Hawkins felt cursed.

The first murder could have been brushed off as a freak accident—something terrible, yes, but still human. But when Chrissy Cunningham’s body was found in Eddie Munson’s trailer, bones splintered and bent at angles that defied nature, eyes staring out of a face frozen in a scream no living throat could make, the whispers began.

Fred was next. Then Patrick. Each death was stranger, crueler—like someone was peeling away their sanity before shattering their bodies.

Eddie was the perfect villain for the story Jason Carver wanted to tell. Hawkins’ golden boy turned grief-stricken preacher, Jason rallied his basketball teammates and a pack of locals into believing Eddie was the devil’s pawn, the Hellfire Club a cult luring kids into Satanic rites. His voice carried like a battle cry at church. “This is our home,” he’d say. “And we’re not letting some freak tear it apart.”

But Nancy Wheeler knew better. She’d stared into the face of real monsters—monsters with no mercy. And this one didn’t just kill; it hollowed you out, made you live your worst nightmares before snapping you apart like porcelain. Dustin called it Vecna. Nancy called it a nightmare made flesh.

Now Max was in its sights. That changed everything. They needed weapons—not just bats and makeshift stakes, but something that might give them a real chance. That’s what brought Nancy, Steve, Robin, Dustin… and you to War Zone, Hawkins’ one-stop shop for all things lethal.

The bell above the door jingled as Nancy stepped in, the rest of you fanning out. The smell hit first—gun oil, dust, and something faintly metallic, like dried blood you couldn’t scrub away. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting the rifles and shotguns in a sterile glow.

No time to browse. Max was running out of time. Nancy headed straight for the far wall where shotguns sat like a firing squad—Remingtons, Mossbergs, a few short-barrel options perfect for tight spaces. You followed, scanning the racks, fingers brushing the cold steel barrels.

Low voices drifted from the next aisle—male, edged with hostility.

Jason Carver came around the corner first, cap low, eyes sharp as broken glass. His crew followed: Andy with a hunting knife box, Kyle holding a new shotgun, and Brent, Patrick’s cousin, gripping a crowbar like it belonged in his hand. They moved in a tight pack, leather and sweat mixing with the metallic tang of the store.

Jason’s gaze swept the weapons, then landed on Nancy. A slow smile curled—sharp, humorless.

“Well,” he said, voice carrying just enough for others to hear. “Didn’t take you for the type to stock up for the apocalypse, Wheeler.”

Nancy didn’t look away, still testing a shotgun’s grip. “Didn’t take you for the type to buy a gun, Jason. But I guess people change.”

Jason stepped closer. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending there isn’t a killer out there.”

Nancy’s tone was ice. “You’re right. The difference is, I’m looking for the right one.”

Kyle gave a short laugh, snapping a shell into his shotgun with a clack that echoed. “Yeah, sure. And we all know who yours is.”

You stepped forward before Steve could, placing yourself between Nancy and Jason’s crew. “Funny,” you said evenly. “For someone so sure he’s right, you’re scared of all the wrong people.”

Jason’s smile twitched. Steve appeared at Nancy’s other side, hand brushing the counter, eyes locked on Jason’s boys. Robin lingered behind, and Dustin pretended to browse slings while eavesdropping.

The aisle felt too narrow, the air heavy. Jason’s crew didn’t move, didn’t blink. You stood your ground, meeting their stares without a word.

Nancy held Jason’s gaze a moment longer before turning back to the shotgun. She didn’t need to win the conversation—she needed the gun. And you were going to make sure she got it.