I adjust my hips on the 2-person vinyl bench seat.  The driver’s profile sways as the bus trundles down the south end of I-5.  Another 17 minutes until home.  The setting sun paints the horizon with pinks and oranges, catching the contour of every wisp of cloud in the sky.  The white ice caps of the mountains stand out like neon punctuation as telephone poles measure out the frames of my existence.  I understand why people rubberneck a  car accident.  It’s probably the most interesting thing they’ll see that week.

The bus is nearly empty after rush hour traffic. The trip south is short one unless you are trying to get past downtown. Then it feels like forever. Stopping and starting at all the familiar stops. Bar. Lobby. Noodle shop. Starbucks. Bar. ATM. Cafe. Smoke shop. Noodle shop. Bar. I wonder how some places continue to exist. I don’t see people enter or exit. The doors could be painted on brick walls for all I can tell. I wonder if I’ll ever get off the bus and find out for myself.  Even the thought smacks of effort.

Looking around, I focus on a small girl with her grandmother.  She is wearing tiny little dansko clogs and I wonder who spends $100 on kids shoes.  At least her arches are supported.  She’s biting her lower lip and squirming a hand between her crossed legs.  “Gran, I gotta go!” she urgently whispers.  Her elder companion shushes and assures her their stop is coming up soon.  I wince in sympathy and turn my attention away before saying something regrettable.  Across from them is another elderly woman, sitting alongside a pull-cart full of packages.  Also watching the 6-year old.

Somewhere behind me is a tall boy with bleach blonde hair and skinny jeans.  I assume from the coif of his hair that his pinkie sticks up while downing Manhattans.  It’s not a judgement, just assumption based on experience.  In the seat across from me is a woman about my age, maybe older.  She’s swiping away at her phone intently.  I briefly wonder what app has her so captivated but that line of thinking borders on nosy and I don’t really give a damn anyway.  The scowl on her face could be about her phone or just resting bitchface.

I return my gaze to the blur of scenery out the window.  The horizon has darkened to a mix of yellows and blues.  Dark cerulean blue that can only be seen when the moon is near her fullest.  Spindly needles of winter trees slice up the strip of warmth left where the sun was and street lights start to flicker on.  I’m not sure when the bus started to slide.  I just know at some point the horizon started to turn at a place where there wasn’t a turn.  The squealing might have been the tires or the elderly ladies, I’m guessing a combination.  I say a silent prayer and brace against any hard surface.

Maintaining enough center of gravity to know we were spinning, I try to wrap my legs around one of the steel poles in the middle.  I figure this is the safest move if we flip over.  My instincts are slightly flawed and I wrench my wrist at an odd angle and crumple to the black tread floor in the middle of the bus.  Fortunately, we stopped spinning without flipping over.  That isn’t much solace for the two elderly riders near the front as I hear them keening in pain.  The 6-year old is crying in wet clothes and the girl across from me is groaning but moving.

Attempting to sit up I discover my right wrist is useless.  My legs seem uninjured so I move forward to help the old lady with her cart on top of her.  She’s flailing and cursing but doesn’t seem too badly hurt.  The small child’s Gran looks worse for wear.  She’s unconscious and there’s blood coming from her hairline though I can’t see the actual wound.  The little girl is sobbing but has no obvious injury.  Since she’s breathing, I turn my attention behind me.  The other woman is sitting upright holding her head.  The skinny boy at the back is rubbing his neck and also cursing.

Looking to Gran, I discover the blood is from a cut on her scalp.  Nothing too serious but she still hasn’t woken up.  The sobbing child is starting to tires and looks at me between sniffles, “Is Gran gonna be okay?”

I don’t know what to say.  I don’t have any kids.  I look at her plaintively and sputter, “I- I don’t know.”

Crestfallen, the girl begins to quietly sob again.  “Why did you tell her that?!”  The woman across from me has gathered herself and moves over nestle the little girl in her bosom and croon, “Of course she’ll be okay.”

I sneer and almost say something snarky but realize that’s not helpful.  That’s when I remember the driver.  Turning around I see him slumped over the steering wheel.  That’s when I notice the milieu outside the bus.  Headlights flickering in and out with people running.  My first thought is, “Oh gawd, Zombies!”  Then I remember I’m in the real world.  Looking beyond the road in front of me I can see source of panic.  Fires on the hillside…  flashes of semi-automatic gunfire.  It’s another raid.

Once every few months they sweep through each neighborhood looking for vampires.  Even the ones harbored willingly get flushed out.  Those that resist risk the fire.  It’s just part of the world we live in.  That’s why I keep my head down and residence clean.  I know plenty of vampires that are decent folk but none I’d risk my rental over.  It’s hard getting a place on the hill.  I don’t want to go back to float housing.  The constant moisture is bad for my joints.  Better to stay stable and help in more indirect ways at my age.  Just makes more sense.