Witch of the Wild Woods

Chapter 8 - Heavy Metal Drummer

They marched in the darkness up the gravel path.  They spoke in hushed, listless tones that blended into the dry winds sweeping through the pine trees. Leading the pack was the boisterous Brad, Vegas, the second in command under Jude. Jordan followed shortly after. Moving down the line of the dozen or so camp counselors, a brick house of a young man carried an empty, ninety-gallon metal trash can over his head. Behind him, Nina and The Twins followed at the end of the line.

"Let's hurry it up, Aiden. Sorry, I meant, hurry up, Buffalo," Vegas shouted back from the front. His voice carried through the sweltering summer night air. His torch bobbed up and down illuminating just enough of him in the dark to highlight that impish smirk plastered to his revoltingly smug face.

"You're more than welcome to roll this thing up the hill yourself, asshole," Aiden shouted back straining through a forced smile.

Lane strode up a couple of paces beside Aiden, "You wanna split the weight on that thing?"

Aiden glanced over as Lane gestured to help shoulder some of the burden. The linebacker-looking boy with a well-kept, shining blonde mullet smiled and shook his head, "I appreciate it, but I've got this. It's the principle of the thing that irks me."

"I get that," Lane paced beside Aiden, waiting for a few steps before asking, "What is Tiki Tiki Fire Drum by the way?"

Aiden chuckled, "It's the most violent version of Ring Around the Rosey you've never knew you needed to play. They'll explain it up there. The presentation is part of the fun, or so I'm told."

Sure enough, as the gravel path opened up to a large clearing, Brad bellowed out, "Councilors, form a circle. Aiden, bring forth the Tiki Drum to the center."

"I know where it goes," Aiden grumbled to himself. He lugged the barrel to the center of the ring of councilors and let it drop with a thud. Without so much as a thank you from Vegas, Aiden wandered over toward an open space in the circle between a slim soccer girl, Korri, and some boy still wearing his sunglasses. Korri had been renamed Reno and everyone referred to the boy as Bozeman. Lane couldn't even recall his actual name. Bozeman hadn't said a word to anyone by the look and sound of it since his 'baptism' at the amphitheater.

"Most of you already know this, so new people listen up. I won't repeat myself," Vegas yelled. He was stalking around the circle passing out pieces of rope about thirty centimeters in length or the average span from wrist to elbow. They were terribly frayed and coarse to the touch. Everybody got one piece while Brad continued shouting.

"Two rules: don't let go of the rope and don't touch the Tiki Drum. If you should find any one of your hands ain't holding a rope, you're out. If you touch any part of your body to the sacred Tiki Drum, you're out," Vegas continued stalking around the circle. With the torch held under his chin the dim glow cast Brad in an animalistic light; a creature contained only by a timorous human fence. All fangs. All maw. Lane saw Vegas as an all-consuming hunger for competition.

Or, maybe he was just an overzealous jock who needed to be taken down a peg?

The idea crossed Lane's mind and was quickly chased away. Didn't he have enough on his plate already? Wasn't this supposed to be a vacation? Where was this "Fun" Luna had so enthusiastically promised them?

"When I blow the whistle, begin," Vegas dropped his torch into the drum. Whatever kindling had been in there instantly went up in flames. A five-meter-high pillar of fire illuminated the dark, dense forest that surrounded the upper soccer field. Vegas trotted back to the human fence and forced himself between two other co-councilors.

Whistle clenched between his toothy grin.

One sharp blow broke the chilling silence of the woods.

Nothing happened.