“Hush, son.” The woman glanced toward the driver, who apparently had noticed nothing. “Don't cry. Bessie only came to tell you it's okay, that she's in dog heaven now.” Tad wiped at his face, then straightened his cap. “It's all right. Can you go back to your seat?”
Tad got off her lap. “Jesus,” the student named Sloane said. “This is totally insane.” Her voice rose. “Road kill spirits appearing in a bus. I can't take any more.”
“Pipe down, young lady,” the gray-haired man said. “You want to get us all thrown off?”
“I wouldn't mind.” The blonde student crept forward, then squatted in the aisle. “We have to do something.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“You're college girls, aren't you?” Ralph leaned across his companion. “You and your friend. You ought to know something. Maybe you can explain it.”
“I don't know.” Sloane frowned. “A mass delusion. Somehow, we're all seeing a mass delusion, but why? And why isn't the driver affected?”
“Be glad he ain't,” Ralph said.
“They're outside,” the young man behind John said, “and then they come in here. You can see ‘em outside from this side, and then they come in here. It doesn't make sense.”
“An optical illusion,” Sloane said. “Maybe that's it. A trick of the light that makes something outside seem to disappear and then reflects it inside the bus.”
“I don't believe it,” Sloane's friend murmured. “Those animals looked too real for that. And why would they be ones all these folks recognize?” The young black woman bit her lip. “I'm scared.”
John said, “We have to get back to the highway.”
Sloane turned toward him; Ralph scowled. “The highway?” The bald man lifted his brows. “Think we'll stop seeing these critters if we get back on I-88?”
“It makes as much sense as anything else.”
“You gonna tell the driver?”
They were all looking at him; the big woman narrowed her eyes. Sloane rose and went back to her seat; at last John stood up. “I'll tell him.”
He moved toward the front and sat down in the seat nearest the door. “Uh, excuse me.”
“What's the problem?” the driver asked.
“You're going the wrong way.”
“What do you mean, the wrong way?” The bus was still moving slowly, probably doing no more than thirty-five.
John said, “You're on Route 7. You should be on I-88.”
“Think I don't know where I am? Look.” The driver paused. “I mean, look, they've got a crew on a big long stretch of I-88. That's what the dispatcher said. If we'd gone that way, we would have been moving about as slow, maybe slower. Now, my feeling is we'll probably make better time this way, which is what the dispatcher told me, and we'll be back on 88 as soon as we pass Sidney. You won't lose much time.”
“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Look, I know I had an accident, but that doesn't mean I don't know my business.”
“Sorry.”
“And tell your friends back there that there's no alcoholic beverages allowed on this bus, and no illegal substances, and no standing around or walking unless you have to use the can.”
“What?”
“From the way you're all clumped together, looks like you're having a party or something.”
“We're just talking. I'll tell them.” John got to his feet. He should have known the driver would try to cover up his mistakes. It was easier to make up a story than to admit the truth. No wonder the man hadn't seen the ghost of the dog he had killed. He had repressed his guilt, putting it behind him, keeping his back turned to the evidence of his deed. John understood that kind of failing.
He was nearly to his seat when the next apparition appeared, a Siamese cat this time. It leaped gracefully to the big woman's armrest and faded away.
“That's mine.” The woman clutched at John's sleeve. “Only thing I ever hit—gooshed the poor thing. I was in a hurry, and my mind weren't on my driving. Going along this street with houses and little kids playing and all—I knew I should have been more careful.”
John freed himself. “I spoke to the driver,” he said. “He's going to get back on the highway after we reach Sidney. Apparently there's some work going on along this stretch of I-88.” He straightened his tie; his hands were shaking again. “We'd better settle down. He thinks we're all up to something back here.”
“He see them animals?” the big woman asked.
“I'm sure he didn't. He would have mentioned it. I don't think he'd still be driving if he had.”
“I've got a theory,” the black student in the Cornell sweatshirt said. “I think—” She was silent for a while.
“Go on, Liz,” her friend Sloane murmured.
“The driver had this accident, okay? Seems like the rest of us folks were responsible in some way for accidents recently, and this one's reminding us of them, and because we all feel guilty, we're seeing the victims. We're blaming ourselves unconsciously—that's why we're seeing them. And the driver isn't seeing what we are because his accident really wasn't his fault.”
“But why are we all seeing them?” Sloane asked. “Why aren't we just seeing the ones we hit? Why are we seeing animals someone else hit?”
“I can't explain it,” Liz replied, “but it's got to stop pretty soon, because there's only three of us left that haven't seen something we remember. Unless the rest of you hit a lot of animals.”
“Never hit anything,” the young man said, “except that kitty cat.”
“Me neither,” the big woman said.
“You college girls.” The stocky man turned in his seat. “You ever hit anything?”
“Yes.” Liz leaned across her friend. “And I think I see it now.”
A white duck was waddling down the aisle, followed by three ducklings. Liz closed her eyes as the birds disappeared. “They were trying to cross the road, and I was going way over the speed limit. Suddenly, there they were, and I was going too fast to stop. It was horrible.” She settled back against her seat. “If I'd only been going more slowly, I could have avoided them.”
John gritted his teeth. “What about you, dearie?” the big woman asked Sloane. “Did you—”
A cocker spaniel scurried down the aisle, panted as it looked up at Sloane, then gradually faded away. “That dog,” the blonde student said in a low voice. “I was arguing with my boyfriend, and then I hit that dog—I didn't even see him. I should have pulled over until we settled it. I can't even remember what we were fighting about.”
John's mouth was dry. The world outside the window was black now. He thought of another night, hands clutching a wheel, the shriek of brakes, the thud, pebbles pinging against metal as a car raced away.
“I guess that leaves the fella over there,” Ralph said.
John struggled to clear his throat. “I don't drive.”
“What?” the big woman said.
“Says he don't drive.”
“I don't drive,” John repeated, remembering how slippery the wheel had been under his sweaty palms. He had kept his secret. His neck prickled; his face was hot.
He jumped to his feet, then staggered toward the driver. “Stop the bus,” he shouted. The driver hit the brakes; John braced himself against a seat as the bus rolled to a stop.
“What's wrong with you people?” The driver got up and turned toward them. “Do I have to—”
John stumbled toward the door, thinking only that he had to get off the bus. The Labrador retriever appeared in the aisle, blocking his way. The driver stared at the dog, then covered his face as the animal disappeared.
“I guess he felt guilty after all,” Liz whispered.
The bus was parked along the side of the road. John saw the little girl then, on the other side of a ditch. A knife seemed to twist inside him.
He wrenched himself away from the window. She was moving toward him along the aisle; her short black hair framed her face and her hands held a
doll. She stopped by his seat and gazed at him for a long time. He felt the others watching him, and thought he heard someone curse at him.
The ghostly child drew her doll to her chest, then vanished.
* * *
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