The sun didn't so much rise over Stevenson County as it did struggle to survive. It peeked through a thick, toxic blanket of neon-green fog that smelled like a mix of high-grade marijuana, cheap funeral home perfume, and wet grave dirt. This was the kind of morning where the birds didn't sing; they just coughed and looked for a place to die. At the edge of the jagged, crumbling cliff that led to the abyss, a yellow school bus—the "Smoke-Screen Express"—screeched around a hairpin turn on exactly one and a half wheels.
Inside the bus, the laws of physics were treated more like "vague suggestions."
Cindy Campbell was currently fused with the vinyl seat in front of her. Her knuckles were so white they were practically translucent.
"Shorty! There's a cliff! A CLIFF! AND THERE ARE GOATS ON IT! WHY ARE WE HITTING THE GOATS?!" she shrieked, her eyes wide with the pure, unadulterated terror of someone who knew her insurance wouldn't cover a "death by plummeting bus."
Shorty Meeks didn't look at the road. He hadn't looked at the road since 2024. He was slumped back in the driver's seat, steering with his left knee while using both hands to ignite a three-foot bong shaped like a screaming skull.
"Relax, Cindy," he chuckled, exhaling a cloud of smoke that instantly obscured the windshield. "The bus knows the way, man. It's all about the... vibrations. Plus, the goats are just nature's speed bumps. Spiritually, they're fine with it."
To his immediate right, sitting on a pile of confiscated rolling papers, was a transparent, pale figure with long, blood-red nails. Mistress Kane was currently in her "physical enough to touch" phase. She gently stroked Shorty's thigh, her ghostly fingers leaving frost marks on his jeans.
"Drive faster, my chocolate king," she whispered, her voice sounding like a draft in a haunted basement. "I want to feel the G-force in my non-existent ovaries. If we crash, we can be dead together forever... or at least until lunch. I've got a mystery stew to stir."
"Oh, we gon' die! I knew it! I saw it on TikTok in a dream!" Brenda Meeks yelled from the seat next to Cindy. She was wearing a professional-grade orthopedic neck brace and holding a heavy-duty umbrella, just in case they hit water—or more goats. "We're gonna be a headline, Cindy! 'Bus of Idiots Plummets to Death – Beyoncé's New Video Unseen by Victims!' That is a tragedy! I can't die before I know if she's dropping a country album or a polka one!"
Behind them, the atmosphere was peak AAA/666 anarchy.
Megan Voorhees was currently going through her morning transition. Her head spun a full 360 degrees, her neck making a sound like a bag of potato chips being crushed. Suddenly, she leaned into the aisle and projectile-vomited a gallon of thick, neon-green slime onto the window, narrowly missing Buffy Gilmore's designer handbag.
"THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AND PUT ON SOME SEATBELTS!" the demon inside Megan growled, its voice deep enough to rattle the bus's rusted chassis.
A second later, Megan's head snapped back to the front, and she became a sexy, innocent-looking 18-year-old girl again. She wiped a bit of slime from her lip and giggled. "Oops, sorry guys. Was that me? I feel like I just ate a whole bunch of spinach and then regretted it."
"You're disgusting, Megan," Buffy snapped, checking her reflection in a gold-plated mirror. "And Cindy, you look like a terrified hamster. Greg, tell her she looks like a hamster."
Greg Phillippe sneered, leaning over the seat to grab Cindy's shoulder. His grip was uncomfortably tight, his knuckles bulging. "Hey, Cindy, you look like you need a drink. Or maybe just a solid punch to the jaw to stop that vibrating? I could do it for you. It's a service I provide."
"Leave her alone, Greg!" Ray Wilkins shouted from three rows back. He was busy trying to flex his biceps so Buddy Sanderson would notice, while simultaneously holding Brenda's hand. "We're all in this together! Except for Bobby, who is definitely a traitor, but whatever!"
Bobby Prinze didn't even look up. He was too busy secretly texting Buffy about their "Friday night forest session," his thumbs moving with the speed of a man who had a lot of lies to maintain.
The bus suddenly slammed its brakes, the tires screaming as it skidded to a halt exactly one inch away from the gothic, iron-wrought gates of B.A. Corpse High. A massive, mushroom-shaped cloud of marijuana smoke poured out the folding doors as they creaked open. The students stumbled out, coughing, red-eyed, and feeling a sudden, intense urge to eat a Taco Bell that didn't exist for fifty miles.
Waiting at the entrance was a figure that looked like he had been assembled from parts found in a swamp. He was greasy, he was stinking, and he had a hunchback that looked like it contained a second, smaller person.
It was Hanson, the mathematics teacher.
"Welcome back, my little chickadees..." Hanson hissed, his breath smelling like curdled milk and regret. He slowly extended his small, deformed, eternally slimy hand. It was dripping with a clear, viscous liquid that definitely wasn't water. He aimed it directly toward Cindy's chest, his eyes squinting with perverted glee. "I have some... extra credit... waiting for you under my desk. I've been practicing my... 'assistance'... all summer."
Cindy froze. Her brain had disconnected from her legs. The slimy, wet fingers were inches away from her sweater when a red-and-white blur flashed through the smoky air.
"KAI-YEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Theo Keyoko appeared out of nowhere, her red hair flying like a battle flag. She delivered a perfect, high-velocity karate kick that connected squarely with Hanson's chest. The impact sounded like a wet sponge being hit by a sledgehammer.
Hanson didn't just fall; he went airborne. He flipped twice, his tiny hand waving frantically, before landing head-first into a large, dented metal trash can with a satisfying CLANG that echoed through the entire courtyard. His legs, clad in stained polyester slacks, dangled uselessly from the top, twitching in a rhythmic, pathetic way.
"Class is in session, creep," Theo said, landing gracefully. She adjusted her tight, warrior-style outfit and blew a strand of hair out of her face with the coolness of a Hollywood assassin.
The silence that followed lasted exactly half a second.
Suddenly, a mob of about thirty scrawny, drooling boys—the Simp Army—broke cover from behind the bushes and pillars. They rushed toward Theo, waving notebooks, pens, and in one case, a lock of his own hair.
"THEO! STEP ON MY NECK!" one screamed.
"SIGN MY EYEBALLS, GODDESS!" another yelled, tripping over his own shoelaces.
"I WANT TO BE THE TRASH CAN! KICK ME NEXT!"
Theo sighed, rolling her eyes as she began signing autographs on various body parts while dodging attempts from the boys to smell her perfume.
Cindy and Brenda stood by the bus, watching the madness. Brenda finally let go of her neck brace, which hissed as the air pressure released.
"Okay," she breathed, watching Hanson's legs finally stop twitching. "Maybe this year won't be that bad. I mean, the math teacher is already garbage. That's a good start."
Suddenly, the school's loudspeaker system crackled to life with a sound like two skeletons fighting in a dryer. Polly the Parrot's voice boomed across the foggy courtyard, loud enough to crack the windows of the news van parked behind the gym.
"LISTEN UP, YOU WORTHLESS, BRAIN-DEAD BAGS OF MEAT! SQUAWK!" the parrot screamed. "GET YOUR STINKING ASSES TO INFORMATICS BEFORE I PLUCK YOUR EYES OUT AND FEED THEM TO THE DUMB 50%! DREW, THEO—YOU LOOK DELICIOUS. I'VE SEEN YOUR BIKINI PHOTOS, GIRLS, AND THE LORD SAYS 'AMEN!' EVERYONE ELSE—GO DIE IN A DITCH! SQUAWK! POLLY WANTS A CRACKER AND A STRIPPER! SQUAWK!"
Up on the second-story balcony of the high-tech lab, the glass doors slid open with a hiss. Dwight Hartman rolled out in his chrome-plated, laser-equipped wheelchair. He was wearing jet-black sunglasses and a shirt three sizes too small to contain his bulging muscles. He ignored the students entirely, instead pulling out a small hand mirror and admiring the way the morning light hit his jawline.
"Welcome to the best day of your lives," Dwight announced to his own reflection, flexing a bicep that looked like it was made of granite. "Because you get to look at me. And I get to look at me. It's a win-win."
As the students began to trudge toward the flickering lights of the main hallway, Drew Decker stumbled out of the bus last, looking confused and holding a teddy bear that belonged to Doofy. She looked at the trash can where Hanson was still stuffed.
"Is... is he okay?" she asked naively.
"He's fine, Drew," Brenda said, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the entrance. "He's just doing 'independent study' on waste management."
The first day at B.A. Corpse High had officially begun, and somewhere in the dark woods nearby, a Ghostface was sharpening a knife, wondering if he should bring a lunch or just kill the victims by in boredom.