He’s already looking at me.
At last, fear loosens its grip on my ribs.
We might actually have a shot. The plan is stupid.
Which, to be fair, is how most of my plans start.
“Let me get this straight,” Peggy says, holding her wine glass like it’s a weapon. “You want to weaponize... blues-metal?”
I swirl my own glass, then toss back the last of it. “Yep.”
“To fight... what exactly?”
“An extradimensional, soul-eating, two-faced freak with claws like hedge trimmers and the worst breath this side of a landfill.”
She nods slowly. “Cool, cool. So you’ve just gone full-on batshit.”
I laugh, but it’s the kind that sticks in my throat.
We’re in my cabin, two bottles deep into “wine therapy night,” which has historically been used for things like ex drama and ranking Hemsworths—not discussing plans to exorcise a monster with music and murder.
Kursk is out in the woods again, prepping traps. Booger and Burnout are building an amp fortress in Booger’s mom’s minivan. And me? I’m trying to convince my best friend that the apocalypse is real... and that I need her to help me DJ it.
“I’m serious, Peg,” I say, leaning in. “I know it sounds like a fever dream, but it’s all real. The creature, the spear, the Veil—Kursk is the only thing keeping this town from becoming ground zero for some Lovecraftian hell-beast’s nesting ground.”
She squints at me, then pours herself a little more merlot. “Alright. Let’s say I believe you—which I don’t. Not fully. But let’s say I do. Why the hell would you drag me into it?”
“Because we need someone to handle the town’s audio system during the Fall Festival,” I say. “And you’re the only one who knows how to reroute the PA without alerting Mayor Flanders.”
Peggy blinks. “So your master plan is to sneak cursed battle-chants disguised as blues-metal into the Fall Festival... during line dancing?”
“Exactly.”
She laughs so hard she nearly spills her drink. “You’re lucky I love you, you psychopath.”
The next day, we’re in full prep mode.
Kursk, disguised again with illusion magic, lifts speaker equipment like it's made of styrofoam. Burnout is duct-taping a power strip to a hay bale. Booger’s rigged a smoke machine to the back of a corn dog stand.
Peggy marches up to me, sunglasses on, chewing gum like she’s ready to take over the Pentagon.
“We good?” I ask.
“Oh, we’re better than good. I just ran into Calvin.”
I freeze. “What?”
“He was ‘randomly’ getting coffee across the street. Started ranting about how the town needs to embrace the New World Order or whatever.”
“And?”
She grins. “I slapped him.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Youwhat?”
“Not hard. Just... y’know. Assertively.”
“Oh my god, Peg.”
