IN A sleeping bag. In a tent. Lying on the rocky ground, next to the rusting tracks of an abandoned railroad. Before we’d bedded down the night before, Jare had made sure to tell us the story of the poor people who’d tried to build the railroad long ago, only to be defeated by the sun, sand, and heat of the desert. He gave us the impression it was mostly because they’d failed to PHWSS. I heard an enormous creature crashing away through the bushes, and then everything fell silent, like in a museum or a church. At first I thought I was the only camper awake, but across the clearing, I saw Louis sitting bolt upright in the door of his tent, wrapped in his sleeping bag, staring glassily at the stars like he hadn’t slept a wink. Suddenly, loud screams rang out. Everybody woke up in a panic and tried to thrash out of their tents before they’d even unzipped their bags. Except me. Because I knew the screams weren’t screams. I recognized the sound of Helm Brütson of Garroted Artery shredding the guitar solo from “Beast Wagon.”
