What followed was a chain reaction of catastrophic misunderstanding.
Allison looked at the chainsaw. At the jar of pickled eggs. At the two most terrified, well-meaning faces she’d ever seen. And she started to laugh.
The college kids—Allison, the sensible one with the glasses; Chad, the self-appointed alpha with the perfect hair; and three others whose names were lost to screaming—had decided to go camping near the “notorious Spruce Creek Killer’s territory” for fun. When they saw Tucker and Dale’s beat-up pickup parked outside a crooked cabin, they assumed the worst. tucker and dale
A moment later, a college kid in a pastel polo came tearing out of the treeline, tripped over a root, and impaled his backpack on a low-hanging branch. He dangled there, screaming, “The backwoods killers! They’ve got a shack of horror!”
Before Tucker could answer, a shriek echoed from the woods. What followed was a chain reaction of catastrophic
Allison looked up at his massive, dripping form looming over her. She screamed, scrambled backward, and ran straight into a beehive.
The other college kids saw Dale carrying a screaming, wet Allison while bees swarmed around her head. “He’s drowning her! And the bees are his attack drones!” Chad yelled, which made no sense, but panic rarely does. At the two most terrified, well-meaning faces she’d
“I think he’s hurt,” Dale said, already waddling toward the kid. “Hey there! Don’t you worry, we’re here to help!”
It started small. Allison, trying to get a better view of the cabin, slipped on a wet rock and started tumbling toward the river. Dale, doing his best impression of a rescue swimmer, dove in and hauled her out.
The kid’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “Stay back! I know your kind! You’ll use my skin for a lampshade!”
Allison, who had been watching the entire day with growing suspicion, took off her glasses. “Wait. You pulled me out of the river. You offered me a Band-Aid and a Sprite.”