A bus hurtles into darkness, a splattered verdant Rorschach test on the window pane. The driver’s eyes are the stuff of filthy playground sandboxes; clothes stained and days passed due for a wash. He’s exhausted. Sleep would be a blessing. Would mean crashing. Would mean giving up.The AM radio croons idly beneath the grumbling of the engine as if to itself.
“It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you… “
But the points.
“There’s nothing that a 100 men or more could ever do”
“Just like the rain down in Africa~!”
Teeth clench, squeak and groan like Styrofoam on cardboard. The driver’s webbed foot finds angry purchase on the gas pedal. The transmission grinds, shrieks dismay and drowns out the radio. The weary forms filling the bus’s seats stir from inertia’s sudden kick. They rub their eyes clear of debris, smooth down their hair, sit up straight. One asks, “Roscoe?” A second asks, “What going on?”
The driver sets his bill in a frump of determination. “For…” he quacks.
The engine seizes, sputters, rights itself, and presses on in awkward jerks. The people on the bus understand and the next time the duck speaks it’s with dozens of voices.
” FOR THE CHILDREN!”
A bus hurtles into darkness.
The Desert Bus Express.