The smell hit them first.

Grease, funnel cake, dust, livestock, and teen rebellion—it was the unmistakable bouquet of a county fair.

The fairgrounds sprawled across several acres, dotted with rusting rides, questionably secured game booths, and concession stands with names like Curly Fries 4 Jesus and Corn Dog Kingdom. A Ferris wheel turned slowly above it all like an ominous eye, watching, judging.

The “stage” for the Battle of the Bands was tucked beside the demolition derby arena and dangerously close to the goat enclosure. A hand-painted banner reading Creech County ROCKS! flapped against a bent chain-link fence.

The stage crew—two teenagers and a man named Dale with three teeth—helped them load in.

Dale, eyeing Gabriel: “Y’all one of them cosplay boy bands?”

Gabriel: “Sure. And we bite.”

Thane, muttering into his headset: “We’re gonna die here.”

There were seven bands scheduled. All of them looked like they’d formed last Tuesday in a group chat.

The band before them—Rage Farm—had an accordion and a kazoo solo.

Jonah stared into the middle distance. “I’ve seen things today.”

Maya whispered to her guitar: “We don’t belong here. But we will win.”

Cassie was warming up by yelling scale exercises into the porta-potty because it had the best acoustics.

Rico was double-checking his strings, fingers flying with practiced precision. “Do we at least win a prize?”

Mark read the flyer. “Says here we win a bucket of fried pickles and a fifty-dollar gas card.”

Gabriel grinned. “I’m in.”

Thane, behind the board, grimaced. “I didn’t bring us to Arkansas for pickles.”

The stage creaked ominously under their boots. The crowd—a mix of fairgoers, teenage metalheads, and at least one alpaca—looked up with mild interest.

Cassie stepped to the mic.

“We’re Feral Eclipse. This song is called Full Moon Breakdown. It’s loud. You’re welcome.”

Mark hit the lights—six barely working VL2Bs rigged to the truss. They barely survived the jolt.

Gabriel’s bass snarled through the speakers. Rico launched into the first blistering riff. Jonah’s sticks flew like fury.

The fairgrounds went absolutely feral.

People ran from the cotton candy stand to the stage. One kid in a “Support Local Cryptids” shirt climbed the goat pen for a better view. An old man in a cowboy hat started headbanging so hard he lost his dentures.

Thane’s gear survived the set—barely. One speaker caught fire for a second. Mark just used it as a smoke effect.

By the third song, the crowd was losing it.

Even Dale was dancing. Dale.

After the final act—Jugular Honey (who ended their set by stage-diving into the pig pen)—a very tired woman from the Chamber of Commerce shuffled up with a clipboard.

“And the winner is…” she mumbled, adjusting her bifocals. “…Feral… Elks?”

Cassie: “Close enough.”

They were handed a metal bucket of pickles, a gas station gift card, and a plaque made from a sawed-off cutting board.

Maya held the plaque aloft. “Victory tastes like brine and despair!”

Jonah already had three pickles in his mouth.

Gabriel took a selfie with a goat.

Mark, dragging a coiled light cable, smirked. “Let’s never do this again.”

Thane exhaled, exhausted but grinning. “Agreed.”