No one mentioned the week they had spent burying wire to snake a line off the nearest streetlight, nearly a half-mile away, but they all swelled with pride at the ability to have their music in this remote place. He plugged in his off-brand MP3 player and cranked the volume to ten. R - his real name was Ron Carpenter, but he told everyone in freshman year that his name was actually DLANOR and he was from Sumeria, so no one trusted any name he gave - pulled out a key from his pocket and unfastened the padlock on the plywood box. Mark pulled out a handful of pills and a knife, and Thomas tossed in a bag with traces of cocaine. R took a bong and a bottle of Old Valley Road bourbon out of his backpack. Mark threw more wood onto the fire, which now blazed up in the fire pit and filled the bus with smoke.
When R stepped into a room, most people recoiled in fear. He had in fact shaved his entire body only because he discovered that it freaked out over 85% of the people he encountered on a regular basis, where tattoos and piercings hovered in the 60s, drug use in the 50s, and casual sex in the teens. Where the other boys had long hair, R had none whatsoever. Then the front door of the bus opened - only R used that one - and he stepped in, chilly in his sweater and jean jacket. “You’re right,” said Mark, holding the syllable for just long enough to crucify it with a short word as if punctuation: “Fag.” He towered over Thomas, but the smaller boy held his ground. Sam grunted, then began rooting around in the bag. Thomas shrugged, and Mark and Dennis made me-too motions with their eyebrows. He dug around in his insulated vest and found a plastic sandwich bag which he flung onto the table before them. Sam stood taller than any of them, but also carried extra weight, the consequence of being both the bullied youngest sibling in the Bormanns household and as a result, the one his mother soothed with treats. Soon a fire blazed and smoke leaked from the bus into the woods.įinally they heard more footsteps through the leaves and Mark leaned out the door to give Sam a hand in. Dennis and Thomas gathered dead and fallen branches, cramming them into the fire pit as Thomas wedged a newspaper from his pocket between them. They each took seats on one of the four sofas that formed the seating area at the rear of the bus. “World’s gone crazy,” said Mark Reissdorf, with his inseparable best friend Thomas Nagel in tow. As he was finishing, the emergency door at the rear of the bus batted open. Lighting it, he cleared the leaves and bugs from one seat, and perched on it to enjoy the ninth cigarette of the day.
DEATHMETAL.ORG DARK LEGIONS ARCHIVE DRIVER
He took one of the wax-streaked dimestore candles from the ad hoc plywood shelving where the driver used to sit, and put it on an old kitchen table that was propped up in back between sofas.
Shrugging, he began preparations for the ritual. He looked around and realized he was speaking to an empty space. “Christ on sandwich bread,” said Dennis as he vaulted into the bus. Far from the solar fire too bright for humans to glance into the sky at all, a school bus surrounded by dead leaves hid under the canopy of light-absorbing leaves. Insects rose out of their protective hiding place in the underground and ascended thermals into the high trees where birds pursued them. The forest warmed as the late afternoon sun stroked it from above.
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