The Haunted Traveler Vol. 2 Issue 1

28
Then, the bus rolls over the barrier and tumbles to the busy street below.
Cars honk. People scream. I’m sure some of those screams are
people swearing at me. I do not care. I am doing this broken world a
service. I consciously relax my body as the bus falls. If I want to see the
results of my work and continue my mission, I need to give myself every
chance I can to survive. I take my hands off the steering wheel; there is
nothing more for me to do. Now it is all up to nature. Nature, and the
monstrosities that humankind has created.
The bus completes its descent with a crunch of metal and a symphony
of shattered glass. Some of it is the bus’s own structure. Most of
it is the cars underneath. The bodies on the bus fly against the windows,
the windshield, the chairs. One flies straight through the windshield and
sails into the sun. I wonder if he feels like Superman before he falls in a
jumbled heap of broken bones and torn flesh.
Cars crash into the bus. The flames they create paint a beautiful
backdrop. The screeches that sound mingle with screams in a succulent
serenade. The sirens that now blare add just the right harmony. I close my
eyes in satisfaction.
When I open them again, I lie in a hospital bed. When I try to
sit up, the soft clinking of chains make my head feel like it’s going to
implode. It feels like my brain’s fighting to escape its bony confines. I let
my body fall back to the bed. The handcuff that chains one hand to the
bedpost embraces my arm in chilly iciness. A knock at the door makes
my head pound in rhythm with each tap. A nurse – at least, I assume she’s
a nurse – enters.
“Oh! You’re awake. How do you feel?”
“Fine.” My vision blurs with the effort of speaking.
She may have continued to try to speak with me. I don’t know.
My eyes feel like lead weights. I let them fall as I reflect on how I got
here.
At first, the memories won’t come. My mind is like an old
television, covered in static. I mentally adjust the antenna. Flames replace
the static. Screams. Sirens.
Oh, god. What have I done?
Over the next few days, I drift in and out of consciousness. I
don’t remember much from that time. Once, I wake up to a nurse shaking
me gently.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “You were thrashing around a lot in
your sleep. I was afraid you might hit something.”
I can feel sweat running down my face. I want to respond, but,
before I can, my eyes close, and I am swimming in the black again.
I dream of fire. I dream of bodies lying broken, bleeding.
I dream of cars honking and crashing and sirens blaring and people