Page 263 of Primal

“Red lanterns, Thirty-one. Don’t get lost.”

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?”