Bus

It had been a regular January morning

James had woken up at seven o'clock sharp, eaten toast for breakfast and left his house at eight o'clock carrying his messenger bag to catch Bus 125 into the city centre. The plan was simple: go to the Plaza, take some photos, then meet up with a few friends. After validating his ridership card, he chose (as he always did), a seat at the back of the bus, by the window, away from all the other commuters, which, like sheep, huddled together tightly, murmuring something in hushed tones, occasionally glancing out the window with preoccupied gazes. James paid them no attention. They were probably discussing some economic or political issue, and James didn't care much for either. Commuters, he found, were odd creatures, always everywhere, forcing the rancid smell of B.O up everyone else's nostrils.

But this morning, there was an unusually high amount of them, all buzzing angrily like bees in a hive, and James could not figure out why. He was so deep in his thoughts, that he almost didn't notice the woman who sat next to him. But when he did, he almost ran out of the bus.

She was tall, older than him, perhaps in her fifties. But her face was nothing like James had ever seen before. She had blue eyes, quite jumpy, which darted from passenger to passenger in rapid succession, like a streak of bullets from a machine gun. Her curly brown hair had a white streak at the front, and it stuck out in all directions as if this woman's favourite pastime was sticking her fingers into power outlets.

Her clothes were old and stained, with some rips here and there, and James was pretty sure her shirt was on backwards.

James sat in silence, hoping she would get off at the next stop, maybe the one after. He checked the route map on his phone and with a feeling of dread, realized he had yet another five stops to go. This trip was going to be long indeed.

He looked out of the window, anything to avoid looking at the strange lady next to him. The bus was cruising through Peters Avenue, named after the city's founder, the busiest thoroughfare in the city, which ran right through the centre of the city, with towering glass skyscrapers on either side. James always regarded the avenue with a certain disdain, for Peters had founded the city for it to be an exemplar to other cities in the nation, but this very avenue reflected the opposite, as-

"Kid. Hey, kid."

The woman next to him was poking him madly in the ribs. Annoyed, but not wishing to provoke this seemingly unstable woman, he turned to her and said:

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

"You see them there?" the lady asked, pointing at the passengers at the front of the bus, who were all close together still but had stopped murmuring by now, instead, all their gazes were turned towards the buildings outside the bus. "You can't trust them. Not at all."

By now, the lady was leaning very close to James, which made him more uncomfortable still.

"They're coming for all of us, James."

His blood froze in his veins. How did she know his name?

"My name's June. Remember that. Remember my name."

At this point, James had had enough. He jumped out of the seat, accidentally hitting the lady across the face with his bag, but he didn't care. In a few strides, he was at the front of the bus, repeatedly pressing on the buzzer, so that the driver would stop the bus. Eventually, the bus got to the next stop. It didn't take t more than a minute to arrive, but to James, this sole minute felt like an eternity, trapped in a box on wheels full of strangers, and with this ghastly woman. When the bus finally stopped, the driver, annoyed, cursed at him as James jumped out of the bus, nearly landing on a girl wearing a light pink sweater, who looked at him, amused. James muttered a quick "sorry" at her and ran down the street, trying to avoid the crowds, almost being run over by a couple of cyclists. The bus he'd just been in overtook him, and when he looked up, he saw June staring so intently at him, that he felt her eyes could pierce straight through him, into the core of his being.

The Plaza and his plans could wait. All he wanted to do was get home, and try to get the experience out of his mind. He considered taking the Metro back, as it would be quicker, but in the end decided against it, thinking the last thing he needed was to be trapped in a metal box several metres underground, instead choosing to walk, as the cold, crisp January air could help him focus on the here and now instead of the past. He turned the corner onto the crowded Martin Avenue, which ran straight through the heart of the Financial District, the part of town with the highest, most impressive buildings, probably the best course home, as its neat, orderly buildings could help him organize his thoughts.

The last thing he expected was the eardrum-shattering explosion in the building directly in front of him.