The camper rumbled into the gravel parking lot of War Zone, the crunching tires blending with the low growl of its engine. The store loomed ahead, its massive façade drenched in the neon-red glow of its sign. The letters cast jagged, sinister reflections on the wet pavement, giving the whole scene an apocalyptic vibe. Steve shifted into park, killing the engine with a heavy sigh.
Erica was the first out of the door, already scanning the packed lot with a discerning eye. "This is… a lot," Robin muttered, hesitating as her gaze darted across the sea of trucks and pickups adorned with Confederate flags and faded gun rights bumper stickers.
"You're telling me," Robyn chimed in, her sharp tone making it clear she was unimpressed.
Steve glanced over his shoulder as the rest of the group began shuffling toward the camper door. "You coming?" he called back toward Eddie.
Eddie leaned lazily against the camper's wall, boots propped up on the dashboard. His devil-may-care grin widened as he shook his head. "Nah, man. I'm good right here."
Robin, halfway out the door, turned back with a smirk. "Afraid some redneck's gonna start screaming ''Satanic Panic'?"
"Ha ha," Eddie replied, mock offense dripping from his tone. "Maybe a little. But no. I'm just cultivating an air of mystery." He held up Ursula's burner phone with a devilish glint in his eye. "And also, I found one of her old band's albums loaded on this bad boy. Gonna see what all the fuss is about."
Dustin froze mid-step, the duffle bag of cash swinging awkwardly from his shoulder. "Wait, what? Wench? You've got Wench on there?!"
"Damn right," Eddie said, waggling the phone teasingly. "Found it without realizing what it was. Been listening since we hit the highway. It's… something else, Henderson. Brutal, raw, and absolutely metal. We'll call it a musical education."
Dustin's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Dude, I wanna hear it when we get back."
Eddie grinned and held out his fist. "Deal. But prepare yourself, man. It's like staring into the sun. I'm about to go back and start it from the actual beginning."
Steve, rolling his eyes, stepped out onto the gravel with a lopsided grin. "Whatever, Munson. Try not to blow the speakers while we're gone."
As the door slammed shut behind him, Eddie leaned back in the camper's seat and slipped in a pair of AirPods Ursula had given him. Bahamutt, who had been sprawled across the camper's couch, lazily padded over and flopped down at Eddie's feet, resting his giant head on Eddie's knee.
The guttural opening riff of "When I Am Queen" surged through the headphones, the distortion vibrating straight into Eddie's chest. The unrelenting drumline pummeled beneath the wail of screaming guitars, but it was Ursula's voice that arrested him. Ferocious, commanding, and laced with an eerie melodic edge, it seized Eddie's attention like a fist tightening around his throat.
"Hoooooooly shit," Eddie whispered, his eyes widening as the chorus detonated in his ears, raw and electrifying.
The camper rocked slightly as someone outside rummaged through a storage hatch, but Eddie didn't notice. He was already gone, lost in the brutal symphony reverberating in his skull. Bahamutt let out a contented huff, blissfully unaware of the feral energy radiating from the music.
The War Zone parking lot was a chaotic mess, buzzing with the kind of energy that only comes from a crowd armed to the teeth. Steve squinted into the fluorescent haze as he shut the camper door, his brow furrowed.
"Why does it look like half of Hawkins is here?" he muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "This place is packed."
Nancy stepped up beside him, her gaze sharp as she scanned the sea of camouflage-clad patrons. "Let's make this quick," she said briskly.
Robin sidled closer, her eyes darting nervously toward the pickup trucks and clusters of men arguing over boxes of ammo. "So much for avoiding angry hicks," she mumbled, her voice tinged with anxiety.
"Relax." Erica strutted past them, a smirk playing on her lips. "We're armed with a bag of cash and more brains than anyone here. Let's go."
The group exchanged glances before heading toward the entrance, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the crunch of gravel and the tinny strains of country music leaking from inside the store.
The moment they stepped inside, the sensory assault hit like a freight train. The store was massive, a sprawling labyrinth of aisles lined with enough weaponry to arm a small militia. Racks of camo gear hung from every corner, and the walls were practically wallpapered with rifles and shotguns. Patrons milled about, inspecting scopes and boxes of ammunition like they were choosing apples at the farmer's market.
Overhead, Rick Derringer's "Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo" blared from tinny speakers, a fitting anthem for the pandemonium:
Couldn't stop moving when it first took hold…
Steve shook his head, muttering under his breath, "What a circus." But they didn't have time to waste gawking. Splitting up, the group grabbed carts and began filling them with everything they'd need to take on Vecna.
"It was a warm spring night at the old town hall."
Steve veered off toward a corner display and stopped short when something caught his eye: a gorgeous brown leather flight jacket on a mannequin. Without hesitation, he slipped it on, admiring the way it hugged his shoulders. "Tom Cruise, eat your heart out," he said, grinning at his reflection.
"There was a group called, "The Jokers" they were layin' it down."
Robin passed by with a bundle of flares balanced in her arms. She raised an eyebrow. "How many of these do you think we need?"
"Five or six," Steve replied, striking a dramatic pose in the jacket. "Just to be safe."
"'Cause ya know I'm never gonna lose that funky sound."
Robin snorted but moved on, weaving through the aisles. She stopped in front of a display of kerosene, debating how much to grab when her heart plummeted. There, standing a few feet away at the counter, was Vickie.
"Rock and roll, hoochie koo (rock and roll, hoochie koo)."
Robin froze. Oh no. Nope. Nope. Abort.
"Lordy mama, light my fuse (light my fuse)."
Steve rounded the corner just in time to see Robin backing away, her face pale. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "Are you just gonna stand there and gawk?"
"Shut up," Robin muttered, ducking behind a shelf.
"Rock and roll, hoochie koo (rock and roll, hoochie koo)."
She peeked out just as Vickie's boyfriend sauntered up, his letterman jacket slung over his shoulder like he'd walked straight out of a high school rom-com.
"Truck on out and spread the news."
"You gonna mace me with that?" the boyfriend teased, nodding toward the canister in Vickie's hand.
"If it keeps you in line, yeah," Vickie deadpanned, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.
He laughed and leaned in, planting a way-too-public kiss on her. Robin winced as if she'd been physically slapped, retreating further into the aisle.
"Robin," Steve called softly, his voice filled with concern as he followed her.
Behind them, the boyfriend noticed the movement and tilted his head. "Who's that?"
Vickie glanced over, her cheeks flushing. "Someone from band," she said quickly, her voice almost apologetic.
Robin didn't stick around to hear more. She disappeared down another aisle, her heart sinking deeper with every step.
The camper idled in the War Zone parking lot, its engine a low hum beneath the chaotic sounds of bustling customers and the faint rustling of wind outside. Inside, Eddie Munson sat alone in the driver's seat, a pair of AirPods snug in his ear. His foot tapped a restless rhythm against the floor, the movement betraying the storm of emotions brewing inside him.
He'd been waiting for this. Ursula had spoken about Wench—her band—with a fire in her eyes, her voice alive with passion. She called it her one true pride, the only piece of her past she still held onto. Eddie had hung on her every word, devouring every detail, imagining the music that could evoke such intensity in someone like her.
But he hadn't rushed to listen. No, this moment deserved reverence. He came upon it accidentally. Just one track amongst a dozen or so other tracks in a folder called 'demos.' He'd played only a few seconds of the intro before stopping himself, realizing that this wasn't just another song—it was the holy grail of his favorite girl's music.
And when a quick scroll through the track details revealed that what he was hearing was something from further into an actual album, it hit him: this wasn't a casual listen. This was something to savor, something worth waiting for.
Now, with the others busy in the store, the camper silent except for the faint purr of the engine, he finally had the perfect opportunity. Alone, undivided, ready to focus.
He reached for the burner phone, a sense of gravity settling over him as he hit play.
The track opened with a dissonant piano line, a deceptively gentle prelude that offered false comfort. Eddie leaned forward, his chest tightening with anticipation as the sharp, rolling bass drums burst through, pounding like an unrelenting heartbeat.
The drums rolled out sinister and deadly, each beat a countdown to chaos. Eddie's chest tightened as the tension built, his focus locked on the haunting melody.
Then the first verse began, Ursula's voice floating in with a haunting, almost cutesy lilt:
"When I am queen, I will insist with perfect scars upon my wrists. That everything you once held dear is taken away from you."
Eddie froze. Her voice was playful, teasing, but the lyrics cut deep—sharper than any blade. He whispered the words to himself, tasting their bitterness. Perfect scars? The image was raw, unsettling, and yet mesmerizing. He felt like she was pulling him into her world, where metal brutality ruled with the elegance of a crown.
"When I am queen, sweet girl scout's face and not a one will fall from grace. If all their hearts I could replace, but until then I'll have to…"
And then the chorus hit like a meteor.
"Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! DROOOOOWWWN!"
Her voice transformed—feral and guttural, each "drown" ripping through the air like a battle cry. Eddie's eyes widened.
"What. The. Fuuuuuck," he muttered, clutching the armrest with a smile as if the sheer force of the sound might knock him over. The final "drown" stretched into a savage roar, vibrating through him like thunder.
"Hooooooly shhhhhhhit," he breathed, his heart racing. The growl was visceral, unlike anything he'd ever heard. He couldn't even imagine how someone taught themselves to summon such primal, untamed fury.
The drums surged again, pounding with unrelenting force, dragging Eddie deeper into the second verse.
"When I am queen on royal throne, made out of parts of broken bones. Of all the devils I have known that suck the angels dry."
Eddie dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the tangled curls as he struggled to process the brutal imagery. A throne of broken bones?
Devils sucking angels dry? The words painted a portrait of carnage, a world ruled by pain and destruction. But there was power in it too-a defiant declaration of sovereignty. This wasn't just apocalyptic; it was an uprising, and Ursula sat at its helm.
"When I am queen I'll have my way, I'll make it drowning dollie day. And all the tears that we have cried will suck back in our eyes."
Her tone twisted again, deceptively sweet, the venom curling underneath each syllable. Eddie could practically see her on stage, the sharp edge of her smile cutting through the chaos as she delivered each word like a blade. It was mesmerizing-a performance that drew you in only to remind you it wasn't safe to stay.
And then the chorus crashed back, roaring louder and more unrelenting than before.
"Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! DROOOOOWWWN!"
His head began to bob instinctively, hair falling into his face as he surrendered to the relentless beat. Each growled "drown" punched through the air, hitting him like a live current, until the final guttural roar stretched out, vibrating through him with primal force.
"Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! DROOOOOWWWN!"
And then came the bridge.
"Hush baby, hush baby, hush baby, go to sleep…"
The tone flipped, gentle and lulling, like a razor hiding behind velvet. Eddie leaned forward, his breath catching. The shift was pure genius—a soft lullaby dripping with malice, every note a step closer to an unseen edge.
"Hush baby, hush baby, hush baby, I'll make it bleed…"
Her voice twisted on the final word, morphing into a gravelly snarl that clawed at the back of Eddie's neck. He gripped the seat with both hands, as if bracing for an impact. This wasn't just music. It was madness set to melody, lulling you in with a smile only to shove you screaming into the abyss.
The drums exploded like rolling thunder, the atmosphere growing darker, heavier, with the transition into the third verse.
"When I am queen I will not wait, my body type will still be great. I will not leave it up to fate because I hate you too."
A bark of laughter escaped Eddie's throat before he could stop it. "Jesus Christ…" he muttered, the words barely audible over the pounding music. She wasn't just unapologetic—she was feral. Unyielding. Devouring the world one lyric at a time and grinning as she did it. How could someone be this raw, this magnetic? He thought he'd already seen every shade of Ursula. He thought he was ready for her. But this? This was like gladly staring into the goddamn abyss.
"When I am queen they all will see, the patron saint of self-injury. The glitter sores will heal themselves, I'll play the part of someone else."
His grin wavered, giving way to something deeper—something that struck him like a lightning bolt to the chest. The imagery was brutal. Glitter sores? Self-injury? She wasn't pulling punches. She wasn't hiding. This was pain carved into the shape of a queen, a crown of anguish she wore like armor.
"Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! DROOOOOWWWN!"
The chorus came back with double the intensity, crashing over him like a tidal wave. Her growls—layered and feral—rose like a goddamn war cry, battering his senses into submission.
"Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! Drown, drown, drown myself! DROOOOOWWWN!"
Eddie slammed his hand against the dashboard, overcome by the relentless power of it all. His hair whipped into his face as he surrendered completely, headbanging like his life depended on it. The last "drown" stretched into an inhuman scream—a feral, animalistic roar that tore through the silence and left the air buzzing in its wake.
And then, silence.
Eddie fell back against the seat, panting, his entire body vibrating with adrenaline. The camper felt too small, too quiet. His ears were ringing, his chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon.
"Holy. Fucking. Shit," he muttered, dragging both hands over his face, his fingers gripping his hair like he needed to anchor himself.
That was metal. No, it wasn't just metal—it was beyond metal. It was chaos in musical form, the sonic equivalent of standing in a hurricane. It was Ursula, ripping the heart out of the genre and holding it up for everyone to see.
"That was… that was…" Words failed him, not because there weren't any, but because none could do justice to what he'd just experienced.
His grin returned, enormous and unshakable, as he stared out the windshield. He'd thought he loved her before. Now? That love felt insignificant compared to the fire she'd just set inside him.
The camper door creaked open, and Dustin climbed in, his sneakers thudding softly against the floor. He shot Eddie a curious look, tilting his head. "They're inside paying," he said, plopping onto the couch. "Dude, what the hell is up with you? You look like you just saw God or something."
Eddie turned to him, his eyes wild and alight with an almost feral excitement. "Dustin… your daughter… she's like…" He stopped, running a hand through his tangled hair, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't even know how to describe it."
"What? What about her?" Dustin asked, his brow furrowing, concern starting to creep into his voice.
Without another word, Eddie pulled out one of the AirPods and held it out to him. "Here. Just listen."
Dustin hesitated, looking between Eddie's manic expression and the tiny earbud. Slowly, he took it, slipping it into his ear. Eddie hit play, his hand trembling slightly as the music surged back to life.
The drums kicked in, relentless and pounding, and Dustin's face immediately shifted. The playful, curious look he had worn only seconds before melted away, replaced by wide-eyed awe. By the time Ursula's voice floated in with the first verse, his jaw had gone slack.
"This is her?" Dustin whispered, his voice almost reverent, as if speaking any louder would shatter the spell.
Eddie nodded, his grin stretching ear to ear. "Just wait," he said, leaning forward, his hands gripping his knees.
The chorus hit like a bomb, the feral growls ripping through the camper, and Dustin's reaction was everything Eddie had hoped for—his mouth hung open, his eyes darting around as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He started nodding, his body instinctively catching the rhythm, his whole demeanor electrified.
Seconds later, they were outside the camper, standing in the gravel parking lot, headbanging in perfect sync as the track roared on. Passersby slowed down to stare, but neither of them cared.
"She IS a queen," Dustin declared, throwing up the devil horns, his face flushed with exhilaration.
"No," Eddie said, matching his energy as the chorus surged again, his voice cutting through the cacophony. "She's THEE queen."
The two of them erupted into laughter, their voices lost in the chaos of Ursula's voice, their shared reverence cementing the moment as they thrashed to the raw, unrelenting power of the music.
Patrons milled about the War Zone, the fluorescent lights casting stark shadows on racks of rifles, handguns, and survival gear. Some of the customers looked like they lived for this kind of shopping spree, wide-eyed and grinning as they fondled firearms. Others gave off a more menacing vibe, their expressions calculating as they studied rows of ammunition and tactical knives.
Behind the counter, Randy, a burly man in his fifties with a deep tan and a mustache that could rival a walrus, was counting a thick stack of bills. His "Guns Don't Kill People" T-shirt stretched tight over his chest as he glanced up at the sound of Nancy's voice.
Nancy was holding a shotgun, her stance firm, the weapon resting comfortably in her hands like she was born to wield it.
"How much is this?" she asked, her tone neutral.
Randy set the money aside and gave her a quick once-over, his grin widening. "120.99," he said, his voice rich with Southern charm. "But I'll throw in 20 rounds of buckshot for ya."
Nancy didn't hesitate. "How much for eight of them?"
The question made Randy pause, his grin twisting into something more curious. "You clearing out a duck pond, or you starting a war, sweetheart?"
She leveled him with a look so cold it could have frozen the summer heat. "Does it matter?"
Randy threw his head back and laughed, his shoulders shaking as he punched numbers into an ancient calculator. "Not to me it doesn't!" he said, his amusement booming through the store. "Eight of these beauties? That's gonna run you… let's see… just shy of a grand. But hey, I'll throw in a whole case of buckshot for free. How's that sound?"
"Perfect." Nancy slid a pile of smaller handguns across the counter, neatly stacked boxes of ammunition, and a hunting knife with a blade that gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
Randy let out a low whistle, his eyebrows arching. "Well, well. Someone knows their hardware. A Remington 870, Colt Pythons, Smith & Wesson 686… even a Buck 120 knife. Damn, girl, you work for the FBI or somethin'?"
Nancy didn't answer. She simply held his gaze, her face giving nothing away, and waited for him to ring it up.
"FBI? Nah," Steve said with a grin, glancing at Nancy's arsenal. "Nancy's just got really expensive hobbies."
Steve and Robin appeared from around a corner, pushing an overflowing shopping cart that looked ready to collapse under the weight of their haul. Robin balanced a precarious bundle of flares in one arm and carried what appeared to be a handheld crossbow in the other. Steve, meanwhile, strutted confidently, adjusting the leather jacket he'd found earlier while sliding a pair of sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.
Robin smirked, throwing a flare into the cart. "Is it a hobby if you're actually gonna use it to survive the apocalypse?"
Randy leaned against the counter, clearly entertained by their banter. "The apocalypse, huh? Y'all prepping for the Russians or aliens?"
Nancy, ignoring them entirely, reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled list. She leveled Randy with a serious expression. "Do you have claymore mines? Or anything else for perimeter defense?"
Randy's jaw slackened, his eyes widening in amazement. He let out a bark of laughter and slapped the counter. "Lady, I don't know where you came from, but you're my favorite customer. We don't got claymores, but I can get you something close."
He gestured to a rack stacked with land mines and neatly packed tripwire kits.
Before anyone could respond, Erica stormed over with her own shopping cart. Hers was filled to the brim with Molotov cocktail supplies, a collection of baseball bats, and more hunting knives than one person could possibly need. She marched up to Randy with her hands on her hips.
"Excuse me," she said sharply, "do y'all sell flamethrowers?"
Randy blinked, his expression unreadable for a moment, then shrugged as if she'd asked for nothing more unusual than a soda. "You know what, we just got one in stock."
Erica's face lit up as Randy disappeared behind the counter, returning moments later with a dusty, slightly rusted flamethrower.
"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Erica declared, hefting the weapon like a prizefighter raising a championship belt.
Nancy groaned, dragging a hand down her face as Steve fought to stifle a laugh.
"Of course," Robin muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she tossed another flare into their already crowded cart.
By the time the group reconvened, their collection of supplies had reached cartoonish proportions: rifles, tripwire kits, machetes, first aid supplies, rope, duct tape, and an absurd number of Molotov materials. Randy stood behind the counter, beaming like a man who had just won the lottery.
"Y'all planning to start a militia or something?" he asked, his grin widening. "Hell, I'll even throw in a box of cigars if you hit three grand."
Nancy shot him a sharp look, but she nodded in agreement.
Dustin, meanwhile, stood off to the side, admiring a slingshot like it was a priceless artifact. Lucas ambled past him, holding a scoped rifle and examining it with a mixture of confusion and awe. Max methodically inspected a first aid kit before tossing it onto the ever-growing pile.
As they finished paying and began gathering their supplies, Randy leaned over the counter with a satisfied smile. "Come back anytime, folks. This commission is gonna pay for my kids pool."
The group exchanged glances, offering polite nods before grabbing their carts and heading out into the parking lot, ready for whatever came next.
The camper idled in the parking lot, its engine humming faintly as the group approached, their arms loaded with weapons, supplies, and a flamethrower that Erica carried triumphantly over her shoulder. They slowed down as a strange scene unfolded in front of them.
Robin squinted. "What in the actual hell…?"
Out in the lot, Eddie and Dustin stood side by side, each with an AirPod in one ear. Completely immersed in their own world, they headbanged with wild abandon, their hair whipping in rhythm to music only they could hear. Eddie mimed a massive power chord on an imaginary guitar, his body swaying dramatically with the beat. Dustin, not to be outdone, went full air drum solo—kicking his leg high, flailing his arms, and pounding on phantom cymbals like a man possessed.
The parking lot was otherwise silent, save for the occasional squeak of a shopping cart wheel.
Steve stopped mid-step, raising an eyebrow. "Are they—are they just…?"
Nancy sighed. "Yep."
Robin grimaced. "It's like… a silent disco. But somehow worse."
Erica crossed her arms, smirking. "They look like they're having a seizure competition."
Neither Eddie nor Dustin noticed the others. Eddie threw his head back, mouthing the words, "Drown! Drown! Drown myself!" in perfect sync with Ursula's guttural growls. Dustin clutched his imaginary guitar, gazing up at Eddie like he was watching a rock god at the pinnacle of their career.
The song ended abruptly. Both froze, panting and grinning like they'd just conquered the world.
Dustin staggered back a step, still breathless. "Holy hell. That was…"
"…insane," Eddie finished, eyes wide.
Eddie raked his fingers through his hair, still buzzing. "Like, how does she even do that with her voice?"
Dustin shook his head, his grin unwavering. "I don't know, but I think she just melted my brain."
The others exchanged bewildered looks.
Steve spoke first. "You guys done, or should we come back later?"
Startled, Eddie and Dustin jumped, yanking out their AirPods as they turned to face their audience.
Dustin, unapologetic and beaming, said, "Oh, hey. You're back. Did you see that? We crushed it."
Robin tilted her head, unimpressed. "We saw something, all right."
Nancy brushed past them, climbing into the camper. "Let's just get out of here before someone calls the cops."
As the group began hauling their arsenal into the camper, Eddie and Dustin exchanged a conspiratorial glance.
Eddie leaned in close, his voice low but electric. "We're listening to the whole album later."
Dustin fist-bumped him. "Hell yeah, we are."
With everyone loaded up and the camper sagging slightly under the weight of their haul, Steve fired up the engine. The vehicle rumbled to life and rolled out of the War Zone parking lot, carrying them onward toward the next leg of their chaotic journey.