Flag Stop

an unsettling story by Paul Stansbury

Feb 05, 2023

For tonight’s story, we take a bus ride with Mara. This might seem innocent enough. It might even seem safe, if you aren’t afraid of the night or the class of folks who ride buses long distance. But remember, this is the Underside. Anything can happen.

FLAG STOP

By Paul Stansbury

Mara turned up the collar of her puffer jacket, stepped out of the alley, then slogged down the decaying sidewalk toward the bus station. Why the hell did it have to happen this way? Bitterly cold sleet pelted her face as mid-December winds whipped the icy pellets in stinging swirls. Her stripper slippers and mini weren’t meant for hiking around in the sleet. At four in the afternoon, it was already dark. Ahead on the right, a neon sign for Midwest Bus Transit hung over the sidewalk. The churning crystals gave it a garish red halo. Reaching the entrance, she tugged on the door. It resisted her efforts. Finally, she managed to open it enough to slip through. The clerk looked up from the reservations counter.

“I wanna ticket,” she said, dripping on the grimy tile.

“I’m getting ready to close. Now I got your mess to clean up. Won’t be a bus till tomorrow at 10 a.m. when the Mocksville run gets in. After that, there’ll be one every hour or so. I can sell you a ticket now, or you can come back in the morning, but you can’t stay in the terminal.”

Terminal? I’ve been in bigger one-holers. “Look, I can’t wait that long. I want to leave tonight.” I’ve got to leave here tonight. “Isn’t there anything else?” Mara pleaded. Fear-driven adrenaline coursed through her veins. Stay cool.

The clerk frowned. “There’s the Flag Stop,” he said, “but, I don’t recommend it.”

“What’s the Flag Stop?”

“You might call it an independent line. Runs when it gets some riders and goes wherever the passengers have to go. Ain’t got no regular route.”

“Sounds weird to me. So you could end up anywhere?” That might work. Not much chance Chegg’s goons could find me.

“That’s one way of lookin’ at it,” said the clerk. “Like I said, I don’t recommend it. Where is it you want to go?”

“I don’t care,” said Mara. “I’m sick of this place. I want outta here now and as far as my money will get me.”

“I see. Looks like the Flag Stop is your only choice.”

“How do I find it? Is there an app?”

The clerk laughed. “I doubt it. Once you see the bus, you’ll figure it out.”

Jerk wad. “What does that mean?”

The clerk scowled. “Don’t mean nothin’. Just means that it don’t look like it would have an app. And for the record, it ain’t got no affiliation with Midwest Bus Transit. If you want a ride, you just flag it down.”

Flag it down? “So how do people know where to go to flag it down?”

“Don’t know. Seems like it’s always got passengers though. It’s here now, and if you’re dead set on goin’ somewhere tonight…”

“Here now?” Why didn’t you say that in the first place instead of jerking me around?

The clerk flashed a wry smile. “It’s across the street. Pulled up after you came in. Mebbe it knew you was needin’ a ride.”

Mara turned and looked through the fogged windows. Across the street, the dark hulk of a bus loomed under a blinking streetlight. Where the hell did that come from? “That wasn’t here when I came in.”

“Imagine that.”

“Do you know how much the fare is?” Fat chance.

“Depends.”

I knew it. “On what?” Can’t I get a freakin’ straight answer?

“A lot of things. However, never known of anyone gettin’ turned away for lack of funds. You best hurry cause it don’t linger.”

“Thanks,” said Mara. For nothin’.

“Yeah, yeah,” the clerk said, gathering up his paperwork. “You may want to wait a bit before you thank me.”

Mara gave him the stink eye. He lowered his head, pretending to shuffle his paperwork. Heading for the door, she noticed a couple of dingy vending machines. Crap, I oughta get something before I head out. It’s apt to be a long ride, and I’m thirsty as hell. But what if the bus don’t wait? Screw it. She veered to the side and bought a big-chug bottle of Black Cherry Blast NRG soda, then checked out the snacks. A single bag of Ghost Pepper Ding-Dangs hung on the dispensing rack. A smiling cartoon devil surrounded by tribal flames winked at her from the bag. Looks like that bastard, Chegg. She stuffed some money into the slot and the chips fell to the bin below. Stashing the munchies and drink in her purse, she trudged out into the dark. She scurried around the back of the bus, fighting the wind. Though the diesel fumes burned her throat, she welcomed the warmth of the exhaust on her legs.

Brown road scum covered the side of the bus where it wasn’t pocked with rust. A blotch of gray paint, faintly resembling a racing dog, struggled to surface through the foul layer of dirt. Mara peered up through the bus windows. The passengers’ wan profiles hid behind the trickling amber droplets of melted sleet. As she neared the front, the doors creaked open. She eagerly climbed up the steps and out of the cold.

“Welcome to the Blue River line,” croaked the frail, old man in the driver’s seat. “This here bus is called Flag Stop. Where to?”

He was wearing a dingy, threadbare blue serge business suit. A tattered captain’s hat rested atop his bald head. Gray stubble covered his haggard, ashen cheeks. A generic white name badge was clipped to his lapel. ‘Herman’ was scribbled on it.

“Wherever this thing ends up,” said Mara. “How much?”

The driver eyed her before saying, “Fifty.”

“Take plastic?”

“Cash preferred,” he said, holding out a scarred claw of a hand. “If you ain’t got cash, a ring, necklace, or some other trinket will do.”

Geeze, a rolling pawn shop. Mara pulled out a folded wad of money cinched with a rubber band. The outer bills were streaked with reddish-brown stains. She pulled a bill from the center and held it out.

He looked at the hundred dollar bill. “I don’t make change.”

Must be the ticket clerk’s brother. Mara jammed the Benny into her pocket, then peeled off the rubber band and proceeded to riffle through the bills until she had the correct amount. The driver took the money and smelled it.

“Stinks of misery,” he murmured, handing her a large bronze coin. “Put it in the farebox, then find yourself a seat.”

The ice-cold coin was heavy in Mara’s hand, irregular in shape and worn smooth from years of handling. She dropped it into the waiting mouth of the fare box. In the dim light that floated down from the few overhead lights that worked, she saw vacant faces slumped in rotting seats. Holy hell, looks like a shooting gallery. In the darker recesses, she could only make out black shapes. She spied a seat in the rear. Grit scrunched under her feet as she walked to the back. The faint, acrid scent of despair engulfed her. It smelled like Chegg’s place. The corrupt perfume of weed, sweat and puke always permeated the abandoned house where he sold his dope. Why did we think robbing Chegg was a good idea? We could‘ve just rolled a drunk, scored some candy sticks, then beat it out of town. Instead, I’m on the run.

Mara squeezed into a window seat. Outside, the wind-whipped sleet obscured everything. She switched off the reading light, hoping to disappear. No sooner had she settled in than the engine growled. The bus lurched into the darkness, shuddering over the fractured pavement. It’ll be a miracle if this rolling deathtrap don’t end up in a ditch. She pulled her Blu phone out. Jimmy, why wouldn’t you let me get a real phone? Now, I’m stuck with this burner. She looked at the screen. No bars. Of course there’s no service. How am I gonna let Jimmy know where to meet me?

Mara opened her Black Cherry Blast, sucking down a long drink. The sticky soda sloshed down her chin each time the bus plunged into a pothole. She ripped open the bag of Ding-Dangs, eagerly gobbling a handful. The smiling devil-Chegg leered at her from the bag. Burn in Hell, Chegg you bastard. Burn in Hell. Even though the pepper-laden chips stung her bleeding gums, she wolfed down another handful. The capsaicin and caffeine had a fist fight in her stomach.

Exhausted, Mara unzipped her coat. A cold sensation settled on her chest. She turned on the reading lamp, revealing a dark stain on her blouse. She touched the splotch. It felt damp and cold. She eyed the deep red contents of her soda bottle. This crap’ll never wash out. She turned off the light, closed her eyes, and in spite of the best efforts of the bus and the caffeine, fell into a fitful sleep.

She dreamed that the bus careened on, its headlamps’ sickly beams evaporating into a black void. No landmarks appeared to mark its progress. No vehicles passed. Only the shudder of the bus as it flew over potholes and fissures provided any sense the vehicle was moving at all. Without warning, the bus would grind to a stop, brakes wailing. Herman would open the door, and another hapless soul would struggle up the steps to haggle for a bronze coin. Transaction completed, the bus would speed off.

Other times, a passenger would drift down the aisle to the front. Not stopping, Herman would pull the lever handle, forcing the doors open against the wind. A tendril of gritty debris would enter, spiraling around the hopeless traveler who howled in fear and despair. Once the ghastly cocoon was spun, it was sucked back into the abyss as the doors slammed shut.

Mara woke up from her nightmares. The wails echoed in her head. I’ve had enough of this insanity. I gotta get off. She grabbed her things and headed for the front of the bus, stumbling as it bounced and swerved. Herman stood by the farebox. Who’s driving the bus? Reaching the front she shouted, “Let me off!”

Herman sneered, “Not that simple, Mara.”

How’d he know my name? “Whaddya mean it’s not that simple? I paid my fare, now I want to get off.”

“But you aren’t finished. You can’t get off till you’ve reached your destination.”

You think you’re gonna stop me, you old bastard? Mara pulled a revolver from her purse. “This says I’m finished and I’m getting off. Now. ”

“That won’t do nothing,” Herman sneered.

“Oh, it’ll do something. Just ask Chegg. It blew his freakin’ head off.” And it’ll do the same to your creepy ass. Mara pulled the trigger. The hammer struck, but the gun remained silent. She tried again and again with the same result.

“Sure, it did something back in the before,” said Herman. “Got some folks killed. But it won’t work here.” Mara threw the gun at his head. He caught it in midair, fondled it, then placed it in his pocket. He threw a bronze coin to the floorboards at Mara’s feet.

“What’s that for?” she cried.

“For the next fare.”

“I don’t understand.” You crazy old bastard.

“You’re the crazy one,” Herman jeered. “Where do you think that stain on your chest came from? Soda pop?” Mara clutched her chest with trembling fingers, finding a ragged hole. She drew her hand away, syrupy blood clinging to her fingers. “And here you were thinking all this time you were getting away,” continued Herman, “when actually you been bleeding out in that alley where Chegg’s boys dumped you and Jimmy.”

Mara reeled. Memories flooding back from the deep recesses ripped her mind apart. – the dope house – gunfire – blood – Jimmy falling – blood – pulling the trigger – blood – Chegg bleeding – shots fired – blood – searing pain – blood – falling – Oh my God. How the hell do you know?

“The bus driver knows everything,” said Herman, pointing to the empty driver’s seat. “Been saving it for you, Mara. A long time.”

“No!” wailed Mara. Ain’t no way I’m getting in that seat.

“Yes,” growled Herman, “you’ll get in the seat.” He picked up the coin and jammed it into Mara’s ragged wound. He shoved it down with a long spindly finger, which he used to lift her into the driver’s seat. “There you go.” He grabbed her hands and placed them on the steering wheel. It scorched her flesh.

Mara struggled to let go, to get up, but was unable to free herself. This can’t be happening to me.

“Yes it can.”

“Why?” Mara rasped.

Herman leaned close to her whispering with putrid breath, “Don’t worry. You’ll have a very, very long time to figure out why. Oh, I almost forgot.” Pulling the name badge from his lapel, he held it up to her face. ‘Mara’ was scribbled on it. He clipped it to her torn blouse positioning it over her gunshot wound. Smiling, he removed the captain’s hat and placed it on her head. “Can’t drive the bus without your cap,” he cackled.

Herman grabbed the lever handle and opened the door. A tendril of debris drifted up the steps, spiraling around his legs. He looked Mara in the eye and shrieked. It was a shriek of hopeless desolation—the shriek of a rotting soul saturated with the countless voices of the damned, shrieking in their own fear and despair. His teeth shattered as his mouth stretched wide, brittle flesh cracked at the corners. He screamed in agony as the debris engulfed up his torso, then fell silent when it closed around his tortured face. The gray cocoon hovered in the doorway for a moment before it was sucked into the abyss.

The shrieks of the damned echoed in Mara’s head as she saw the red halo of the Midwest Bus Transit sign in the distance. She guided the bus down the rough pavement, pulling up across the street beneath the blinking streetlight. She waited for her first fare as the wind-whipped sleet howled.

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