Coin for the Ferryman

“Ticket. Ticket please.” The bus driver, an older gaunt man smelling of cigarettes and beer grabbed my ticket and pierced it with one of those paper punches. “Take any seat, not a full bus tonight. If you want to check that bag I can put it underneath in the cargo bay. All is in order.”

It was the usual mix on the bus. An older man in a suit eating crackers and trying to read a magazine about deer hunting, behind him was a young woman in tears using a well worn tissue. In the back row quickly covering himself with his coat, a mustached man fell fast asleep before the bus had left the station. There were others, not many, peppering the seats most traveling alone.

“All is in order,” the driver announced and soon the bus was backing out and pulling away from the station.

There had been threat of snow, but the ticket sellers at the terminal were convinced that the storm would miss us by miles.

It was the sudden stop of the bus that woke me. We were about two hours out on a stretch of highway where there was little civilization. A desolate stretch of the interstate, lonely and forlorn. On a good day you felt the isolation, in the dark it felt like the middle of no where. The bus had pulled over. Everyone was collected up at the front of the bus. I joined them
The driver was sitting there breathing heavy. “The drive,” he said between gasps for air, “this drive through the snow is just too much for me, my nerves. They called me out of retirement for this! Look the snow just keeps coming. It won’t stop!” He screamed, stood up for moment, clutched his chest and collapsed in to the aisle.

The teary eyed woman pushed her way forward, rolled the driver over, “Anyone else know CPR?” She looked around and started pumping on his chest.

“I'm a nurse or I was a nurse before I got fired this morning.”

People started mumbling I guessed it was prayers. The old guy took off his jacket roll it up in to a pillow and bent down to slide it under the driver's head.

“No, we need to keep his head back and his airway clear.” She began to puff breaths in to the fallen driver. “Cigarettes and beer. Damn he's a mess.”

The mustached man from the back shook his head. “This is the man they have driving the bus. A retired drunk? I'm calling my sister right now, she's a lawyer, and I suggest everyone get a lawyer so we can sue these bastards.”

“This is a dead zone. You won't get any reception for about a hundred miles.” I'd been on this route before.

“He's gone. I guess some kind of massive blow out of his heart.”

“We do what we do with the body?”

“He can't stay in the aisle.”

“We can put him in the rest room.”

“Brilliant, what do the living use while we wait to get rescued.”

“Has to be the cargo bay. You, my sister's a lawyer. Grab his shoulders. It will give you something to add to your lawsuit, the psychological trauma of having to move a body.”

“I'm in. He does kind of look peaceful doesn't he?”

Back inside there was some discussion about the benefits of going versus staying put.

“You aren't thinking to continue in this storm?”

“Hell yes. I don’t want to be stranded, waiting on someone to luck by and rescue us.”

“No, we are safe here.”

“Yeah, until we run out of gas and then we will start to freeze.”

“I hate to point out the obvious, but there is no driver!”

“Not true,” the older man now in shirt sleeves his tie askew, “I can drive this thing. I use to drive them years ago. Kind of like riding a bike.”

Finally we took a vote and pulled out on to the highway going about twenty-five. The nurse and I stood behind the new driver. A couple of miles down the highway we came up on a stopped big rig. A man and woman got out and entered the bus.

“Y’all know the highway’s closed, don't yah? The storm came up faster than anyone thought. We ain't seen a plow truck for about an hour or so. Me and Mrs. Jones here, are gonna push on ahead. You’re welcome to follow in our tracks. Might make the going a bit easier.”

We slowly followed the truck. I laughed, “Here we are, keeping up with the Jones'.”

“Not to sound melodramatic, but if I remember correctly there is a bridge at the bottom of this hill. We need to make sure we stop before we cross.”

“Where the hell are they going so fast?”

“He must have lost control of the rig.”

“If he hits the bridge too fast, he's going to skid, lose control.”

The three of us watched as the Jones hit the frozen surface of the bridge. The rig jackknifed, twisted, turned, skidded and then went over the side. The fireball went soaring up in to the snow laden sky.

We saved fuel by running and heating the bus for awhile and then huddling together to keep warm. We pooled together our food and melted snow for water. Late the next morning the first snowmobiles made it to the bus. They told us how lucky we were, that we stopped where we did. I asked about the Jones’. As far as they knew, we were the last unaccounted travelers from last night.

Wrapped in a thermal blanket I walked over to the bridge where last night we watched the Jones go over in a fire ball. There was no truck wreckage, no indication that a truck had try to cross. At the far end, the bridge had collapsed, leaving only a large gap where the road use to be.