Last bus 1

Chapter 1: The Wrong Bus

I should have realized something was wrong the moment that bus pulled up through the mist.

It wasn’t part of any schedule I knew, and the night had the kind of damp, crawling cold that gets under your skin no matter how tightly you wrap your jacket. I stood there hesitating, staring at the headlights that burned too bright to make out the route number. For a second, I even thought about turning back, maybe calling a cab instead, but then the door wheezed open with a tired hiss, and without thinking much more, I stepped aboard.

Inside, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a sickly green hue, and a handful of passengers sat slumped in their seats, faces turned away as if they'd rather not be seen—or maybe as if they had nowhere left to look. I dropped some coins into the fare box, though the sound they made falling down inside didn’t feel quite right, as if they were falling much farther than they should.

The bus jerked into motion without a word from the driver, and I stumbled into the nearest empty seat, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Outside the grimy window, the familiar streets of my neighborhood slid past, though something about them seemed off: the buildings leaned at strange angles, the streetlights flickered with an almost desperate energy, and the sidewalks were completely empty, as though the entire city had decided to hold its breath.

As the bus rumbled further into the night, the landmarks I thought I knew began to vanish. Before long, there were no houses, no intersections, not even trees—only a thick, swirling darkness pressing in from every side. I pressed my forehead lightly against the cool glass, trying to fight off the sudden, sharp spike of panic rising in my chest.

This wasn’t the right way home.

I was certain of it.