Terminus

Something I wrote for school last year.

 A sun-faded red truck shot from the wall of mist that stood inquisitively to the right of Eric Gefangen with the standard carelessness that was to be expected on Old Malline Road. A streak of wind rippled Eric’s hoody in the wake of the passing truck, chilling him further than his hollowed bones. The ravenous growl of the truck’s engine faded in the distance to Eric’s left as the road turned behind a mass of trees that huddled at the sides of the road. Eric drew his hands out of his hoody’s pouch pocket and cupped them over his mouth, breathing a small cloud of warmth over his frigid fists. The translucent puff of heat dissipated in the nullifying air as he stuffed his hands back into his pocket and continued staring back at the road, eyes leaning toward the right, examining the anomalous mist that patiently hung in the still air.

            The set of mailboxes that stood off to the left of the lane Eric waited in creaked in the stinging breeze in cadence with the tall street sign that read Cleer Lane in bold white letters. Despite the forceful nature of the wind, the mist did not move. It hung over the road, crouching over its territory, not encroaching past the area in which the road intersected with the lane. Eric continued to stare at it with wonder, his line of sight dropping as it entered the thick depths of the mist.

            Another truck sped by Eric, this time a white one that groaned as its driver pressed harder on the accelerator. Eric turned his back to the truck, sparing his face from the whip of cold air that sprung from the back of the hurtling truck. As the air quieted down and rocked back into a still state, Eric turned back to look at the road, pulling his cell phone from his jean’s right pocket and flipping it open, checking the time: 7:10. He had only been waiting for two or three minutes but in the frozen air that grasped his skin and dug its claws in deeper every second the time had felt more drawn out. He slid the small phone back into his pocket and sighed.

            Just as the mushroom cloud of breath discharged from his mouth, a bright yellow bus tore through the air as if it was losing the race against the two trucks ahead of it. The mist parted, letting the bus slide through with ease. As the back of the bus left the doorway the mist had created, the wall fell back into place, obscuring the road that ran under it. The bus stopped in front of Eric, lurching forward sickly in the sudden immobility of its wheels.

            Eric passed around the front of the yellow behemoth and stepped through its open mouth. He stood on the first step, the bitter air behind him biting at his back as Eric looked up at where he assumed the shrouded bus driver’s eyes were and asked, “Where’s the regular bus? 98?” The bus driver responded with the snapping shut of the flimsy doors behind Eric, forcing him up the stairs. As he walked into the body of the bus, the fetid stench of formaldehyde struck his nostrils, tearing apart his senses and constricting his head. Eric coughed and covered his mouth and nose with his forearm, breathing in the smell of clean laundry with invading wisps of the sick smell of embalming fluid mixed into it. Eric sat down two seats behind the bus driver. Looking around the bus, he noticed that it was only half full, as opposed to being stuffed beyond its capacity as his regular bus would be. A few long faces turned toward him. Eric only recognized a few of them physically, but behind them there was no warmth.

            The bus jolted forward, the engine gurgling, the vents spitting out the putrid smell of preservation. Eric tried not to breathe deeply as he looked around the bus. The seats had more leg room than his bus, cushions that were more intact, and windows that didn’t leak. The obvious exterior charm of the bus felt too different for Eric, as if it was compensating for something. The only problems with the bus were the unbearable stench, the source of which Eric puzzled over, and the cold atmosphere.

            Eric slid back in his seat, his head nodded forward, buried in the crook of his hooked left arm. The bus slid over the road with no sign of contact with the pothole-ridden pavement beneath it. Eric noticed the lack of contact and pushed himself back up in his seat and looked out of the window to his left. The swollen mist that once held itself to the right of Cleer Lane now encapsulated the bus. The mist grew thicker and the distant figures of trees, bushes, and fences waned behind the dense fog.

            Eric turned away from the window and looked around the bus again. The seats stood empty. Whipping his head back toward the front of the bus, Eric looked for the bus driver. The shadows that clung to the large man behind the wheel obfuscated a clear look at him. As Eric stood up from his seat and began to walk toward the bus driver, the bus bounced, knocking Eric into a seat where a masked passenger once sat. The still prevalent stench of the fresh morgue injected an explosion of pain in Eric’s head, blurring his vision.

            The bus shook again and knocked Eric’s head against the window. The cold glass stuck against the blood dripping from his head. Eric grasped his forehead, pressing his palms against it in defiance. He stood up, dropping his hands onto the seats to his left and right with his respective hands, leading himself up toward the bus driver. His hair flattened against the small blotch of blood on the back of his head, the blood coagulating into a solid, sticky mess. The pain that relentlessly drilled through his mind grew in intensity as it inveigled Eric to sit back down with acceptance. He pushed on, his white knuckles protruding from the backrests of the leather chairs that he dug his fingernails in.

            The bus sharply swerved to the left and right, swaying Eric back and forth. He closed his eyes and pushed himself along. He slid his left hand from the chair behind the bus driver to the chair parallel to it, accompanying his right hand. Eric’s back faced the bouncing doors behind him as his eyes stared into the slithering mass of shadows that covered the large bus driver. Eric pushed himself from the seat behind him, launching himself at the bus driver.

Through a moving wall of darkness Eric stumbled to the side of the bus driver, clasping the arm rest of the large black seat with his frosted hands. The bus driver turned his massive head, his beady black eyes that sat deep within his pallid face glaring at Eric. The bus driver’s wispy black hair sprouted from a skinless patch on the back of his head, an island surrounded by tightly drawn flesh that pulled itself over his face. The man’s stomach was massive and deformed, plunging outward at the bottom, pushing against the base of the thin, metal steering wheel. The skin on his arms was covered in small, necrotic green and blue sores. His mouth hung open, the intense smell of formaldehyde pouring from deep within his throat, wafting through the dead air.

Eric choked on the stench as the bus driver let go of the wheel and grasped Eric’s shoulders, pulling Eric closer to his rotting face. The bus began shaking vigorously, Eric’s head bobbing up in down in a forced acceptance of his fate as the bus driver grimly smiled, pulling him away into the misty morning’s terminus, leaving behind Eric’s stiff body as it lay in the middle of the road with a sun-faded red truck parked off to the side, blood freezing on the windshield and bumper as the self-worried driver shook Eric’s shoulders, a cell phone in between his right ear and shoulder, frantically screaming at the woman on the end of the emergency line for help.

Author's Note

Not really horror, but whatever.

Reviews

[luke312]

Very righteous dude excellent depiction I'm giving it a righteous score but man that was long be glad i read the whole thing

[Philosophile. (Maddy)]

I thought this was brilliant! I loved the twist at the end. Your details were eerie, and, as its been so foggy lately, reminded me of my surroundings. A very wonderful job, I must say!