The 3_30 A.M. Bus_ Ride With the Dead

Jerry ground my work ID under his shoe.

“Now you’re scared? Too late!”

Suddenly, his silver-haired henchman screamed, “Jerry! The car… the car won’t start! The engine compartment is like a boiling pot!”

Jerry spun around sharply. From the Bentley’s hood came strange clicking sounds and the dashboard needles twitched wildly like a dying fish.

His expression darkened instantly. He grabbed my collar, yanking me toward the Bentley, his nails digging into my neck.

“Did you hear that? You wrecked my car! Take me home now, or you’ll be paying for the repairs until the next life!”

“I have to leave…” I couldn’t agree to his demand—it was time to go.

“Go to hell!”

He jabbed his finger toward the Bentley’s emblem.

“The front bumper and paint job alone will cost at least 500,000 dollars! Either you take me now, or expect a court summons tomorrow.”

I looked toward the bus door. The shadowy figures inside were already pressed against the glass, silently urging me to get moving.

The number 29 glared at me from the dashboard like an omen. A patch of moisture seeped onto the steering wheel, as if a cold, wet hand had just been pressed there.

“…Get on the bus,” I said at last, my voice hoarse.

Jerry smirked, satisfied and motioned for his men to follow him.

The bald man jumped aboard first. He was about to curse and claim a seat when he suddenly sprang back up with a yelp.

“What the hell? Something’s pricking my ass!”

He grabbed at the seat cushion, but found only a cold metal plate. When he pulled his hand back, his fingertips were coated in a grayish-black powder—like burnt paper ash.

“What a useless idiot,” Jerry muttered, kicking him aside before dropping into the passenger seat. But the moment his hand touched the surface, he jerked it back.

“Why does this seat feel like an icebox?”

I started the engine. In the rearview mirror, the shadowy figures suddenly melted back into their seats, as if they had never moved.

Outside, the Bentley’s hood still gaped open in the early morning breeze, like a mouth left hanging.

At exactly thirty seconds past, the bus body shuddered lightly, as if someone had tapped the brakes.

I gripped the wheel tighter and checked the backseat in the mirror. Jerry was glued to his phone, the bald man was scratching himself and the silver-haired one stared blankly out the window.

None of them noticed the figure now sitting quietly in the back row—a man in a gray cotton jacket, his sleeves hanging loosely, his head slightly bowed as he watched them.

They didn’t see him. But I did. And I couldn’t risk my life with them on board. I made my decision instantly.

Just as the bus took the third corner, a sudden shriek came from the back.

“Jerry! This isn’t the way to your house!”

Jerry was still scrolling through his phone, but his head snapped up. Outside, the streets had changed—the streetlights were scattered and sparse, like gums missing teeth.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” He hurled his phone at the back of my head. “Daring to take a detour? Tired of living?”

I kept my hands tight on the wheel. This was the route the Master had strictly ordered me to follow—the mandatory route—said to avoid “unclean things.”

But in the mirror, Jerry was already storming toward me, his eyes bloodshot, fists pounding against my head.

“I told you not to turn! Did you hear me?”

Pain exploded in my forehead. Blood trickled down past my eyebrow, blurring my vision.

I clung to the wheel. Then he grabbed an empty wine bottle from the side and smashed it against my cheek.

Crack! Shards of glass mixed with blood filled my mouth. I spat, a tooth landing in my palm with the metallic tang of blood foam.

“Dare to resist?”

The bald man had pulled out a folding knife from somewhere. With a sharp snap, the blade locked into place, its cold edge pressing against my neck.

“Move again and I’ll bleed you dry.”