I hurried into the bus, carefully treading over people’s bags littered all over the floor. The place smells like a mixture of sweat, cheap perfume, and food.
I make my way toward the back, looking for any available seats. I find an empty one next to an old man wearing glasses and reading a tiny book. He smiles warmly at me, and I smile back politely and put my bag down on the seat, taking a deep breath.
I slump down on the seat, exhausted.
The doors slide closed with a creak. The bus rumbles, lurching forward, throwing a few people off their seats and tumbling ahead. I clutch my bag to my chest and look out the window.
The people around me sigh and laugh and talk. Some in hushed whispers, some others very loudly on the phone. I take out my cellphone to entertain myself, and to avoid the stares from the creepy old guys across from my seat.
The old man watches me carefully, I notice, his book put away neatly at his side, a bookmark in between the pages. I pay no attention and instead scroll mindlessly through my social media.
“You’re a very pretty girl, you know that?” he says suddenly. His voice is deeper than I thought, and when I turn, he’s looking at me like I’m his Christmas present.
“Thanks,” I blurt with an awkward smile, turning back to my phone.
“Beautiful hair,” he continues, taking a piece of my hair in between his fingers. I move my head, frowning at him. He keeps smiling like this is a normal conversation.
“Thank you,” My voice comes out small and shaky. “But don’t touch my hair, please.”
His smile drops instantly and he shakes his head, taking his book back with a deep sigh. Watching him for a moment, I go back to texting my friend.
The bus suddenly stops, floundering forward once again, right in the middle of the road. I see a lot of concerned faces turning towards the bus driver, who sits still, unresponsive. The old man next to me continues reading, as if nothing happened at all.
“What’s the problem, man?” says a middle-aged guy wearing a cap, watching his wristwatch. “I gotta go!”
“Yeah, what’s happening?” chimes in a younger woman in a suit, looking impatiently over the heads of people.
And suddenly everyone is talking over each other, and a group of men pushes their way through the crowd towards the bus driver, who sits as still as a statue, ignoring all voices. Cars zoom past us, some honking repeatedly. I watch the window as a grumpy looking guy in a truck gives the middle finger to the driver.
I’m surprised the police isn’t here yet. A few people are recording on their phones. The group of men approach the driver, and the bigger one, assumably the leader, taps the man on the shoulder.
No response. The driver doesn’t even blink; He sits still like a lion watching a zebra, his mouth slightly ajar and his eyes cold and distant.
“Hey, excuse me?” says the guy calmly, as the others watch with interest. “Hello?”
When the driver doesn’t respond, the man pushes him. The driver does not even flinch, even as his face hits the window. The creepiest part is that he does not blink once during the entire ordeal. The man looks back to his group of friends with a strange smile, like he thinks it’s a big joke.
“What the fuck?” a few people mutter, and the group of men begin talking quietly. Heart pounding, I put my phone down, hoping this ridiculous occurrence will be over soon and we’ll be on our way. The people in front of me are practically straining their necks to look over to the bus driver, who sits like a ragdoll in his seat, absent like a ghost.
The men finish their talk and a tall guy with a beard grabs the driver and pulls him out of the seat. He has absolutely no issue or difficulty doing this, which is absurd, because the driver had to be at least a few pounds heavier than him.
“Is he dead?” a girl behind me asks, her voice wobbly. No one answers and she shrinks in her seat.
“Should I call the police?” yells a man from the back, and a few heads snap in his direction. Some people nod while others shake their head. “I’m calling the police.”
I watch as the bearded man climbs into the driver’s seat while his friends drag the lifeless, limp driver across the floor to a seat that a kid had given up. He sits slumped against the window, almost falling off, barely being held by one of the men. People around the seat stare intensely, some recoiling and a few children bursting into tears.
By now, a lot of cars are honking at us, causing a racket. I realize I’m clutching my bag so hard that my knuckles are white.
“My phone died!” exclaimed angrily the guy who previously wanted to call the cops.
“We’re going now, people!” the bearded man yells, and a couple of cheers sound from the back. The old man next to me doesn’t say a single word, and I find it strange, but I say nothing. I don’t want him to talk to me again.
The bus roars to life and spurts, and we take off across the road. With a sigh of relief, I go back to my phone, only to discover that the battery had died. I frown when I remember that my percentage was at 61%.
A few people around me mutter, “What the…“, filling the bus with puzzled or concerned faces. I overhear a boy behind me say to his mother, “I swear I charged my phone. What the heck?”
I felt uneasy, but passed it off as some weird glitch. The bus was now going unusually fast, making a few people almost topple out of their seats or hit their heads against the window. I watch as the bearded man drives with one hand on the wheel and the other arm behind his head.
After a while, when I’m just about to doze off, some guy yells, “Hey, you missed the stop!”
A couple of people mumble with worry, throwing addled looks towards the group of men sitting by the drivers’ seat, laughing obnoxiously loudly and slapping each other on the shoulder, pretending not to hear people’s complaints. The bearded man is laughing with them, looking back once in a while to give a smart remark.
The driver hasn’t woken up yet; He sat pushed against the window, his eyes glassy and defunct, almost like a spirit. The sky is darkening and people are getting worried.
“What the fuck is going on?” a woman with her baby exclaims, her face pale and her voice trembly. “You’re going in the wrong direction!”
The men paid no attention to her. The old man next to me has his head resting on the cool glass, snoring softly. People around me are talking in hushed whispers and children are crying restlessly.
The worry in my gut intensifies when the sun begins setting and we still haven’t stopped. Some people try to turn their phones on, but it’s no use. One man tries desperately to smash open a window as people watch in bewilderment, to no luck. The inside of the bus is dark, the only light provided being the moon.
I watch hopelessly as the men at the front observe the people in the back like we’re animals at the zoo.
Suddenly a bigger man from the back pushes past the crowd to the front, and commotion arises. I overhear snippets of their conversation.
“If you don’t stop right here… Hey man, it’s no big deal… We’re just trying to find the next exit… It’s already 6pm… I’m going to call the police!”
Then there’s a loud thump as the big guy drops to the floor, a large bloody gash on the side of his head. Shrieks fill the space and mothers cover the eyes of their children; Older kids scream and cuss; The elders cry out in shock and grab the railing; I watch helplessly, my heart sinking to the bottom of my shoes.
People are now trying to force their way to the back, trying to get away from the group of men at the front. My face is getting squished in the crowd; People yell and scream at each other, a few women try desperately to open the windows or turn on their phones; Children watch with wide eyes as the large man creates a puddle of blood near the bus exit.
“What the fuck!” is what I hear the most. I hear people crying, pleading, rapping uselessly against the bus windows. A child’s cry fills the already chaotic air.
I look out the window, and we’re now at a big country yard with nothing but trees, grass and empty space. The moon is shining brightly in the sky.
“Stop!” a woman screams, tears staining her face. “Stop the bus!”
A chorus of distressed voices join her, but the men don’t care. The bearded man suddenly swerves the bus to the right, throwing me against the old man, waking him up in the process. A few people fall to the floor, some lean against others for support. Kids clutch the hands of their parents. The limp bus driver falls off his seat and immediately a woman standing takes his place. The dead man at the front rolls across the floor and people screech, recoiling away from the body.
The old man next to me watches unfazed, like he doesn’t find it surprising at all. He busies himself with his book, like he’s already accepted his fate.
My chest feels tight, because it’s clear that the men have no intention of stopping anytime soon. And none of us can do anything, because we know they have a weapon, and some kind of power over our cellphones.
We must by now be miles and miles away from where we were supposed to stop. A lot of people have fallen asleep, but our new driver doesn’t seem any tired. The men watch our every move, making sure none of us manage to break any windows or turn on our phones.
If you’re seeing this, please try to help. My name is Ashley Curran and I’m 21 years old. I was supposed to be home at 3:30 pm this afternoon. If I’m not home anytime soon, I’m in serious danger. I’m starting to think this might be the end for me and everyone else on this bus. And I have a strange feeling that the old man has something to do with it.