Escape From Happydale

by Jack Quaid

She wore leather pants and a leather jacket and was a cross somewhere between Joan Jett and Kurt Russell.

“If you’re in the business of hunting slashers, and we are very much in that business, then there are a few rules a young heroine needs to abide by.” McCormick held up a finger. “Firstly, never under any circumstances read aloud from a demonic book. In the history of reading aloud from a demonic book, no good has every come from it. Secondly, if you’re staring into a mirror, never say the name of a slasher five times. Thirdly, if anybody says they’ll be right back, chances are, they won’t. Which leads me to my next point. If someone suggests you split up, they’re probably going to die.” Her voice downshifted to something much more serious. “Lastly, never assume the slasher is dead. You can shoot the slasher. Bury the slasher. Chain the slasher to an engine block and drown them at the bottom of Camp Crystal Lake. But unless you behead the son of a bitch, they will always return.”

For a moment, Parker had thought that maybe Morrison had a chance of surviving this mess. But nobody survived a machete to the back of the skull. It didn’t matter how optimistic they were.

Jenko pulled back the hammer on the revolver—the universal symbol that one is simply not fucking around.