Buck Dich

The alarm on the sideboard suddenly went off. It vibrated as it beeped and gradually made its way to the edge of the shelf. A hand reached out from under the bed covers and felt around to turn the buzzing off, but it was too slow and the clock vibrated its way off the shelf and fell onto the thickly carpeted floor. A muffled curse was heard before the person in the bed shoved the covers off and dragged himself up to retrieve the fallen device.

Oliver Riedel was 18. He spent most of his time playing his bass in a band called Rammstein. They weren’t very big or well known but the concerts they did do were often full of their local fan base. They were gathering quite a crowd but still managed to escape the attention of the media. When he had got dressed and grabbed some breakfast, he headed over to his band mate, Christoph’s house. They always rehearsed there, partly because he had a big music room, but partly because it was much easier to carry guitars around than a full drum kit. He knocked on the door and waited. When no one answered, he tried the handle and to his surprise the door opened. He cautiously made his way inside and shut the door quietly behind him.

The silence was oppressive. Normally there would be at least one person, often more, playing something, or least making some sort of noise. There was always something going on. He wandered through into the music room expecting to see someone, but that was empty too. Where was everyone? He checked the kitchen – nobody there either. In confusion, he got a glass from the cupboard and poured himself some OJ. He leant against the worktop wondering where everyone was and sipping his drink, before spotting a piece of orange notepaper stuck to the side of the kettle. He reached over, pulled it off and read the following:

Hey Olli! We (Richard, Paul and I) have gone to the music shop to get a new lead and stuff. We’ll be back in about half an hour, but Till and Flake are around somewhere… Christoph.

Finishing his drink, Oliver decided to check upstairs to see if he could find the remaining two members of his band. The staircase creaked beneath his feet and his arm brushed the pictures on the wall, but he didn’t notice, more concentrating on listening for sounds of activity. He thought he heard footsteps in the bedroom to his left so he pushed open the wooden door and entered. It was empty. He had soon looked in all the other rooms on that floor and was stood at the top of the rickety stairs when a loud crash came from above. He glanced at the ceiling and saw the slightly worn trap door which led to the attic conversion. He’d forgotten about that. He dragged the cold, metal ladder down and warily began to climb. There was another crash and he poked his head through the hole. Turning around, he came face to face with his vocalist and keyboardist. That in itself wasn’t weird, what was though, was the fact that they were rolling around on the floor, hot, sweaty and out of breath…