Page 37 of Primal

She laughs. “Relax, Panty McMudstain. Pretty sure it’s biodegradable. Like your dignity.”

I flip her off as we tromp through the trees. “Wonder how Lana’s doing.”

Kristy pushes a branch out of her way, strutting a few paces ahead. “Well, I bet you’re in the lead for best night so far.” She tosses me a smirk over her shoulder. “Unless Lana’s out there getting railed by Pigface and the Reaper in a tent full of fake intestines.”

I make a face. “Ugh. Don’t remind me who she ended up with.”

Kristy grins. “Lucky us, right? Admit it. You’re living your best slutty scream queen life.”

And annoyingly … she’s not wrong. “How do you even know where the restroom is? Or where we are?”

Kristy shoots me a look like I’ve questioned her ability to breathe.

“Babe. I pre-gamed with three shots and the event map. I may not know my own blood type, but I can sniff out a Porta-John like a truffle pig on a bender.”

I snort. “Great. So we’re navigating a horror-themed forest in the dark, and my guide is a tipsy GPS with resting bitch face.”

She throws me a wink. “Better than trusting your dick-dazed internal compass. Pretty sure you left half your brain back there.”

“Not my brain.” I tug my hoodie tighter.

“See? Slutty. Scream. Queen. You’re practically final girl-ing with benefits. Where is your man, by the way?”

“Out there … somewhere. Fetching my backpack.”

“Aww. Look at you, domesticating the predator. Next, you’ll be sharpening his knives before he heads off to stab the nine-to-five.”

We trudge forward. Kristy hums Bad Blood. My brain’s stuck replaying the last hour on a loop.

The guy who carries Mrs. Langston’s groceries up her porch every Thursday. Who’s never once mentioned his mom’s vodka-Red Bull breakfasts, even though the whole neighborhood hears her screaming at two am.

The guy who warned me about tree roots—then hunted me through them. Who stabbed another player for touching me. Who used duct tape like rope. Who’d still be some anonymous fantasy if I hadn’t ripped his stupid mask off.

The guy who spun a story about his scar. Maybe it was all bullshit. Just another way to get under my skin.

But I’ve seen his mom stumbling down their driveway in that ratty pink robe, wrists too thin, eyes glassy. Maybe she really is an alcoholic, and—

Kristy parts a tangle of branches and gestures grandly. “Behold. Civilization.”

Three grimy porta-potties squatting in the dirt. One with the door slightly ajar. Something wet glistens on the handle.

I reel back, gagging. “Hell no.”

Kristy spins on her heel. “Okay, Plan B. Come on. Chop chop, I really need to pee.”

I hurry after her. “Wait—where are we even going?”

“Trust me or don’t.”

We push through another thicket and another. Trees peel back.

Nestled in the clearing is a trailer. Black. Sleek. Gothic lettering on its side says, cleanse your filth.

Kristy marches forward, yanks open the trailer door. “For eight hundred bucks a ticket, they’d better have heated toilet seats and a fucking sommelier.”

Bergamot. Bleach. And beneath it? Something sweet-rotten. Gilded mirrors. Dim red lights. Antique sconces shaped like dripping candles. Floor’s black obsidian tile, polished so clean I can almost see myself in it.

Kristy whistles low. “Holy shit. I feel underdressed.”