The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 3.22)

Wednesday, 14:45, route 31

When the bus stops, and everyone is crowded up against the right wall either to peer through the window at the police cars and black-adorned reverends in the apartment parking lot or to get off the bus and watch the action on scene, Willow’s attention is elsewhere. Her nose twitches, and she can’t shake the feeling that something dangerous is headed her way.

Even Drake is busy trying to peer over the crowd. Only his back faces Willow, so he fails to notice the slow onset of her panic. Not wanting to bother anyone, she glances at Martin and Divinity in the next seat back; they are occupied with the world outside as well, and all Willow sees of them are their black curls.

She fidgets, fiddling with her fingers and flicking her gaze back and forth between her lap and Drake’s shoulder. “Drake,” she tries.

He leans forward, away from her, and he looks like he might stand up.

“Drake!” Willow says again, louder. When he tilts his head to look at her, she tugs him by the arm and points to the front of the bus. “Something’s wrong!”

“Okay, what’s going on?”

Willow pulls him closer. “You know that thing from yesterday?” she whispers. She earns a frown—Drake is still angry with her for pretending to faint—but continues anyway. “Well, it’s not gone, like I thought it was. It’s bigger, and it’s coming here.”

“Okay…” Settling back into his seat, he threads his fingers through his widow’s peak and sighs. “Do I need to do something about it?”

“Get everyone off the bus,” Willow starts. She takes a breath to give further instructions, but someone screams before she can speak. The crowd on the right wall surges to the left, and a few people bang on windows, trying to push out the glass so they can get out and scatter. Shouting and shrieking and frantic muttering clutter the air. Willow clambers on top of a seat to see over the mob, and someone’s arm nearly topples her.

Near the front door, a blue-tinged figure phases through the bus. She is tall and lean, her skintight shirt and leggings showing off every ounce of rippling muscle. Her sneer is so wolfish she might as well be a wolf in human skin, a thought which might not be far off. Wolf ears stick up from under her hair, and fur rips through her face.

“Well, well,” says the wolf lady, licking her lips. “Look what I’ve found.” She hardly sounds like she’s trying, but her voice projects through the bus like a giant’s roar. The bus is silent.

Somewhere behind Willow, someone pushes out a window, and the glass smacks on the asphalt outside. A hesitant car putters past, and everyone who can follows it with their eyes, wishing they could be there instead of on the bus.

“Scatter if you want,” the lady says. Flippant, she waves at the door and shrugs. “I know the person I want won’t leave.” Then her eyes snap to Willow, like a teacher giving a silent warning to a problem student. When no one moves, the wolf lady snarls. A wave of cold bursts out, with the spirit at the epicenter, and the bus erupts into writhing, chaotic motion.

Like the wolf spirit, Willow stands stone still. From her perch atop the seats, she waits through the final trickle of passengers fleeing through the window. The moment the last person is gone, she places a soft step on the seat cushion and puffs her chest in a vain attempt to boost her confidence. “You’re not the only predator I’ve beaten this past week,” Willow says, voice wobbling.

“Hmm.” The wolf lady cross her arms and examines her nails. “I don’t doubt that, but I do doubt you’ve challenged a spirit quite like me. I mean, you don’t smell like you’ve ever eaten a human soul. Directly or indirectly.”

Of course Willow hasn’t. She gulps and lifts her chin. “No. I’m not a monster.”

“A monster?” the spirit repeats. Like a seductive villain, she covers her heart and softens her voice. “You’re a blunt one, aren’t you? I prefer to think of myself as a little coyote only trying to take back what’s hers.”

“I thought you were too sly to be a wolf,” Willow replies. She steps to the floor and spreads her feet apart. Her fists are raised, her knees bent. She pins her gaze on the coyote spirit’s eyes and inhales.

Then she vanishes.

Willow materializes a split second later inches away from her opponent’s back, white fur tearing through her cheeks. She throws her punch, and the coyote woman crashes into the nearest seats. The plastic cries against the confines of nuts and bolts, and Willow raises her arm to land another blow.

Her knuckles bash the coyote’s back, just under the ribs.

“Ow!” coyote woman groans. She rolls off the seat, narrowly missing another strike, and sinks through the floor. “You aren’t just strong,” she muses. Her disembodied voice jumps about the bus, and Willow flinches. “You’re trained. I didn’t expect that.”

“Deep breaths,” Willow mutters. Her eyes flick downward, scouring the muddy floor for a trace of translucent blue. She widens her stance and checks over her shoulder, and then she is falling. Her hair bites her scalp, and her neck twists. A moment later, she slams into the ground.

Her right shoulder aches, and when Willow attempts to bend her elbow, pain crashes over her nerves. She rolls onto her stomach and grimaces, squinting at the floor, still watching for her opponent. When no attack comes, Willow assumes she has a moment of reprieve and reaches for the nearest seat to pull herself up.

Before her fingers even brush metal, pastel blue fills her vision. The coyote spirit kicks Willow’s stomach, and the rabbit soars. The flying part feels eternal, like death, and then Willow hears her spine crack. She bounces off the back seat like a ragdoll thrown in a tantrum and crumples to the floor. Her right arm might as well be on fire. She swallows her whimper and replaces it with a gasp.

“Oh, poor little rabbit spirit,” the coyote woman croons. With tantalizing, slow steps, she approaches the back seat. Then she kneels and reaches for a handful of Willow’s loose black and snow white hair. “Our teensy herbivore isn’t brave enough to eat the big bad coyote.”

Willow curls her lips back and growls. The coyote spirit tugs up and smashes Willow’s face into the floor.

“I don’t like it when my prey acts big with me. Give up now or I’ll beat your body until it’s as recognizable as all those blonde girls’ were.”

“T-that,” Willow spits, “is what you think.” She yelps a split second later when the coyote stomps on her gut.

“That is what I know,” the coyote sneers.

Grunting, Willow turns onto her stomach. She glares up at her opponent and tries to bring her left arm under her chest. “And how would you know about those women?” she hisses.

“Oh, that’s easy.” The coyote woman smiles and lifts her foot. Her eyes roam Willow’s body, searching for a vulnerable spot. “I ate them.” A split second later, her foot crushes Willow’s forearm. A snap rings in the cold bus air, and Willow chokes down a scream. The coyote spirit swoops down and snatches the collar of Willow’s coat, and as Willow rises from the floor, she claws at her neck with her good hand.

Grinning, the coyote woman drags Willow to a sidewalk-facing window, ignoring the thud of Willow’s legs against the seats. “Now then, before I eat you, I think I’m about to have another ghost as an appetizer. Care to watch with me?” It is not a question. The coyote spirit tilts her head, gesturing outside, and Willow obeys the command.

Marie is the first thing Willow sees. The blonde girl is standing near the edge of a crowd gathered around two flashing police cars, and next to her are Divinity and the boys. The four are in their own huddle, discussing who-knows-what with their faces shadowed by worry and hunched backs. Then Martin stands up, towering over the other three. He points his face away from the bus, and Willow imagines him wrinkling his nose and sniffing the air.

He turns back to the other three and shakes Drake’s shoulder, pointing at the parking lot. A knot of dread ties itself to Willow’s stomach.

The quartet collectively follows Martin’s finger. Divinity shakes her head, black curls flying, and lifts a hand to smack Martin’s back, but she freezes a moment later when Marie takes a step into the parking lot. Drake and Martin leap forward to block her path, but she waves them off. Then she beams at Divinity, her brilliant actress smile overcoming the distance to Willow’s window.

“Oh, no no no,” Willow whimpers. A puff of air brushes her ear, and she gasps. The coyote woman is leaning towards her, ready to bite off heads.

“Enjoying the show?”

Of course Willow isn’t enjoying the show. She gulps and keeps her gaze steady, trained outside. Her good hand wanders to her right shoulder.

“Nothing? You’re not saying anything?” the coyote spirit asks. “And here I thought you were a defiant little idiot. Or maybe you are, and you’re just trying to be noble instead of adorable.” She rolls her eyes and taps the window, nails clicking on the glass. “Rabbits,” she scoffs.

A roar floats in through the open window on the other side of the bus, as if everything outside is part of a movie, and Willow and the coyote woman are casual moviegoers. Martin is racing after Marie, and his long gait seems to put the scene into slow motion. Drake erupts like a volcano, shedding sparks and skin for his glimmering red scales. He is no bigger than Martin, but when he roars again, the vibrations shake the bus.

The crowd around the police cars scatters, spilling into the street and nearby lawns, and a duo of officers sprint towards Drake. They are shouting, but Willow can’t hear. She slides her gaze left, to the coyote woman, and finds the spirit frowning.

“Oh dear. This isn’t at all what I expected. No one is dying. The blonde one isn’t dead yet.”

Willow looks back outside, unsure of how to react. Martin and Drake are acting like mimes, pushing against some unseen force and scrunching their faces in exertion. Drake even has smoke spiraling out of his snout. Black wisps curl in the cold, dense air, undecided on whether they should float or fall, and as Drake and Martin keep pushing, the smoke bends into the silhouette of a car.

Someone had better be filming that.

“I suppose,” says the coyote spirit, “I will not be getting an appetizer. What a shame.”

Willow stomps on the coyote woman’s toes. “Yes,” she parrots. “What a shame.”

Howling, the coyote hops through rows of seats. She stumbles to a stop near the front of the bus, torso sticking out of a cushion, and snarls. “Fine. You want to play? I’ll play.” She lifts her hands to show translucent claws extending from her fingernails. Then she steps forward and rips a seat from the floor.

The seat is inches from Willow’s face before she can blink. Wincing, she ducks and clutches her limp arm closer to her side. Electricity dances up and down her forearm, and Willow does not want to know what the corsage of pain on her wrist looks like. She pops back up and watches the coyote woman tear up another seat. “You know,” she calls, “it’s not good manners to play with your food.”

Another seat sails over Willow’s head, and a hollow, abrasive crash booms from behind her.

“Fine,” the coyote spirit hisses. “I won’t play then. I’ll hunt you. I’ll tear this bus apart until there’s nowhere for you to hide, and then I’ll chase you until you can’t run. And you know what I’ll do once I’ve eaten you?”

Willow doesn’t respond. She tucks her right arm over her back and crawls across the aisle.

“I’ll start eating the regular people!” the coyote bellows. “Once I’ve eaten you, I’ll be strong enough to pull souls from the living, and you can be sure I’ll do it.” An eerie screech echoes inside the bus, and another seat clatters against the floor.

Willow eases onto her belly and snakes under the seats, the front of her jacket pulling up every stray dust bunny and mud splotch on the floor. “Why didn’t anyone see this coming when they took over the continent?” she mutters. “Stinking Columbus.” She continues wriggling along the ground until she is past the coyote woman’s feet, shoulder blooming in pain every time another crash rattles the walls. Then she tugs herself out into the wasteland of severed seats and calculates her next strike.

The coyote woman raises her arms, preparing to grip another seat, and Willow chooses that moment to attack. She dashes to the coyote’s back and pins the spirit’s foot to the floor. Then she swings her good arm around the woman’s neck and pulls down. Another seat peels away from the floor and teeters for a few terrifying moments before collapsing onto the coyote woman. Willow moves her own foot away just before the crash.

The seat cannot hold the coyote for long. With a furious huff, the woman vanishes through the floor. Her cackles burst from every corner of the bus, hiding her location.

“Not this time,” Willow hisses. She leaps atop an intact seat and watches for a translucent wisp, something too wide to hide within thin sheets of plastic. After a few moments, she spots her target, a blue-ish pinky sticking out of a cushion. She dives from the seat and snatches the coyote woman’s arm, tugging the spirit back to the empty side of the bus.

Before the coyote can think to sputter, Willow jabs her knee into the woman’s gut. A white wisp flees from the spirit’s mouth, sobbing and swirling, and Willow pauses. She hadn’t realized she could do that, hadn’t realized how tired and angry the coyote was, and how she could use that to her advantage.

“Hah,” the woman gasps, “as if that could-

Willow knees the woman again, and she knows the fight is over. All that’s left is to empty the coyote of its latest meals.

Many strikes later, the bus is brimming with ghosts, and the coyote spirit is a limp dog in Willow’s arms. Chatter crowds the air, and the tumbling ghosts give the illusion of snow falling indoors. Willow gives the coyote one last bop on the head, and the final ghost spurts from the animal’s mouth.

“Now all of you, shoo,” Willow says, waving her good hand. “I don’t want to eat any of you by mistake.”

The ghosts clamor for answers and assurances, pressing in on Willow without seeming to realize she can feel them.

“I think there’s an exorcist outside who can answer your questions, and some police looking for witnesses.”

Then, like starlings moving onto their next meal, the ghosts funnel out of the bus in one swift swoosh, and Willow is left alone in a warzone of broken plastic and scuffed metal. She sighs, hoisting the coyote spirit up to her face with her one useable arm, and inhales. The spirit is gone, settling in her stomach and leaving her a tad bit queasy. She leans on a seat nearby and wonders if now is a good time to sleep, only to see Drake pushing through the bus’s front door.

“Willow!” he calls, waving. Scales dot his arm like summer freckles, and as he draws closer, Willow can feel heat rolling off him in waves. “Are you holding up? Do you need anything?” He tries to pull in for a hug, but stops.

“I uh… arm,” Willow manages to say. She is basking in Drake’s warmth, eyelids falling. A smile sneaks onto her face, and she slouches into a cushion. “I… saw the car.”

“Oh! Yeah.” Drake chuckles and pauses, twisting around to see if Divinity and Martin have followed him onto the bus yet. “That happened. Marie is safe, and uh, Martin has some bruises, but otherwise we’re all okay.”

Willow’s smile turns wider and dopier. “That’s good.”

“Yeah. So uh, I think the officers are about to start their investigation and talk to the witnesses. What do you say we get you off this bus?”

Willow just has to vomit first.