"That's the last time I ever go anywhere with the pair of you."
Lena takes a moment to glare daggers at Erik and I, but the tears streaming down her face and the bloodshot grey eyes which hold our own deem the look ineffective.
"Oh c'mon, babe, it wasn't that scary," Erik says.
"Not that scary? Not that scary? You just forced me to watch a two-hour long graphic movie about teenagers turned zombie-cannibals gouging out old women's eyeballs and now you have the nerve to suggest it wasn't that scary? That I'm overreacting?" Her face rises in colour as the words pour out, and by the time she's done speaking she's resembling a beetroot.
I spot a couple of guys, slouched in the seats just outside the screen we exited, snickering at my sister's sudden outburst. One of them yells out whilst ogling her breasts, "Well cheers for ruining the film, sweetheart!" to which I flip him off for in response.
"Maybe scary is the wrong word," Erik allows, having failed to notice what just went down. "It was too predictable to be scary. I think you mean gory."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise there was a difference."
In hindsight, taking Lena to see a horror movie was probably not the best idea. She hates anything with even the smallest hint of gore, retches at the sight of blood. It's no surprise she's currently launching a full-scale assault in our direction. But it was only fair. After all, when we took the movie choice to a vote, her sappy little romance flick was vetoed.
In all honesty, I don't know why I picked the movie in the first place. Not for its engaging plot, surely. It makes no sense when I think about it. Wasn't the whole aim of today to refrain from thinking about zombies?
Oh, who cares? I banish all thoughts of such from my mind and continue walking, listening into my companions' silly banter. Erik raises his eyebrows at his girlfriend and says, "Just admit it, Lena. You secretly loved the movie."
"Okay, I'll admit it. I loved the movie – especially the male lead. Did you see his abs when his shirt got ripped? Oh my God, man, what I wouldn't do for him."
It's about all I can do not to laugh at Erik's expression – like he's just sunk his teeth into a bitter lemon. It's a wonder his hazel eyes haven't turned green yet. With an evident smile I take charge of leading our little trio through the foyer and towards the front glass doors, taking time to check behind our backs to see if the jerks from before are still leering at Lena. Surprise, surprise, they're not.
The moment we step over the cinema's perimeters, we're hit by a deluge of precipitation as it trickles down the overhead gutter. Lena squeals, jumping to the side like a startled kitten in the face of water.
"God, you're so melodramatic," Erik says.
Lena scowls. "More like I have what you may call a survival instinct," she says, flipping her blonde braid indignantly. "Anyway, I don't know what you're laughing at – it's always the heartless ones that get eaten first in these stupid zombie movies. I'd have more chance of surviving than you."
"You're kidding, right? Bitch, please. You were just blubbering at the freakin' film. You'd be lucky to last two seconds in the event of a real apocalypse. I'd be out shooting heads off with my machine gun while you'd be stumbling after me, groaning."
"Wrong way round, buddy. Anyway, I didn't cry that much. The ending just took me by surprise – I wasn't expecting Matthew to actually get eaten! By his own girlfriend of all people, ugh! Told you he should've ditched her at the start." Lena's attempts to downplay her fear of the movie are so ridiculous I find myself resisting a snort.
I put a hand into my coat pocket, fumbling for my cell phone. The thought of campus right now, with its central heating and cosy couches, calls to me. Sometime between leaving school and entering the movie theatre I felt a knot grow in my stomach, and that persistent headache is still present. Meh. Being away from your bed when you feel this sick is never advisable.
"April?" Erik calls my name. "Are you listening to this bull?"
"Sure am." I nod, preoccupied with pulling out the cell and checking the time on its lit-up screen: six twenty-seven. That's . . . Oh, crap. I swear, not quite under my breath.
"What's up?"
"The bus is due in three minutes," I say. We're a good few blocks away – if I were on my own, there's no doubt I'd make it in time. But with Lena and Erik in tow? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why didn't I think to check how long the movie lasted before buying the tickets?
"Chill out. We'll catch the next one."
"There is no next one." Well, not for another thirty three minutes, at least. It's a half hour service, but we need to be back and registered on campus for seven or else Marks will go haywire. It's a deal every student agrees to when they first start: You don't leave campus under any circumstances from Monday to Friday unless given special consent, and if you do leave at weekends it can only be between the hours of nine a.m. and seven p.m. No exceptions.
We're so screwed.
"Let's go," I say, grabbing Lena by the shoulder. "We'll make a run for it."
She pulls her arm back. "Are you serious? I can't run after watching that movie. I'll spew everywhere."
Yeah, a real Zombie Apocalypse survivor in the making we've got here. "Well, deal with it."
There is no way I'm missing this bus. And Lena isn't, either. Our mom would kill me if I let her stay behind. If Erik is prepared to deal with the consequences of showing up thirty minutes after clampdown then he can wait for the next one all he wants.
"C'mon. I'll race ya, Little Miss Coward." He wiggles his eyebrows at Lena in challenge, and she rolls her eyes right back. Game on.
We sprint down the street with reckless abandon, feet sloshing through puddles left over from yesterday's storm. I can feel the water seeping through my Converse sneakers but turn a blind eye, solidly determined to catch the bus. A woman wielding a pram dodges to her left, narrowly missing us as we speed past. Lena trips over a pothole as we cross the road, but Erik's pulling her upright before she can topple to the ground and she's running again. We are a blur of mismatched colours – Lena's cherry-red hoody, Erik's vivid green jumper, my purple, battered sneakers – zooming through the sunset streets. A tornado, fuelled with purpose and unstoppable in force.
Around the corner we turn, panting heavily but still not stopping. In the near-distance I see the bus shelter. It's empty bar one: an elderly woman carrying grocery bags. The bus will have to stop for her. And it's only a few yards away now. We're safe.
"That . . . was . . . intense," Erik wheezes, fighting to get his breath back. The sound of tires screeching catches my attention, and I turn to glimpse the double-decker turning at the intersection. "Oh, man. Not again."
We start running once more, much to Erik's dismay, and make it to the bus shelter just as it's indicating to pull out. Perfect timing. The driver gives Lena an almost sympathetic glance as he opens the doors for us and she steps on, her cheeks puffed out and scarlet. When Erik wraps his arm around her shoulder, however, he averts his gaze.
I'm the last one to climb on, having been distracted by the sharp throbbing just in front of my skull. I really don't like buses – or moving vehicles, period, ever since what happened with Dad – but it's not as if we have many options. I drop my change into the money dispenser and give the driver a flitting nod and smile before collecting my ticket.
Downstairs is jam-packed. I take my time walking up the aisle, having been put off by the amount of gawkers I noticed at the windows while we were running. Talk about embarrassing situations. I'm pretty sure I must've looked like some sort of deranged penguin, both arms flapping like flippers in my haste to catch the bus. Head down, I follow Erik and Lena to the back of the aisle, slouching down beside my sister in one of the few empty double-seats while Erik takes the one in front beside a middle-aged man bearing overloaded shopping bags. A Barbie doll box pokes out from the one on his lap, wedging against Erik's side. Maybe it'd have been a better idea to sit upstairs, but there's no use moving now.
"Just wait till Callum hears we went and saw The Walking without him. He's been raving on about it ever since it came out last week," Erik says, flipping round in his seat to address us. "He's gonna want to chew on my eye sockets when he finds out – see what I did there?"
In response, Lena lets out an ear-splitting laugh, like it's the funniest thing she's heard in eighteen years. I simply cough out a meagre 'ha-ha,' not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my snicker.
"He's gonna kill us," Lena says. "D'you think we should've asked him to come too? I feel bad now. You never told me he wanted to see that film. He could've taken my place!"
I tune out, attempting to relax, but it's no use. The pounding headache won't allow it, and already I can feel the tell-tale signs of nausea curling in my stomach. I glance around the bus, biting my lip. The woman who got on at our stop is sitting directly across the aisle, staring into space. I notice a guy balancing a sketchbook on his knee beside her, sandy bangs falling over his eyes. How the hell can anyone manage to draw on a bus that's moving?
The bus decreases in speed, coming to a steady stop at a set of red traffic lights. Dammit. I really want this journey to be over – the sooner the better. The man in front makes a move to stand up and Erik pulls his legs in, allowing him to get past. After this stop, it's only five more before our own, and then a ten minute walk back to the school. I'll survive. Just.
"D'you think Mom'll have packed her suitcase yet?" Lena asks, nudging me to gain my attention. But I don't turn around to offer a response – I'm preoccupied by mentally willing the traffic lights to change colour. The green man flashes and pedestrians begin to cross the road at a ridiculously slow pace. It's then, while cursing their sluggishness, that I see her.
A girl, standing on the kerb across the road, wisps of red hair whirling with the wind. I can't explain why I'm so drawn to her. Maybe it's her clothes: a frilly pink summer's dress, while everyone else around her is dressed in double layers. Maybe it's the fact that she's alone and defenceless, when it's already dark outside and she looks so damn innocent.
Or maybe it's because she's staring right at our bus.
"When is it our stop?" I blurt out without thinking. It doesn't make sense because I know when we're due to get off – for heaven's sake, I was just thinking about it two minutes ago.
"Are you serious?" Lena says. "We only just got on the bus. And hey, you didn't answer my question! I bet Mom's not even bothered to pack her stuff yet – she's so disorganised. She'll call one of us tonight and be crying over the phone about how none of her things are packed when her flight's tomorrow afternoon, but I won't be giving out any sympathy –"
"What's taking so long?" I say. "We've been sitting at these lights for ages now. I wanna get home."
"Calm down already," Erik says. "He can't exactly move when we're at a red light, unless you want him to mow someone down. Just think of all the mess that'd make. D'you think we'd hear the squelching when the tires drive over–"
Lena motions Erik to be quiet and studies me with newly-concerned eyes. "Are you okay? You're shaking."
I look at my hands and, sure enough, she's right. My palms are trembling so fast they're almost a blur, like the bow of a string instrument during the crucial part of a sonata. But what's worse is that sick feeling churning in my stomach and that sharp pain in my head that's becoming harder and harder to ignore by the second.
"Why so serious, April?" Erik demands, poorly imitating The Joker. I don't get to answer. The bus is thrust into motion again as the lights turn from red to amber to green, and I'm practically flung against the headrest as we begin the descent downhill, far quicker than I'd like. "Don't tell me you're having afterthoughts about going to see that movie. I thought you said you had a strong stomach."
"I do," I say. A lousy retort at best, but it sounds even more pathetic in my current state. "I felt off before we even left the school. Hell, I've been feeling off since yesterday."
"Sure you have."
The bus pulls into the next stop. The man and a few other passengers get off, but no one else gets on to take their place. The sliding doors close over. Containing us. I note just how shackled we are on here, how if something were to happen we'd still be stuck in this moving cell. The driver presses down on the accelerator. We're on the road again . . .
I risk another look to my left. Sketchbook Boy is hunched over, weaving his pencil rapidly over a page in the book, so immersed in his drawing I doubt he'd notice if his seat caught fire. The old woman is sitting too far forward, staring out the window. The bus drives over a pothole in the road and she turns, flat blue orbs locking on me for the first time. Her lips stretch upwards in a smile, false teeth showing, red gums exposed.
Not a smile. A leer.
Again, I feel that indescribable urge to get off this bus. That it'll suffocate me if I don't. I turn to Lena and grip her arm.
"Hey," she protests, "what're you doing?"
"I'd like to get off now."
"Well you can't – it isn't our stop yet. Look, I know you don't feel good but you'll just have to wait till we get back to school before we can do anything."
I lean closer, urgency bleeding from my voice. "I think we should get off here."
"This is quality," Erik sneers. "Why not take the emergency hammer to the window, April? See if you can smash your way out."
Oh god. The worst part is that he's right in what he's implying. That I'm acting irrationally, insisting on getting off like this. Wasn't it me who made the big deal about running for the bus in the first place? Pathetic. I need to get a grip.
I look over at the woman again. She's leaning back in the seat now, only her back is rigid like she might bolt upright any minute. At her feet, a half-dozen shopping bags sit overflowing. Just a normal person, anxious to get home, I tell myself.
The boy has shut his sketchbook and now sits with his head propped up on his fists, elbows resting on his knees. He's looking at me through the curtain of his shaggy hair; a curious, inquisitive glance, not unlike the ones I seem to be earning from a group of loud-mouthed teenagers a couple of rows in front. Of course, I'm attracting attention by now. I press a hand to my forehead. It's matted with sweat.
"Look, we're almost home now. Just relax, sis," Lena says and pats my shoulder, trying to calm me down. I lean back in the seat, holding my breath and willing the anxiety to fade. But the hill seems to go on for miles. Has it always been this long? I close my eyes, count to ten, twenty, wait for it to be over –
Something grabs my attention. An icy feeling, like an electric charge, surging up the veins in my wrist. I snap my eyes open and almost fall off my seat when I see what's causing it: the woman is up, standing in the middle of the aisle, her hand coiled around my wrist. When I open my mouth to protest no words come out – as if I've been switched on mute. Nobody else seems to notice.
"E . . . excuse me." A sentence finally strings together, hoarse and rasp as a smoker's cough. I clear my throat and try again. "Excuse me, what're you doing?"
"Dearie," she says, "can't you hear it?"
"Hear wha . . ." But something tells me I know what she's talking about.
"The clock's ticking. It's getting louder."
This captures my companions' attentions. Lena's gaping speechlessly, of no help whatsoever. It's Erik who calls out, "Hey!" but the woman doesn't seem to notice.
"Tick, tick, tick." She imitates the sound of a clock, strengthening the grip round my wrist. It's as though she's trying to wring out the blood inside, the way one would do with wet hair after a shower.
"Stop it," I snap, wriggling my hand to get free. "Let go."
"Hey, c'mon." A new voice joins the protests. Sketchbook Boy. He's standing in the aisle, shoulders relaxed, the picture of composure. But the moment the woman's skin makes contact with his, I swear I see him wince. She shrugs off his arm and pushes him back; it's a simple jab she makes but it seems to knock the air from his breath, and he goes staggering back into his seat like a drunken wreck. Panic shoots up my spine. Why didn't we sit upstairs?
"I think she's got an illness," Lena whispers, gaze averted as she tries to help me prise my arm away. Two almighty tugs later, and we're still no further forward. The group of noisy teenagers are giggling, cell phones out, videoing the whole thing. Crazy Grandma starts bus fight. It's certified to be a hit on YouTube.
"Can you please let go of my sister?" Lena shouts, the nice girl act over. Now everyone is staring. Murmurs have broken out and couples share nervous glances. I must look so helpless, sitting here with this strange woman holding onto me like a precious gem. I know I could shrug her hand off – but that would involve a more violent tackle and I'm reluctant to do so. She's so old and frail. Lena could be right: she could have a mental illness. I can't hurt someone in self-defence if they're defenceless themselves.
"Just listen to it." The woman gets right up in my face, her eerily attentive eyes slicing through mine like a knife through butter. Her other arm hangs limp by her side, the fist clenching and unclenching, tendons and bluish-purplish veins visible under the glare of the overhead fluorescent panels. "Tick, tick, tick. Can't you hear it? It's getting louder – their silent screams, all around us."
"Erik. A little help here?"
"You need to let go," I snap again. My fury rises as I fight against her iron-tight grasp. Why is she doing this? How can she be so strong? "Let go of me!"
"Not long now." She chuckles like some sort of demented Chucky doll. "We bring it on ourselves. Three."
I'm dimly aware of another passenger yelling obscenities, but at who I can't be sure – it's hard to concentrate on much with the hand still strangling mine. The bus picks up speed, flying over potholes, jerking round bends. Various groceries spill out shopping bags. People stagger against each other, crying with outrage, and Erik is caught off guard, nearly falling off his seat. The woman doesn't move.
"Two." Upstairs a shrill cry chimes out, followed by a succession of heavy bangs. As if someone is hammering against the windows. Like a plea for help. From what? "The countdown to destroy ourselves has begun."
"What's going on upstairs?" someone demands – a woman getting up from her seat. Approaching the steps. You don't wanna do that.
"One." It isn't until now that it really hits how the woman's been counting down to something; but she's not quite sane. She doesn't know what she's talking about, right? Wrong! Get off the bus. Get off the bus. Get off the bus –
"Oh my god," someone upstairs shrieks. The screams are getting louder, panic spreading to those closest. It's tangible, all around me, radiating off every living being in sight; a contagious plague that no one is immune to. And all the while my head is pounding, and the voice inside is howling to get out like a wild dog, but I can't move, can't speak, can't focus on anything other than the woman's hand still strangling mine. Eyes alight with glee, she leans even closer. Her breath warms the side of my face. Goosebumps rise on my arms. Not safe. You're not safe –
She whispers, "Blast."
The top deck explodes.
The ceiling gives way. Large chunks of rubble come falling through the centre section, followed by a rush of toxic smoke. And the panic erupts in a climax of heat and fear. The woman's grip loosens and I'm shoved to the aisle like a useless piece of trash. Around me, hordes of passengers charge for the back of the bus, companions forgotten in their haste to make it to safety; a survival mechanism, built into each of us at birth. Two hands clamp around my arm and pull me up before I get flattened by the rush and I start sprinting full-out alongside the mass, no time to think of anyone else but myself – such selfishness that could only exist in humans.
People climb over, duck under seats, shove through the aisle, hammer on the emergency exit. Crying. Yelling. Freaking out. Some trip and go sprawling to the floor; others crawl on their hands and knees like scuttling beetles. The lights go out and we're swathed in the blinding darkness; a suffocating blanket of fumes. Panic levels upped. Hysteria – utter, mass hysteria.
"Oh my god," someone keeps screaming over and over in horror. "Oh my god, what's happening?"
I'm a row away from the very back when the driver hammers on the brakes full force. The momentum sends me tumbling back. I have to grab one of the metal hand railings to prevent my fall. Don't scream now. Someone staggers against me and I grip the railing tighter, palms clammy, the stench of burning filling my nostrils and bringing tears to my eyes. We come to a violent stop at the bottom of the hill, right in the centre of an intersection. The stink of burnt rubber is powerful, but it's still nothing compared to the intoxicating smoke.
Hair-raising screams pierce the air; screams I'll never forget, that're anything but silent, that'll stick lodged in my brain with the rest of my memories until the moment I join them after death. As I struggle to right myself I notice the gaping hole in the top deck and look up. Figures, barely visible through the thick curtain of fumes, dance in some sort of blazing inferno. Balls of flames, burning bright as glowsticks –
Crash. The collision is sudden. A delivery truck, or lorry, or another bus – I don't know, the windows are obscured – smashes into the side of our bus. The impact is fierce. Our bus rocks violently, once, twice, before tipping right over on its side. The weight of a dozen people presses against me; I'm clinging to the railing for dear life, the scream in my lungs unable to find its way up. This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening.
I hear Lena yelling my name but I can't locate her amidst all the chaos. A flash of Erik's distinctive black hair whirs past my face before disappearing into the sea of squirming bodies below. Then I lose my grip on the railing, my palms too sweaty to hold on, and fall into the pileup pressed against the windows. More bodies follow, crushing me until there's no hope for movement. My head is agony. I'm sure there's blood but I can't reach it to check for sure. An agonised moan escapes my lips.
"Lena," I try to yell out, but no sounds are produced.
Time ceases to exist. The shrieking grows dimmer and dimmer until it's nothing but a mere whisper in my ears. The 'oh my god's have stopped. What does that mean for that person?
I shudder, trembling under the weight of so many bodies. How long has gone past since the explosion? Seconds? Minutes? I feel sticky blood trickling down the side of my face and try not to react. Shaking, I reach out to touch the wound, but my hand is trapped beneath a prostrate, unmoving body. Oh, god. Think of something else – fast, my brain commands me.
The thought of all the trouble we went to, trying to make it back to campus before clampdown, flits into my mind to take the horror's place.
The irony is unsettling.