The feral children deploy the D.E.T.O.A.R. signs at the prearranged points. Some sharp motorists puzzle over the obvious spelling error. Hardly anyone notices the periods after the large block-style capital letters.

As the first car wanders off the main county two-lane, detoured inexorably to the center of the labyrinth on indistinguishable gravel roads through undifferentiated fields of head-high wheat, abominable preparations take place. In the center of this spider's web is a clearing lit by a bonfire where Amber, all of fifteen years old, reclines on her rustic plywood throne with regal dispassion. With exquisite boredom, she idly spins her skate wheel while, all around her, her retinue bustles frantically, attending to last-minute details.

Like a lobster floundering in a trap, the car circles slowly, in confusion, towards the inevitable center. It's a huge SUV with a sweet plump sorority sister, driving all night to rendezvous with her hometown boyfriend. The sound of the approaching vehicle spurs the assembled to an even greater frenzy of activity, while Amber, the queen bee, lolls about with an equally heightened resolve.

When the SUV pulls into the clearing, the driver gazes in dumbfounded astonishment at the filthy blond children, nearly naked and covered with sunburns and weeping insect bites, but their eyes aglow with a grim delight. An unintelligible grunted command from Amber sends them swarming over the SUV.

The land is thirsty; it craves the blood of the innocent.

Amber smiles with a lazy bliss. From far off in the distance, the sound of wheels on gravel grows audible. Truly, tonight we are doubly blessed.

Don't. Ever. Trespass. On. Amber's. Realm.