Status: The first draft of Chapter 1 of a short horror story
The 620 Interliner
The 620 Interliner
Chapter 1
He chose his seat carefully. Not too close to the front. Fatalities in bus accidents almost always occurred in the front seats. Too far back and he would have unruly teenagers to contend with or worse still, couples fornicating under the scant covering of a blanket.
His nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought of the body fluids left behind on the seats. He settled on a window seat towards the centre of the bus. Always on the right side, away from oncoming traffic. Another statistic in bus fatalities. Not that it mattered this time, but he was a creature of habit.
He placed a small empty suitcase into the overhead baggage compartment and opened the old worn briefcase he had placed on the aisle seat.
The faded tumblers on the locks had not worked in years but he still went through the motion of selecting the numbers before clicking the clasps back. He pulled out a small travel dispenser of disinfectant wipes from the briefcase and began meticulously cleaning the seat near the window. It was dirtier than usual and it took five wipes before the discoloured vinyl was cleaned to his satisfaction.
He sealed the dispenser and returned it to the briefcase, carefully strapping it down with a piece of velcro. He kept out a clean wipe to use for his hands.
It was cold in the bus. They always left the aircons running and his thick black rimmed glasses had misted slightly from his laboured breathing as he bent to clean the seat.
He paused for a few seconds to allow the condensation to clear and then walked to the rear of the bus to place the used wipes in the trash receptacle.
He cleaned long pale delicate fingers with the clean wipe and placed it into the trash with the others. His nose wrinkled again, this time at the odour emanating from the closed cubicle door.
A little sign affixed to the door proudly announced that if the light was red, the cubicle was occupied. Below this was another sign telling would be occupants that they risked a hefty fine should they decide the cubicle was a convenient place for a cigarette.
He shook his head. Breathing in there would prove difficult enough, given the smell wafting through the small ventilation slats at the base of the door.
He returned to the aisle seat and opened the briefcase again, this time removing two very well worn paperbacks which he placed onto the seat beside his.
He took care to ensure the titles faced upwards and towards any potential passenger who might consider the open seat an invitation. The one book, "How to Practise Satanism in Modern America" took pride of place on the top. The other, a garish pink volume with the image of two naked men embracing on the cover would help you "Fall in Love with your Gay side", if the title was to be believed.
He hadn't read either and had no intention, being neither gay nor a follower of the dark lord. The books served merely as elaborate props. He had found over the years that these two subjects served as wonderful deterrents to potential seat snatchers. He could have booked both seats, but the concept had never occurred to him. He just wasn't wired that way.
He had a final prop he deployed on the seat before closing the briefcase. It was an old syringe, the plastic yellowed with age and cracking in places, the needle on the end rusted. He smiled a thin humorless smile as he placed it carefully beneath the bottom book, only the needle and base of the syringe visible. Twice in the past, passengers had asked him to remove the syringe.
It was a mother in both instances, concerned their unruly and undisciplined little toddlers would touch it. He’d obliged both times, taking a small silver tin from his breast pocket and placing the syringe into it. He was, above all else, a gentleman.
He hadn't cleaned the aisle seat before placing the items down and it bothered him. He knew they wouldn't be returned to the briefcase this time, but it still did not sit well. He briefly considered opening the briefcase again for more wipes and then decided against it. Habits.
He reached down and locked the briefcase, making a show of spinning the faded numbers to a non existent audience. He placed it upright on it's side in front of the aisle seat. It protruded slightly into the aisle and he tapped it ever so gently with an immaculately polished boot tip, nudging it until it was flush with the edge of the seat. It wouldn't do to have careless feet kicking it as they passed by.
Satisfied, he shifted into the window seat, careful not to touch the headrests in front of him or disturb the briefcase at his feet. He clasped his hands in his lap, closed his eyes and settled down to wait.
It took the bus another hour to fill. He was the first passenger and they had let him board early without a second glance. One or two of the regular drivers and conductors had waved in acknowledgement as he walked through the terminal towards the waiting bus.
He made this trip to New York twice a month, on the second and fourth Saturday and had done so for the past four years. He was as much a part of the route now as the bus and it's well worn seats. He sat quietly , his eyes closed, listening to the bus fill. Voices, laughter, a baby's cry, a group of young children, two elderly women that took the seats behind him, chatting excitedly about their outing to Bloomingdale's.
The bus would be close to full today. He'd chosen today with the same care he'd used selecting his seat. It was the last week of holidays and the meticulous notes he'd made in the thin leather notebook nestling in right breast pocket had told him that today was the right day.
At 9.30am, exactly on time, the 620 Interliner pulled out of the terminal, bound for New York. The aisle seat beside him was still empty.
The briefcase sat quietly where he had placed it. The nozzle of the device he had painstakingly built into the lid pointed out towards the center of the aisle. His seat choice in the middle of the bus would ensure maximum dispersal.
An innocuous looking stud positioned with meticulous precision on the edge of the briefcase lid served as the exit point. The timer connected to the device was set for 12.30 pm, three hours from now and half an hour before the bus would reach the terminal in New York.
He lifted a wrinkled hand to wipe away beads of sweat that had formed below the rim of his hat. He was starting to sweat and that could only mean one thing.
He had inhaled some of the gas whilst transferring it to the canisters in the case. He had been forced to perform this delicate task at his house in the early hours of this morning. The risk of discovery at the laboratory had been too great.
He was running a fever, a clear indication he was infected, but it would take hours before his organs began to shut down. Long enough. It was a calculated risk and the fact that he was now contagious brought another wry smile to his thin pursed lips.Today was the day.
He wiped off the sweat from his brow on his trouser leg, ignoring the folded white handkerchief in his front pocket. It was an unthinkable thing to do, but today was a day for unthinkable acts.
He folded his hands again in his lap, his right index finger tracing the circle of the wedding band on his left hand. It was a nervous habit he’d tried to suppress, but now he let it have free reign. It was comforting.
Triggered by the ring, he reached into a breast pocket in his jacket and pulled out a browning faded photograph from another era. A beautiful young woman in her prime smiled up at him, her hair wet from the Pacific ocean just visible on the horizon behind her. He stared for a long while at the image before lifting it and pressing it ever so gently to his lips.
He affixed the photo to the back of the seat facing him, slipping a corner of it under a protruding edge of the seats metal frame. He sat back again, hands folded in his lap and smiled at the toddler whose face suddenly appeared above the seats headrest. His mother sat beside him, nursing his young sibling and texting with her free hand.
He winked at the small.face and it immediately disappeared behind the seat. The young woman in the photo smiled at him.again and he sighed a quiet sigh, filled with longing. He reached out and touched the face, delicately tracing its outline with his finger.
See you soon. Words mouthed silently.
He closed his eyes and was soon asleep, lulled by the motion of the bus.
In his dream, he is twenty again. He waits for her on the raised dunes, camera in hand. He watches as her lithe young figure runs toward him from the water's edge. She sees him and raises an arm.to wave. He tries.to lift his arm to wave back but cannot. A heaviness has settled over his limbs and he looks down in shock as the flesh blisters on his arms, the camera slipping from his grip. Blood has started to trickle from his nose and he senses with a sudden certainty only dreams can afford that she will not reach him in time.
“Sir, are you alright? Sir?”
He felt a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. The fever had worsened whilst he slept and he was now sweating profusely. Even the cold draft from the vent above his head failed to offer any relief. He was being cooked alive from the inside, well beyond the reach of the cooling air.
He tried to smile at the attendant in what he felt was a reassuring fashion. He could see from the expression on her face that it was having little.effect.
“I am fine thank you dear. I think I may be coming down with a small bout of flu” he said, smiling again. “Nothing serious”.
It was only when he spoke the last few words that he became aware of the metallic, slightly salty taste on his lips.
He raised the back of his hand to his lips and wiped it across them. It came.away red, streaked with blood.
“That doesn't look like flu to me”, she replied. “Are you having a stroke? “
He smiled inwardly at that. She couldn't have been older than twenty two and in her opinion that was what old.people did. They had strokes. He resisted the urge to tell her that he was infected with a virulent strain of flesh eating bacteria that made ebola look like a little lost puppy and that said bacteria would soon be airborne, infecting everyone aboard the bus.
“I must have blown my nose a little too hard miss. Everything is fragile at my age. I really am fine.”
He avoided the smile this time, certain that the blood in his mouth would not do anything to promote his claims.
She looked less than convinced.
“If you feel worse please call me”, she said, indicating the button on the console above his head. “We can call ahead for a First Aid team to meet you at the terminal.”
Thank you for your concern miss. I will be fine though, I assure you. Can I trouble you for the time?
She looked at the watch. “It's ten minutes past twelve”, she said. “We'll be arriving at the terminal in the next hour.” She pointed at the button again to impress on him where it was and as she turned to leave here eye caught briefcase. She made to reach for it.
“Let me put this in the ov..”
She got no further. His arm had snaked out across the vacant seat and his fingers encircled her wrist, his grip vice like and painful.
“No”, his voice louder and firmer this time. “My medication is in there, I need it where I can get to it”
He released her wrist and she took a step back, rubbing her wrist, shocked by the power of his grip and the speed of his reaction.
“Fine, keep it there, I was just trying to help you” she said and looking mortally wounded she turned and headed back to her curtained nook at the back of the bus, located conveniently across from the no smoking cubicle. She glanced at her arm as she moved the curtain aside. There were streaks of his blood on her wrist.
He chose his seat carefully. Not too close to the front. Fatalities in bus accidents almost always occurred in the front seats. Too far back and he would have unruly teenagers to contend with or worse still, couples fornicating under the scant covering of a blanket.
His nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought of the body fluids left behind on the seats. He settled on a window seat towards the centre of the bus. Always on the right side, away from oncoming traffic. Another statistic in bus fatalities. Not that it mattered this time, but he was a creature of habit.
He placed a small empty suitcase into the overhead baggage compartment and opened the old worn briefcase he had placed on the aisle seat.
The faded tumblers on the locks had not worked in years but he still went through the motion of selecting the numbers before clicking the clasps back. He pulled out a small travel dispenser of disinfectant wipes from the briefcase and began meticulously cleaning the seat near the window. It was dirtier than usual and it took five wipes before the discoloured vinyl was cleaned to his satisfaction.
He sealed the dispenser and returned it to the briefcase, carefully strapping it down with a piece of velcro. He kept out a clean wipe to use for his hands.
It was cold in the bus. They always left the aircons running and his thick black rimmed glasses had misted slightly from his laboured breathing as he bent to clean the seat.
He paused for a few seconds to allow the condensation to clear and then walked to the rear of the bus to place the used wipes in the trash receptacle.
He cleaned long pale delicate fingers with the clean wipe and placed it into the trash with the others. His nose wrinkled again, this time at the odour emanating from the closed cubicle door.
A little sign affixed to the door proudly announced that if the light was red, the cubicle was occupied. Below this was another sign telling would be occupants that they risked a hefty fine should they decide the cubicle was a convenient place for a cigarette.
He shook his head. Breathing in there would prove difficult enough, given the smell wafting through the small ventilation slats at the base of the door.
He returned to the aisle seat and opened the briefcase again, this time removing two very well worn paperbacks which he placed onto the seat beside his.
He took care to ensure the titles faced upwards and towards any potential passenger who might consider the open seat an invitation. The one book, "How to Practise Satanism in Modern America" took pride of place on the top. The other, a garish pink volume with the image of two naked men embracing on the cover would help you "Fall in Love with your Gay side", if the title was to be believed.
He hadn't read either and had no intention, being neither gay nor a follower of the dark lord. The books served merely as elaborate props. He had found over the years that these two subjects served as wonderful deterrents to potential seat snatchers. He could have booked both seats, but the concept had never occurred to him. He just wasn't wired that way.
He had a final prop he deployed on the seat before closing the briefcase. It was an old syringe, the plastic yellowed with age and cracking in places, the needle on the end rusted. He smiled a thin humorless smile as he placed it carefully beneath the bottom book, only the needle and base of the syringe visible. Twice in the past, passengers had asked him to remove the syringe.
It was a mother in both instances, concerned their unruly and undisciplined little toddlers would touch it. He’d obliged both times, taking a small silver tin from his breast pocket and placing the syringe into it. He was, above all else, a gentleman.
He hadn't cleaned the aisle seat before placing the items down and it bothered him. He knew they wouldn't be returned to the briefcase this time, but it still did not sit well. He briefly considered opening the briefcase again for more wipes and then decided against it. Habits.
He reached down and locked the briefcase, making a show of spinning the faded numbers to a non existent audience. He placed it upright on it's side in front of the aisle seat. It protruded slightly into the aisle and he tapped it ever so gently with an immaculately polished boot tip, nudging it until it was flush with the edge of the seat. It wouldn't do to have careless feet kicking it as they passed by.
Satisfied, he shifted into the window seat, careful not to touch the headrests in front of him or disturb the briefcase at his feet. He clasped his hands in his lap, closed his eyes and settled down to wait.
It took the bus another hour to fill. He was the first passenger and they had let him board early without a second glance. One or two of the regular drivers and conductors had waved in acknowledgement as he walked through the terminal towards the waiting bus.
He made this trip to New York twice a month, on the second and fourth Saturday and had done so for the past four years. He was as much a part of the route now as the bus and it's well worn seats. He sat quietly , his eyes closed, listening to the bus fill. Voices, laughter, a baby's cry, a group of young children, two elderly women that took the seats behind him, chatting excitedly about their outing to Bloomingdale's.
The bus would be close to full today. He'd chosen today with the same care he'd used selecting his seat. It was the last week of holidays and the meticulous notes he'd made in the thin leather notebook nestling in right breast pocket had told him that today was the right day.
At 9.30am, exactly on time, the 620 Interliner pulled out of the terminal, bound for New York. The aisle seat beside him was still empty.
The briefcase sat quietly where he had placed it. The nozzle of the device he had painstakingly built into the lid pointed out towards the center of the aisle. His seat choice in the middle of the bus would ensure maximum dispersal.
An innocuous looking stud positioned with meticulous precision on the edge of the briefcase lid served as the exit point. The timer connected to the device was set for 12.30 pm, three hours from now and half an hour before the bus would reach the terminal in New York.
He lifted a wrinkled hand to wipe away beads of sweat that had formed below the rim of his hat. He was starting to sweat and that could only mean one thing.
He had inhaled some of the gas whilst transferring it to the canisters in the case. He had been forced to perform this delicate task at his house in the early hours of this morning. The risk of discovery at the laboratory had been too great.
He was running a fever, a clear indication he was infected, but it would take hours before his organs began to shut down. Long enough. It was a calculated risk and the fact that he was now contagious brought another wry smile to his thin pursed lips.Today was the day.
He wiped off the sweat from his brow on his trouser leg, ignoring the folded white handkerchief in his front pocket. It was an unthinkable thing to do, but today was a day for unthinkable acts.
He folded his hands again in his lap, his right index finger tracing the circle of the wedding band on his left hand. It was a nervous habit he’d tried to suppress, but now he let it have free reign. It was comforting.
Triggered by the ring, he reached into a breast pocket in his jacket and pulled out a browning faded photograph from another era. A beautiful young woman in her prime smiled up at him, her hair wet from the Pacific ocean just visible on the horizon behind her. He stared for a long while at the image before lifting it and pressing it ever so gently to his lips.
He affixed the photo to the back of the seat facing him, slipping a corner of it under a protruding edge of the seats metal frame. He sat back again, hands folded in his lap and smiled at the toddler whose face suddenly appeared above the seats headrest. His mother sat beside him, nursing his young sibling and texting with her free hand.
He winked at the small.face and it immediately disappeared behind the seat. The young woman in the photo smiled at him.again and he sighed a quiet sigh, filled with longing. He reached out and touched the face, delicately tracing its outline with his finger.
See you soon. Words mouthed silently.
He closed his eyes and was soon asleep, lulled by the motion of the bus.
In his dream, he is twenty again. He waits for her on the raised dunes, camera in hand. He watches as her lithe young figure runs toward him from the water's edge. She sees him and raises an arm.to wave. He tries.to lift his arm to wave back but cannot. A heaviness has settled over his limbs and he looks down in shock as the flesh blisters on his arms, the camera slipping from his grip. Blood has started to trickle from his nose and he senses with a sudden certainty only dreams can afford that she will not reach him in time.
“Sir, are you alright? Sir?”
He felt a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. The fever had worsened whilst he slept and he was now sweating profusely. Even the cold draft from the vent above his head failed to offer any relief. He was being cooked alive from the inside, well beyond the reach of the cooling air.
He tried to smile at the attendant in what he felt was a reassuring fashion. He could see from the expression on her face that it was having little.effect.
“I am fine thank you dear. I think I may be coming down with a small bout of flu” he said, smiling again. “Nothing serious”.
It was only when he spoke the last few words that he became aware of the metallic, slightly salty taste on his lips.
He raised the back of his hand to his lips and wiped it across them. It came.away red, streaked with blood.
“That doesn't look like flu to me”, she replied. “Are you having a stroke? “
He smiled inwardly at that. She couldn't have been older than twenty two and in her opinion that was what old.people did. They had strokes. He resisted the urge to tell her that he was infected with a virulent strain of flesh eating bacteria that made ebola look like a little lost puppy and that said bacteria would soon be airborne, infecting everyone aboard the bus.
“I must have blown my nose a little too hard miss. Everything is fragile at my age. I really am fine.”
He avoided the smile this time, certain that the blood in his mouth would not do anything to promote his claims.
She looked less than convinced.
“If you feel worse please call me”, she said, indicating the button on the console above his head. “We can call ahead for a First Aid team to meet you at the terminal.”
Thank you for your concern miss. I will be fine though, I assure you. Can I trouble you for the time?
She looked at the watch. “It's ten minutes past twelve”, she said. “We'll be arriving at the terminal in the next hour.” She pointed at the button again to impress on him where it was and as she turned to leave here eye caught briefcase. She made to reach for it.
“Let me put this in the ov..”
She got no further. His arm had snaked out across the vacant seat and his fingers encircled her wrist, his grip vice like and painful.
“No”, his voice louder and firmer this time. “My medication is in there, I need it where I can get to it”
He released her wrist and she took a step back, rubbing her wrist, shocked by the power of his grip and the speed of his reaction.
“Fine, keep it there, I was just trying to help you” she said and looking mortally wounded she turned and headed back to her curtained nook at the back of the bus, located conveniently across from the no smoking cubicle. She glanced at her arm as she moved the curtain aside. There were streaks of his blood on her wrist.