Check out the lead-in to the upcoming sequel to "Runaway," starring a new-and-improved Marshall Landry, with tons more blood and violence.

Two Years Later

"First time, huh?" Correctional Officer Bud Newman asked, shaking a single cigarette out of a package of Marlboros and shoving it between his teeth. He cupped his hand against the wind to shield his lighter and lit up. His current partner, a young rookie by the name of Riggs, watched him skeptically.

"What do you mean?"

Bud took a long drag and exhaled, Smoke poured from his mouth and dispersed in the warm summer air. Despite the heavy cloud-cover, it was still at least 70 degrees. Riggs wondered if the smoke felt hot in Bud's mouth or if he was used to the heat, maybe even relished it. He reminded Riggs of the old dragons he had read about in story-books when he was a kid. "I mean, is this your first time transporting a death-row inmate?"

"No, sir."

Bud glanced at the young man: his lush dark hair combed and gelled back from his face, his dark guard's uniform perfectly ironed, not a wrinkle in sight. "Really? 'Cause you're clutching that goddamn rifle tighter than a god-fearing Pentecostal girl clings to her virginity on prom night."

"I'm just nervous."

"What's there to be nervous about? You been around the block a few times. You've done this before. Hell, son, if you've got a nervous disposition this was one stupid career move."

Riggs bristled under the criticism. "This guy is different. I've heard things. Rumors. This guy is sick. He's already killed three other inmates."

"Good riddance, if you ask me. Decrease the scum population."

"It's not just that he killed them." Riggs lowered his voice, as though speaking the words aloud would curse him with their reality. "He drank their blood. And he killed a nurse too. Cut her head clean off and set her corpse on fire. That's what finally got him the death penalty." Riggs' eyebrows creased sadly. "Plus he raped and killed all those young boys. At least a dozen, that they know of."

"Worried about him penetrating your snug little ass?"

"No! I just...I'm trying to-" Riggs groped for the right words. He didn't understand how Bud could be so calm about all of this, how he could actually make jokes about something so horrid. He didn't have enough experience yet to know that the only way to protect yourself from the stories, the crimes, the horrors was to desensitize yourself, to grow a skin so thick and hard nothing bothered or surprised you.

"Nevermind. Here he comes." Bud stamped out the remainder of his cigarette.

Three guards led out the prisoner. He was unearthly pale, as though he had never been exposed to sunshine in his life. His skin was smooth and unblemished, stretched tight across a strong jaw and high forehead. His eyes were hard as steel and so blue as to look almost transparent, like a thin layer of ice. His eyes traveled the length of Riggs' body and he smiled. A wide, toothy grin that made the young man's skin crawl.

"Watch him," one of the guards cautioned, loading the prisoner into the back of a sheriff's van and shackling him tightly. "He's tricky. I don't envy you."

Once they were settled, Riggs and Bud stationed across from the man, guns laid across their knees, Bud tapped the side of the van, signalling for the driver to start on their way. They rode fifteen minutes in silence, Riggs eyes roving this way and that, trying not to meet the gaze of the man watching him. Bud was a statue at his side - quiet and unmoving, unflinching - already dreaming of his next cigarette.

"What's your name?"

Riggs didn't answer.

"My name is Marshall. What's your name?"

Riggs looked to Bud for support. "Leave the kid alone, hey."

"I was just wondering about his name." Marshall smiled. "Such intimate pieces of ourselves condensed into a handful of letters. Rather amazing, when you think about it. I could guess if that makes it easier. I bet it's a real American name, huh? Troy or Tyler. Maybe Andrew. Justin? Ryan? Anthony? Dylan? Am I getting warmer?"

"Alex," Riggs confessed.

"Yes," Marshall sighed in satisfaction. "I thought it would be something like that. A good strong name for a handsome boy. How old are you? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?"

"Twenty-three."

"Hm. A little old for my tastes, but you have a delightfully boyish face."

Riggs shifted uncomfortably. Bud's nose twisted in repulsion. "Alright. That's enough. Leave him alone."

"Look, now I've embarrassed you," Marshall continued addressing Riggs, ignoring the red anger appearing in blotches along Bud's neck, savoring the flush painting Riggs' cheeks. "Your heart is beating terribly fast. I can hear it, pounding, pulsing the blood through your veins."

"Can it, creep, or I'll kill you myself right now."

"You wouldn't deny a condemned man his last meal, would you?" Marshall leaned forward, holding out his wrists, chains clanking. His mock frown curled up into a devilish smile, his teeth unnaturally white and sharp, gleaming in the dim light. "Unlock these cuffs there, partner, and I'll let you have first go at him."

"That's it!" Bud's calm demeanor cracked, and he lunged at the criminal, determined to beat the man to within an inch of his life. This was, of course, exactly what Marshall had wanted - power, mastery; to get under Bud's thick skin and break him.

It happened so quickly. Bud charged Marshall, slamming the butt of his rifle into the man's face. At the same instant, Marshall pounced, breaking free of his chains and grabbing Bud's head in his hands. Riggs raised his gun and fired, the sound thundering in the small space, just as Marshall twisted Bud's head back, breaking his neck and tossing his lifeless body to the floor.

The bullets lodged themselves into Marshall's chest - deep, gaping, gruesome holes - but no blood surged forth. No pain. Marshall smiled and ran a finger along one wound. "Hope that doesn't leave a scar," he chuckled.

Riggs was too stunned to move. Marshall raised his head, his face suddenly monstrous and hungry, that smug smile on his lips, his bottomless eyes locked on the young guard. Riggs lifted his gun to shoot again. The driver slammed the breaks, sending him careening forward.

Before the scream had fully formed in Riggs' throat, Marshall was upon him, teeth tearing at the fair flesh of his slender neck. Blood splattered the walls of the van. Riggs grunted and gurgled uselessly for help that would never come. The driver struggled to open the doors, the van trembling under the force of the struggling within.

The horrifying sight that greeted the driver's eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life.

All remaining thirty seconds of it.

Marshall tenderly traced his long, pale fingers down the jawline of the dark-haired corpse at his feet. His lips, red and slick, pulled into a gleeful smile. He was ready now - better, faster, stronger. Free. The games he had played before were nothing compared to what he had planned now. What fun he was going to have, what a party.

And at the top of his guest list, a name in bold red letters: "Stiles Stilinski."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Posted July 3rd: "The One that Got Away," the supernatural and thrilling sequel to "Runaway." How will Stiles survive this new danger?