Monday, 15:00, route 40 eastbound
The bus is empty when it pulls into the west-side station. After glancing in the wide, rear-view mirror to make sure no one is asleep on his bus, the driver reaches up to a punch pad above his seat and presses a few buttons. Then he falls back into his chair and gropes around for the cloth lunch sack slung over his seat. Everyone who rides the Forty-East at this time of day is a regular; they won’t mind watching him eat.
The driver is sinking his teeth into a deep red apple when the first of the regulars shows up. It’s a high school boy, probably, since the driver has seen this kid riding for years. Besides, it’s hard not to notice the kid. His height, lack of muscle, and dark skin make him a stick in every possible way. Not to mention he also seems like a stick in the mud. As the boy sits down, the driver wonders if he’s ever seen the kid smile.
There is very little time for wondering though. A moment later, the bus is sent rocking. Metal clangs against the floor, and a petit lady wearing a bizarre mix of period fashions stands in the doorway, bus pass held to the driver’s face.
“Good afternoon, Rick!” she shouts.
“Afternoon, Mellie,” Rick mumbles. He wants to go back to eating his apple, but with the bus shaking so much, he’s not sure it’s a smart idea. “Have a good day?”
Mellie inspects the chainmail tunic draped over her flapper. “It was even more boring than usual. I rode around town with an un-powerful police officer and didn’t get to bust out the swords or anything. We didn’t even pull over any powerful folk.”
“Do you normally have to pull over some powerful folk?” Rick asks.
“Usually, there are at least two,” Mellie says. She plops into the seat next to the boy and fumbles with the sheath strapped to her waist. “Hey Marty, does your dad ever tell you stories about the powerful folks’ traffic violations?”
The boy slips a hand into his backpack and pulls out a book. “Mostly, Dad complains about you.” Then he buries his nose in the pages, leaving Mellie shivering with the frigid remark.
“You don’t need to be so blunt, Martin.”
Everyone turns to the front door, and Martin even looks up from his book. The man stepping onto the bus shares Martin’s height and skin, and though their eyes tilt differently, and the man is more filled-out and muscular than the son, the resemblance is clear.
“Though it is true that I mostly complain about whichever of the powerful folk employees I get stuck in my car. You included, Melody.”
Mellie crosses her arms and pretends to spit on the floor. “You’re almost as bad as your son, Mr. Stevenson. I can see where he gets it."
“Honesty is a virtue,” Mr. Stevenson says, and then he takes his seat, easing onto the cushion so slowly it’s as though he is reluctant to sit at all. Rick pulls the lever to close the door a second later, and the bus jerks to a start.
The scenery along the first section of route forty eastbound can be considered some of the dullest in existence, rivaled only by the American Plains. Between the two sections of town is a lone highway stretching over fifteen minutes of dry, tan dirt. The only greenery is the occasional, half-dead shrub.
Inside, Mellie stretches her arms, nearly whacking Martin’s face every time she switches positions. Her eyes are trained on the windows, and a pout grows on her face.
“I really wish Mr. Talisman would sell his land already,” she says, “or at least rent it out. I’m tired of looking at this hunk of dirt. Besides, if he doesn’t use it soon, he’s never going to make anything off it.”
Mr. Stevenson chuckles and scratches his head. “Just wait a few years. The man is past ninety, and it’s common knowledge that when his granddaughter inherits, she’s going to sell it all.”
“Marcy Talisman is going to be rich!” Mellie draws out the last word and adds a whistle to the end before bringing her elbows to the back of the seat and reclining. For a moment, it seems she might try to sleep, but a sudden jerk in the bus's motion sends her head shooting back up. The bus is no longer moving.
“Yo Rick!” she shouts. “What’s the hold-up?”
“Traffic’s all jammed,” Rick says. “I see a few police cars and an ambulance, but no collision.”
Face curled in concern, Mr. Stevenson stands up to look out the front window. “You’re right. It almost looks like a hit-and-run.”
“That’s insane,” Martin says, not looking up from his book. “The only people who go walking around this stretch of road are the Talismans, and they know how to cross a two-lane highway.”
“Let’s just wait and see then,” Mr. Stevenson says. He stays standing, watching the accident drift closer as traffic crawls along the road.
Rick radios the bus office to inform his colleagues about the delay, and when he’s done listening, the bus is silent with worried anticipation. A pressure like that of a hundred disembodied spirits haunts the air.
Minutes later, Rick rolls the bus through the one lane open to traffic, and the passengers hold their breaths. Through the wide, low windows, they see a pink-stained stretcher being loaded onto an ambulance. The woman lying atop the sheets has her face twisted in pain, and the mask over her mouth and nose only accents her agony.
Martin and his father wince at the sight, Rick steels his face and looks only at the road, and Mellie gapes.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “That’s Marcy Talisman.”
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