The Black Heart Crypt

As the bus eased to a stop, Azalea heard boot heels clomping along its riveted steel roof.

“You stupid bus driver,” whined Kurt Snertz, an eighth grader who was sitting near the front of the bus today, just so he could finger-flick a new kid’s ears. “Why’d you pull over?”

“Kurt?” said Azalea.

“What?”

“Be cool.”

“Make me.”

“You heard the lass,” croaked the masked man as he strode onto the bus, both pistols aimed at Snertz. “Sit still, lad.”

“Yes, sir,” Kurt said, gulping. Azalea thought he might burst into tears.

“Children,” said the masked man, “I hereby declare you all to be my hostages!” His voice was hoarse and raspy. “May God have mercy on your souls!”

And then the bad guy’s eyes went buggy as he cocked his head sideways as if he was listening to something nobody else could hear.