Blood Road (Part II)

Standing in my bedroom, Scott and I looked each other over. Black pants and shirts? Check. Heavy boots, ski masks, flashlights? Check. Guns? Check. We were armed and ready for the thrill of a lifetime.

The boys and their girlfriends were finishing up a few beers at Brad's house. The plan was to get a little buzzed and drive the "Hopper Van" (from their last name)--a gargantuan dark blue Ford Econoline Extend-a-cab--down to Blood Road. Completely tricked out in the best 1985 van accessories, the Hopper Van was the epitome of the party wagon. All eight of them fit easily into the back of the van and they were soon headed on the 10-mile journey out to the darkest woods in town.

Scott and I ditched the car about a half-mile at the end of Blood Road and set out towards the farmers house. It was pitch black; only the moon threw a slight glow on the unevenly paved road. We picked out a perfect spot and walked through our plan. I was to be face-down in the middle of the road. Scott would hide in the ditch on the left flank. Ski masks on, heavy metal CO2 BB pistols cocked, we waited.

The music is blaring inside the Hopper van. We know this thanks to the tape-recorder placed strategically in the cushions. As he drives slowly down Blood Road, Brad tells the infamous tale of the murderous dragging. The girls--not frightened in the least--crack jokes and poke fun at him, much like quasi-brave Boy Scouts would do at their first campfire story. The tone inside the van is hardly one of fear. That is, until a large dark object appears in the middle of the road.

"Holy shit," says Brad as he turns off the radio. "What the hell is that?" You can hear the hush fall on the van as everyone scurries to see out the front windshield.

"It looks like a fucking PERSON," Randy shouts.

"Go around him Brad," says Kim. "Seriously, don't even slow down." But Brad does slow down. In fact, he slows the van to a crawl and lowers the driver-side window to survey the scene. And before he can even mutter the first two words of his rehearsed "Hey are you OK?" the cold metal of Scott's pistol is placed carefully against the back of his head.

"Put the van in park, asshole, and get out slowly!" Scott says in his most sinister car-jacking tone. Loud, panicked screams follow, but are briefly interrupted by the sight of a 6'2" masked man flinging the side door of the van open. His gun is the first thing they see.

"Everybody out. Get the fuck out NOW!" I screamed as I began to grab arms and literally toss the passengers out into the grassy ditch. In the adrenaline-filled moment, the girls watch with horror as I pull David, the largest of the guys, down to his knees and fling him like a rag-doll into the darkness. "OUT, bitch!" I yell to to Denise as she clings desperately to the leather strap on the door. I have to pry her hands loose as she screams with terror.

Within a span of about 15 seconds, the van was emptied. Scott, already in the driver's seat, began speeding away as I slammed the van's side door. As it closed, the van's dome light briefly illuminated the most horrified faces I've ever seen--even the guys. Scott and I lock hands in a splendid high-five. It was perfect.

Behind us, in utter darkness, just feet from the scariest, most remote place in town, four horrified and utterly helpless young girls stood clinging to the arms of their boyfriends. Naturally, the guys comforted them with feigned concern and stared in amazement as the van pulled away. Inside, though, they were giddy with anticipation.

[Conclusion on Monday!! Have a good weekend.]