Chapter Twelve
Red lanterns. Red lanterns. Fucking red lanterns. Where are they?
“Payton?”
Lana.
Perched on a log like some battle-warmed Valkyrie. Her hair’s half-escaped its bun. Her top’s smeared with dirt and something darker—mud? Blood?—the collar still unzipped just enough to show off that little souvenir on her neck.
“Thank God.” I stumble toward her. “You’re alive.”
She laughs. “Of course I’m alive. Just had a blast with Pigface. Guess who had a pierced dick?”
I clutch her fingers, her grip my only anchor in this chaos.
“Jesus, P—breathe. Got too real for you, huh?”
“J-Jessica’s dead. Ghostface—he slit her throat. Right in front of me. There was so much blood and—I-I didn’t. I couldn’t ...”
Lana squeezes my hand. Her eyes flicker—confusion? Fear? “Whoa, slow down. You’re saying someone actually died?”
“Yes. I saw it. She—”
“Okay, okay.” Lana releases me with a slow exhale. “You’re sure it wasn’t part of the game? Some next-level special effects or—”
“I watched her choke on her own blood!” My voice cracks. “We need to get to base. Now.”
“No, we can’t leave Kristy out here alone. Not if there’s really some psycho running around.”
I swallow hard. “You haven’t seen her?”
“Not since the hunt started. Thought you two were having fun with Mr. Ghostface.”
“I ran into her earlier,” I say, my voice steadier now. “We hit the restroom, met Amanda, took some dumb group photo—”
Lana blinks. “Wait, how?”
“Kristy smuggled her phone in.” The memory of her giggling while angling the screen seems surreal now.
Lana shakes her head, but there’s no eye roll this time—just weary affection. “That woman would sell a kidney for the perfect shot.” She grabs my arm. “Look, we’ve got to find her, P. You know how she gets lost in those Instagram filters half the time.”
Yeah, classic Kristy.
“Base camp’s got this handled,” Lana adds, already tugging me ahead.
My stomach twists. Kristy was on her way to find herself a Ghostface.
We plow through the bushes. My throat’s clogged. Lana’s panting, her shoulder knocking mine every few strides.
“Any idea which way she went?”
I shake my head. If survival odds were based on sense of direction, I’d be the first to go. Maybe Vanessa’s digging the hole for both of us.
Lana hisses Kristy’s name into the dark.
I follow her lead, whisper-shouting, “Kristy?”
“Probably doubled back to the restroom,” Lana mutters. “If anyone’s pausing mid-horror show to fix their hair, it’s her.”
A dry laugh escapes me. “Sounds about right.”
Lana pulls out a flashlight. The beam wavers across the trees.
“We’ll swing by the restrooms,” Lana mutters. “If she’s not there …”
I swallow. “Then we head for base.”
We press forward.
“Kristy?” My voice comes out thin. A child’s voice. The kind dark rooms swallow. Bad dreams too.
A glimmer. Off to the right. Neon green.
“There.” I point.
Lana angles the flashlight. More glow sticks pop into view.
“Kristy and I passed these earlier. They should lead us to the trailer.”
“Let’s go.” Lana steps forward—
And bumps into a figure. Tall. Imposing.
“Jesus fuck—”
Lana jerks back, her elbow slamming into my ribs. The beam catches Ghostface—then the flashlight hits the ground.
“That’s him,” I choke out.
Ghostface closes the gap.
“Run!” Lana shoves me sideways.
I hit the dirt before I feel it.
She spins to face him, arms raised—empty-handed.
Ghostface swings. Lana grabs for his wrist, fingers closing around leather. The knife trembles between them.
Is she … winning?
I scramble to my knees. She’s actually—
He twists—ramming Lana into a tree.
No. He’s choking her.
One moment I’m scrabbling to my feet. The next, I’m airborne—leaping onto his back. My hands clamp around his shoulders. Legs locking tight.
“Get the fuck off her!” I sink my teeth into his neck.
He bucks.
I cling on, every pound of me hell-bent on dragging him down.
Finally, Lana collapses free.
I’m still wrapped around Ghostface when he reels backward—right into a goddamn tree. Pain shoots up my spine. My grip loosens. I slide down, gasping.
He spins toward me, knife in hand.
“Hey, fuckface.”
He turns from me—to Lana.
She staggers away from the tree, swaying on her feet. But she squares up anyway, fists raised.
Ghostface tilts his head. And charges.
His shoulder crashes into her first—his arm following fast.
Lana’s hand flies to her stomach. “Oh …”
Just that. Oh.
Ghostface pulls back. Knife gleaming.
He stabbed her.
He fucking stabbed Lana.
She collapses. Blood on her fingers. Dark. Almost black.
I skid to her side. My knees hit dirt. My hand hovers over the wound. “No, no, no—”
Lana grabs my wrist. “Listen. You run. Don’t look back. Don’t stop.”
“I’m not leaving you!”
“You have to,” she whispers. “Promise me, P.”
I’m sobbing now. “Lana, no. Get up. Please—get up.”
“Promise you’ll … find Kristy.”
All I manage is a small, useless nod.
Ghostface takes a step toward us.
Lana’s gaze locks onto mine. A wet exhale, more blood than breath. “Go.”
Then she lurches to her feet and launches herself at him.
He shoves her off.
She drops—
“Lana!”
—and pulls herself up again, just enough to cling to his legs.
He kicks—once, twice.
But she still holds on. Still buying me time.
“LANA.” Her name rips from my throat.
His knife plunges into her.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Ghostface wrenches free and spins toward me.
Lana’s hand twitches, fingers scraping through leaves. A final grab at his ankle.
His boot smashes into her ribs.
She rolls onto her side. Motionless.
NononoNO—
I turn and run.