FICTION — APOCALYPTIC

Wheels on the Bus (Part 2): Calm Before the Storm

Glimpses of Gehenna 2037

Photo by Clément Falize on Unsplash

For almost a solid week, blue pennants glowed against dark, boiling skies.

Blue indicates uncontaminated air.

No chemical weapons bursting overhead.

Some of the kids’ faces are so dirty it is difficult to tell if they’re wearing gas masks. I glimpsed my own filthy face, making a mental note to find potable water.

After a few weeks, we crossed the Louisiana border into Texas. Just a ways up the Panhandle, I’m gonna swing us right into the underground shipping lanes. Walk in the park.

Another hour or so, and we need to get off the interstate. Find someplace in the desert to rest.

Coils of Christmas lights run both lengths on the inside of the bus, flashing and chasing. The kids seem to really dig them.

Collected abandoned luggage at checkpoints throughout Mississippi.

Vehicles tattooed with bullet holes. Blood spatter. No bodies.

Probably dragged away by wild animals.

At a rest stop, the kids wobble around in oversized suit jackets and cocktail dresses. They seem to be at a dinner party.

Late at night, I sometimes dig through the abandoned luggage. Traces of family. Heirlooms. Polaroids. Rosaries. Hand-written letters. Mis-matched shoes with blood types written on their soles.

East of Baton Rouge, we stopped at the library.

We sat across the street. Chocolate pudding cups for lunch. We used our fingers as spoons.

A fighter jet protruded from the library roof. Surrounding trees burned like torches. Large chunks of the building lie in the street. Dark smoke twisted from the wreckage.

Faintly, an air raid siren wailed.

Efan, the blue-haired kid, ran past. The blond girl Lily stomped her foot. A moment later she began to shriek.

The children all bickered. They sounded like chickens at feed time.

I stared at the flames billowing from the vegetation.

Standing at the rear of the bus with the oldest kid, Archie. I told him, “We have to name her after a woman. It’s good luck.”

He said, “What woman’s name has brought you good luck?”

I smiled. No reason for direct eye contact. I smiled wider, pushing a paintbrush and pail into Archie’s hands. “Name it after your mother. I don’t know.”

Late one night, I sat cross-legged atop the bus. I had an excellent view of the stars. Anti-aircraft guns pounded the night. A sonic boom shook the bus.

I scanned the horizon. Smoke poured from every direction. Far to the right, constant explosions lit the sky. It smelled like cordite and impending acid rain.

Clusters of purple lightning reached through the clouds.

Hopping onto the hood, I paused to glance around. All of the sky became a swirling series of blues and purples. It soothed the anxious soul.

Calm Before the Storm.

Frantically, I reached the driver’s seat. I started the bus, buckling my safety belt.

“Hang on,” I said over my shoulder. “Hang on tight.”

We lurched forward violently. Beneath us, the ground trembled.

Ambrosia, the redheaded girl, flailed face-first into the back of the seat in front of her. Her nose burst; blood spattered. She came to rest, crying and holding her face.

Stunned, Lily reached toward her friend. Opposing force flung her to the floor.

Bus wheels met asphalt. Skittering sideways, I corrected. We skipped twice before finding our groove.

Ambrosia was screaming: “I’m fucking deformed!”

Bleek, the five-year-old who always laughed at weird times, sat crying on the floor beside Lily.

Archie peeked over the head of the seat in front of him. Efran’s blue-ish hair rocked to and fro beside him.

I glanced in the side mirror. Nothing but the black highway behind us. Stars blinked in a still, black sea above us.

Unbuckling, I found the First Aid kit.

I gently sat Lily up. Nothing appeared broken. Bleek hugged her.

Ambrosia unleashed a barrage of angry fists on me. I absorbed them. After a moment, she relaxed. I gently laid her back her head. She pinched her nose with a handkerchief. I did my best.

I cry often. I try to hide it from the children.

I wipe my eyes.

The bus idles just outside the entrance to the underground shipping lanes.

I am afraid.

Six lanes of boundless freeway. No speed limit. No weigh stations or rest stops. Federalis patrolling silently in their all-black cruisers. Smugglers hauling ass with trailers full of fentanyl. Hijackers. Pirates. Speed demons. Nazi truckers. Separatists. Paramilitary disguised as civilians. Contractors for the Southern Border Wall moving equipment between Texas and Louisiana.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said with a thick sigh. “Thank you for being aboard for our maiden voyage. I’m honored to have you onboard. Please be nice to those around you.”

Bleek laughed.

“I will be your driver,” I said. “Launch the Medusa!”

I stepped hard on the gas pedal. The bus shook, rumbling and grumbling.

“Punch it, Chewie!” I shouted, and the Medusa slipped effortlessly into the flow of traffic.

A sign reading SAFETY FIRST whooshed past on our left.

Panel trucks sped along like wind-up toys. Confederate and state flags flew from their bodies.

Burning trash barrels lined the shoulders.

I swerved gently around couch sectionals and recliners and enormous television sets. Screams echoed along the far side of the inner walls.

18-wheelers settled against our shoulders.

Jolly Roger flags and swastikas fluttered. MAGA caps above leering faces passed. Out of sight, something exploded.

Lighting flickered above. Blinking. Disappearing. Pulsing. Bursts of sparks rained.

I have the sense that things are being thrown at us. They pop and shatter and tumble in the dark. Motorcycles pass like comets in the breakdown lanes.

New Mexico is only eighty-three miles away.

Something ahead of us exploded. Fireballs burst against the bus windows. The kids cheered, arms raised as if on a roller coaster.

I smile in spite of myself.

Red and blue emergency lights strobed.

We sailed past several burning cars.

I am smiling, but begin to cry. People wave for help outside fire and wreckage.

We pace a big rig with harpoons embedded in its trailer.

Blinking red lights. Sirens. Crackling fires. Screeches. Jake brakes.

Black exhaust chokes the chamber.

I am doing my best.

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