Keith killed the engine and sat with his hands on the wheel while the depot settled around him. Half the lights were out again. The ones that worked threw long yellow pools across the concrete and left the rest in shadow.
His back ached. His mouth tasted of the last cigarette heâd smoked at the terminus. He checked the mirror out of habit and saw nothing but empty seats and the glow of the interior lamps heâd left on.
He got up, keys jingling, and walked the aisle the way he always did. Ticket machine. Grab rails. Under the seats for the usual crap people left behind. Halfway down he stopped.
Someone was still sitting at the back.
The man hadnât moved when the bus stopped. He sat with his hands in his lap, coat buttoned to the throat, face turned slightly toward the window. Keithâs first thought was that the bastard had nodded off. It happened. Then he remembered the last stop had been empty. Heâd checked. Heâd called out. No one had answered.
âDepot, he said.
His voice came out louder than he meant.
âEnd of the line. You need to get off.
The passenger didnât answer. Keith walked closer. The air changed as he moved down the aisle. Colder. It carried a smell that wasnât the usual mix of wet coats and diesel. Something sweeter underneath, like meat left too long in a warm place. The passengerâs head turned. Slowly. The interior light caught the side of his face and Keith saw the skin there was the wrong colour, grey where it should have been pink, and stretched too tight over the cheekbone.
âI said get off.
The man smiled. The smile showed teeth that were too long and too many.
âYouâre the driver.
âYeah. And youâre getting off my bus.
âIâve been riding with you all night.
The voice was low and wet.
âYou didnât see me. Most of them donât. They get on and get off and never notice the one who stays.
Keithâs hand went to the radio on his belt. The depot was supposed to have a nightman, but the radio only ever gave static after midnight. He pressed the button anyway. Nothing. The passenger watched him do it and the smile didnât change.
âWhat do you want?
âWhat youâve been giving away all night. The man stood.
The movement was wrong; the coat didnât shift the way cloth should. Under the hem something dark and wet moved across the floor of the bus.
âEvery time you told someone to shut up. Every time you wished the last one would just die so you could finish the route. Little pieces. Iâve been collecting them.
Keith backed up a step. His heel hit a seat leg. The passenger came forward and the smell grew stronger. Up close the face was worse. The skin had split along the jaw and something pale and jointed was pushing through the tear. It looked like a finger, or part of one, working its way out from inside.
âGet the fuck off my bus.
The thing that had been a passenger lunged. One hand closed on Keithâs wrist. The grip was cold and the skin of the palm split open as it tightened. Underneath was not bone or muscle but a wet red mass that pulsed.
Keith tried to pull free and felt something give. The skin on his own wrist tore. Blood ran hot down his arm and into the thingâs grip. It drank. He felt the pull, not just of blood but of something deeper, a thin bright thread being drawn out through the wound.
He swung with his free hand and hit the face. The blow landed soft. The head rocked and more of the grey skin split. What came out wasnât a scream. It was a long, wet exhalation, and with it came more of the pale jointed things, crawling over the ruined cheek and onto Keithâs knuckles. They were small and hard and they bit.
Keith shouted. The sound bounced off the empty bus and died. He drove his knee up into the thingâs middle. The coat tore. Under it the body was open from sternum to groin, a cavity packed with moving shapes the size of his thumb. They spilled onto the floor of the bus and scattered toward his boots. One climbed his trouser leg. He stamped and felt it burst.
The grip on his wrist tightened. The thread being pulled from him burned now, bright and thin and endless. His vision narrowed. He could hear his own heartbeat slowing. The thing leaned in until its ruined mouth was against his ear.
âKeep driving, it said.
The voice was almost gentle.
âThere are more routes. More of you. Iâll ride them all.
Keithâs free hand found the fire extinguisher clipped under the driverâs seat. He swung it one-handed. The metal cylinder caught the thing across the temple and the head came half away from the neck. What spilled out was not blood. It was the same wet red mass, and it kept moving, still attached to his wrist, still pulling.
He hit it again. And again. The third blow separated the arm. The grip stayed locked. The fingers continued to flex even as the rest of the body folded and began to crawl, in pieces, back toward the rear of the bus.
Keith staggered to the doors and hit the release. Cold depot air hit him. He stepped down onto the concrete still dragging the severed arm. The fingers worked against his skin, trying to dig deeper. He smashed the wrist against the edge of the step until the bones gave and the hand finally loosened. It dropped. The fingers kept twitching on the concrete.
Inside the bus the pieces were gathering again under the seats, drawing themselves toward the back. The interior lights flickered. Keith stood on the lot with blood running down his arm and the thin bright thread still burning somewhere under his ribs. He could feel it trying to re-form, trying to reach back toward whatever was putting itself together in the dark of the bus.
He walked to the depot office on legs that didnât quite belong to him. The night man was asleep in the chair with his feet on the desk. Keith didnât wake him. He stood at the window and watched the bus. The lights inside went out one by one. In the last of them he saw a shape sit upright in the rear seat and turn its head toward the depot windows.
Keith put his hand over the place on his chest where the thread was still being pulled. It was thinner now. He could still feel the other end of it, somewhere out there in the dark, waiting for the next driver to finish his route and come home.
