" It clicked in his brain that this figure was a mimic of a supposed serial killer, Jason Voorhees. He furrowed his brow, now only 20 feet away. "What the fuck?" He mumbled to himself, taking in how real the outfit looked. The statue stood unmoving; it was a statue, right? No one he knew was tall enough to be posed beneath it. It had to be a statue. That's why he was so surprised when then head moved, tilting gently to the side.

Kennedy's face went pale. Not a statue; that much was made clear very quickly. His feet glued to the floor up until the statue moved again, this time entirely hostile. Jason Voorhees, straight out of Kennedy's nightmares, pulled back his machete and lunged forwards, swinging the deadly weapon in a clean slash that would catch Kennedy in the side of the neck. The guard screamed, forcing every muscle in his body to send him backwards. He fell to the ground and skittered away on his hands and his ass, staring up at the Crystal Lake killer while he immediately prepared to swing again. If this was a prank, Kennedy didn't care. He wasn't risking his fucking life in exchange for a little pride. Leaping to his feet, Kennedy ran, sprinting down the hallway. At some point he dropped his flashlight, the beam lighting his path but rapidly fading as he grew further and further away from it. Jason wasn't running; serial killers never ran, at least not in those horror movies. That only made this situation more frightening.