The highway stretched endlessly ahead of them, a silver ribbon unspooling under moonlight and amber floodlights. The Feral Eclipse tour bus hummed steadily along a quiet stretch of desert highway somewhere between Albuquerque and Flagstaff. The stars outside were sharp and plentiful, casting faint glints through the windshield like the world was watching from above.
It was a long overnight drive—a fifteen-hour haul broken only by fuel stops and caffeine binges. Most nights, the crew would doze in their bunks or sprawl in the lounge, lost in music, gaming, or half-asleep banter. But this night?
This night was a “Diesel Story Night.”
It started, as they always did, with Gabriel sliding into the passenger seat beside Diesel with a sly grin and an extra-large hazelnut espresso.
“Story time, old man?”
Diesel gave him a long side-eye, took the coffee like tribute, and sipped. “What kind of story?”
“The kind where someone gets humiliated and you almost got arrested,” Gabriel said with glee.
That was all it took.
Within minutes, the front of the bus was crowded.
Cassie sat crisscross on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Jonah leaned over the armrest with a snack bag in one hand and a flashlight aimed dramatically under Diesel’s chin. Maya sprawled across the dashboard like a cat, one boot dangling in the air. Mark sat on the side stairs with a quiet smirk, and Rico had somehow wedged himself upside-down in the passenger footwell.
Thane stayed standing, arms folded just behind the cockpit, watching the whole scene with calm interest. Emily sat on the edge of the stairwell, already giggling.
Diesel cleared his throat and took a deep breath like a man preparing for war.
“A’ight, buckle in, pups,” he rumbled. “Lemme tell you about the time I was driving for Vandal Saints.”
The whole bus groaned in unison.
Gabriel choked on his coffee. “Those whiny alt-rock tryhards? The ones who threw a tantrum because our pyro scared their fog machine?”
Diesel grinned. “That’s the ones.”
He shifted in his seat, eyes on the road, but his voice dipping into full dramatic mode.
“So this was, oh, ’09, maybe? Back when Vandal Saints were riding high on that one hit—you know, the song with all the auto-tuned howling and the music video where they burned a couch in slow motion?”
“‘Ashes in Stereo,’” Mark deadpanned. “Still used in cheap whiskey commercials.”
“Right!” Diesel snapped his fingers. “So, I’m their driver. We’re on a multi-band tour. They’re headliners. Or so they think. Second-to-last gig is in Vegas, and the openers are this no-name group of wolf-themed punk rock weirdos called ‘Pack Howl.’”
Everyone turned and stared at Gabriel.
He raised both paws. “Not related. Swear.”
Diesel continued. “So these Pack Howl kids? They go on, no pyro, no light board, just raw talent and duct-taped guitars. Crowd loses their damn minds. I mean mosh pits, bras flying, people crying. They walk offstage to a standing ovation.”
Cassie whispered, “I already love them.”
Diesel chuckled darkly. “Vandal Saints lose it. One of their guitarists is pacing, muttering about ‘getting upstaged by feral mutts.’ Their lead singer throws his vape at the wall and demands we ‘erase the openers from the lineup poster.’ Like it’s Men in Black or something.”
Maya cackled. “Oh, I wish I had seen that meltdown.”
“So the set starts,” Diesel went on, “and they’re trying to go bigger—lighting crap on fire, fake blood, screaming into the wrong end of the mic—and the crowd? Totally dead. One guy in the front yells ‘Play Ashes in Stereo!’ and they haven’t even finished their first song.”
The entire bus burst into laughter.
Jonah practically fell into Emily’s lap, wheezing.
Diesel sipped his coffee again, deadly serious. “And then, the best part. Their fog machine jams full open. The stage fills with smoke—just as the lead singer tries to jump off a riser.”
He paused for effect.
Thane raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess.”
“Missed the landing,” Diesel said. “Straight into a lighting truss. Face first. I watched it from the side curtain. Like a majestic, useless goose.”
“HONK!” Gabriel shouted, mimicking the fall with dramatic flailing.
Emily had tears in her eyes from laughing. “Did he get back up?”
“Oh yeah,” Diesel grinned. “And then blamed the crew. They fired two techs before the encore. I gave one of them a ride to the airport. We stopped for tacos. He said it was still the best night of his career.”
Mark just shook his head. “You attract chaos.”
Diesel sipped again, smug as a wolf in the chicken coop. “I drive chaos.”
Cassie raised a hand. “New band rule: If we ever tour with Vandal Saints, we play Field Notes From the Stars during their soundcheck.”
“While gently setting a couch on fire,” Gabriel added.
Jonah held up his phone. “I’m tweeting that.”
Thane finally cracked a smile. “We’ll need a better fog machine.”
Everyone laughed again—long, loud, and free—as the desert night rolled by around them.
The stars above twinkled like they were listening too.