The bus driver is driving too fast—way too fast. I know this because I’ve nearly fallen out of my seat three times, and I’m just glad that I’m sitting on my own and not sharing; otherwise I would have ended up in someone’s lap, or vice versa. I grip the back of the seat in front of me tighter, feeling my backpack move on my shoulders as we swing around another corner. I suck in a breath and blink several times to clear my tears. I never liked going fast. My daddy always used to tease me when we had to go on the highway and I’d cry.
One of the guidance counselors is sitting up front with the driver, but she doesn’t bother to tell him to slow down—in fact, almost like she wants him to go even faster, which makes my stomach does a little flip. I realize that my heart is thumping in my chest and I open my eyes and look around, seeing how worried all my classmates look, and feel glad that it’s not just me. None of us are talking, not even muttering under our breath as the bus bumps down the road, rocking from side to side, and I wonder if we’re all as clueless as to what’s going on.
The only noise is the sound of the tires screeching and soft sobbing coming from somewhere near the back of the bus. I reach into my backpack with one hand and pull out my cell phone to call my parents. I haven’t called before now because…well, up until now I didn’t worry too much, and my parents never really care anyway. They’re always so busy with work that a phone call to them has to be a major emergency or there’s hell to pay for interrupting them when they’re at work. Lord knows how they’ll be when they have to come pick me up.
I flick the silent button off my cell phone as I pull it out and then stare at the screen in shock for a moment. There’s seven missed calls from my parents’ number. Seven. That’s unheard of from them. I don’t think they’ve ever called me seven times in my
life
, never mind in one day. I press the call back button and put the phone to my ear with shaky hands, but it beeps and cuts out. I try again and get the same reply. I slip my phone back into my bag in frustration and chew on the inside of my cheek again—hard enough to draw blood this time, but I don’t care. I barely register the little nick of pain in my mouth. Worry is set deep in my bones now, because for my parents to call me things must be bad. Really bad.
For the hundredth time I think of Steph and Amy, cursing them both for being such spoiled little bitches. Yet no matter how pissed I am at Steph, I know I have to tell someone that she’s still back at school, or at least try. I huff and stand up, carefully making my way to the front of the bus. I tap our guidance counselor’s shoulder, and she turns with a small squeal, her face blanching. Or perhaps it was blanched already. Her eyes are rimmed red, black mascara streaked down her puffy cheeks, and she does nothing to hide any of this, like a good counselor should do.
“What is it, Anne? What do you want?” she snaps.
“I need to tell you something,” I mumble, shocked at being shouted at by her. She’s normally so nice and calming, not this wreck of a woman in front of me.
She stands up and shoos me away. “Go back to your seat immediately, Anne, this is not the time for teenage drama!”
I stare at her, my mouth opening and closing as if words were coming out, but none are. She shoos me again and sits back down. I turn and head back to my seat, looking at my classmates and expecting to see them smirking or laughing at me for getting yelled at, but none are; they all look as equally frightened as I now feel.
I steady myself by holding onto the backs of the seats as I stumble back to sit down again. The bus turns too sharply, and I hear the driver cuss loudly before we hit something with a thud. Everyone aboard the bus screams, including me, and I cling onto a seat to stop myself from falling over. The bus tires screech loudly as we keep on going, ignoring the accident we just caused and the fact that we’re all scared half to death. The crying is louder now, and I turn to look out the front window of the bus, seeing smoke rising from the engine and blood splatter on the window.
I swallow down the lump in my throat, fear and panic gripping me tightly. The bus goes around another corner, but it’s still going too quickly despite the fact that we just hit someone or something, and I feel the tires on one side of the bus leave the ground. It leans to one side, and despite how hard I hold onto the back of a seat, as the bus flips onto its side I end up sprawling across the floor. Bags and students land on top of me, and I tuck in my legs and wrap my arms over my head to protect myself as the sound of screeching metal and glass smashing almost drowns out the sound of screams all around me.
My body hits a window, and I feel it crack underneath my weight. Something hard hits my side and I groan and try to push it off me as the bus continues to roll before finally coming to a stop. Everything falls silent, barring the ticking of the engine and the intermittent sobbing coming from somewhere. I close my eyes, feeling a warm trickle of blood slide between my breasts. I open my eyes and look down, and see a long shard of glass sticking into my chest. It doesn’t seem too deep, thankfully, but it hurts and it’s bleeding badly.
I push away the bags that have landed on me and stumble up to standing. My backpack is still on, and I’m thankful when I see all the broken glass underneath me that would have cut into my back if I hadn’t been wearing it. I grip the glass shard sticking between my breasts and pull with a sharp squeal. A fresh burst of blood escapes and I press the palm of my hand to it to stop the flow, tears springing in my eyes at the pain.
I can still hear crying, but the bus is a tangled mess of bodies, backpacks, and torn metal, and I still can’t see where it’s coming from. I step over a prone body, trying not to look at who it is, my hand still pressed against my chest. I walk the center aisle—or what is now the center aisle but used to be the side of the bus—and try to avoid standing on the broken windows as best I can. I can’t see any student with their eyes open—certainly none that look alive—and I let out the sob that I’ve been holding onto.
My vision swims and I clutch the side of a seat to steady myself until the vertigo stops, and then I keep moving toward the front of the bus. The front window is completely blown out, the bus driver having gone through it, and I look out and see his mangled body on the asphalt. Blood is pooling around him, and I can tell even from this distance that his skull is disfigured and broken and I sob loudly again, not even trying to contain my crying.
I climb out the window, small fragments of glass digging into the palms of my hands, and slide down the hood of the bus. I land on my feet but stumble onto my ass, momentarily letting go of my chest and releasing a fresh burst of blood from the wound. Steam is pouring from the front of the bus, a hissing and ticking as if it is tired and weary after a long day on the road, and I drag myself away from it as quickly as I can.
I look back up the road, expecting to see police cars or ambulances, fire trucks, or at the very least the other school buses, but there are none. I reach behind me into my backpack and fumble around for my cell, my fingers finally grasping it. I press the call button and hold it to my ear but there’s no sound, no dial tone, nothing. I clutch it in my hand, my chin trembling, and look up the road when I hear a sound. I can see people coming toward the wreck, and I barely contain my cry of relief that someone is coming to help.
I close my eyes tightly, barely controlling the tears that want to explode from me, and keep my hand pressed to my chest. My chin quivers, my body trembling as I slink into what must be shock. I need to be strong. Help will be here soon and then I can go to the hospital. My parents will meet me there and this will all be over.
Tires screech to a halt in front of me and I open my eyes. Dean is climbing out of his Prius, his face contorted in worry as he looks at me. He glances back to the approaching people and then to me, keeping his distance until I reach a hand out to him.
“I need help. The bus…crashed. I got glass,” I point down at my chest, and his eyes follow, widening as he sees all the blood.
“You’re not bitten?”
I frown at him. “What? No. Why would I be bitten?”
He moves toward me quickly. “We need to go now, Anne.”
He reaches down and loops his arm around my waist, pulling me up to him. Even in my current state of pain and confusion, I feel him pulling me unnecessarily close to his body. I look into his face, his worry evident, but his eyes wash over me with something more. I don’t have time to consider what, though, as he half-drags, half-carries me around to the passenger side of his car and sets me in it.
“I need to get to the hospital,” I murmur painfully, my head swimming and my stomach feeling nauseous now that I’ve moved.
“No chance of that anytime soon,” he says and slams my door.
I frown, wondering what he means, but I feel dizzy and sick and can’t think about anything but the pain in my head and chest right now.
I hear a yell and look out my window, seeing Dean talking to our guidance counselor, and breathe a sigh of relief that someone else made it out of the crash alive. I rest my head back on the seat and close my eyes, hoping the dizziness will pass before Dean takes me to a hospital. I think I might hurl if he tries to drive me anywhere at the moment.
A loud thud and crack make me open my eyes and I look out my window to see Dean swinging a baseball bat against the ground. I lean forward, my nose pressed against the glass to look out of my window, and a startled yell leaves my mouth before I can stop it. Dean looks up to me with a scowl and then swings the bat against our counselor’s head again. The last smash does it and blood explodes from out of her ears. Her hands, which were reaching for him, flop to the ground and she stops flailing, only an occasional twitch to her fingers. I scream again.
Dean pants heavily and then looks back up to the wreckage. His eyes go wide and he jogs around to the driver’s side of the car. I want to lock the door and keep him out, keep him away from me. He’s clearly unhinged, but right at that moment all I can do is lean forward and hurl all over the foot well of his car. I hear him climb inside and start the engine as I gag and retch, images of Dean smashing in our counselor’s head intruding on my thoughts wherever they stray. I sob loudly, blood and snot mixing, and I look across at Dean as he begins to drive.
“Where are you taking me?” I cry out, my chin trembling. “Please don’t hurt me.”
He glances across at me, his eyes cold. “Somewhere safe. I’m going to protect you.” He returns his eyes to the road and I let the silence pass.
Protect me? Protect me from what? I sob again, crying loudly. Every wracking sob sends pain shooting through my chest, and when I look down I see that blood is seeping through my fingers. I look back up to him and see that he’s watching me.
“The blood will attract them, we need to stop it quickly,” Dean says darkly.
He pulls the car over to the side of the road and reaches under his seat. I flinch as he pulls out something and leans toward me, my eyes squeezing tightly shut.
“Don’t hurt me.” I cower away from him.
I hear a click, but when nothing happens I open my eyes and see him staring at me with a frown. “I’m not going to hurt you. I need to cover the injury.” He holds up some gauze and bandages. “Take off your top.”
I shake my head and he tuts.
“Now is not the time to be a prude. I need to stop the bleeding, Anne, now take off your top!” he yells, but I still shake my head.
Dean leans over and yanks the straps of my top down my arms. I fight him with one hand even as he cusses at me. His hand draws back and he slaps me hard across the cheek and I feel the sting of it right down to my toes. I scream out at him to stop, but his hand goes to my throat, pressing me back against my door.
“I need to stop the bleeding, nothing else, now calm down,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He glances at my cheek, to what I suspect must be a bright red slap mark, and to his credit he looks guilty about it.
My chin trembles but I stop fighting him, letting him pull my straps down my arms so he can look at the cut between my breasts. He slowly pulls my hand away and looks at it before rooting through his first aid box again and pulling out some tape. He looks back up into my face, his eyes looking at my cheek again.
“I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know this is scary for you.” He pours some liquid onto some gauze and slowly pries my hand away, swapping it for the gauze. It stings and I hiss painfully, and he looks shameful that he hurt me.
“What’s going on? Where are you taking me?” I say my voice almost a whisper in the confined space.
Dean looks up into my eyes, a frown puckering between his eyebrows. “You have to be strong now and listen to me carefully. I’m going to protect you.”
I don’t say anything, and I don’t object when he swaps one soaked cotton ball for another.
He continues. “The apocalypse has started. I’m going to take us somewhere safe.”
He swaps the ball for some gauze, taping it over the wound, and then pulls me forward so he can wrap a bandage around it all. It hurts and burns and I hiss again, but my thoughts aren’t on my wound, they’re on what he just said, and how far into insanity he must have fallen.
“The apocalypse?” I snort incredulously. He only nods and continues checking that the tape is tight enough over my wound.