The couple burst into laughter again. Harold wonders: is there some dirt stuck to his jacket? He sweeps his hand feverishly across his garment. Nothing. A spike in his hair? He runs his fingers through it to reassure himself, then touches his cheeks, searching for a stray crumb. Come on, there must be a reason for their glee! Desperate, Harold addresses the giggling duo.
"What’s so funny?"
"Excuse me?" the boy replies.
"I noticed you laughing after I checked the bus schedule. What’s the matter?"
The young pair exchange a dubious look.
"I don’t understand at all—not one bit of what you’re saying!" says the girl, tossing her long hair.
"And yet I don’t talk Greek! Why are you making fun of me? What did I do to you? I don’t even know you!"
The duo shake their heads without answering.
Harold won’t be able to contain the imminent crisis—he knows it. That dreadful heat is spreading through his veins, swelling his legs, arms, and even his face.
The bus appears at the corner of the street. It stops at the shelter long enough for the couple to climb aboard. Harold has turned away; he won’t be getting on. His skin has begun to crack, emitting awful squelching sounds. Small piles of fluid and muscle tissue fall to the ground. After several minutes, a round shape bursts out of the shelter, shattering the glass walls.
At the wheel of the bus, the driver reaches for his coffee cup. He stayed up too late last night—clearly. He glances at the rearview mirror again. The astonishing figure stretches, revealing a crimson chasm that resembles a mouth. The driver slams on the accelerator, causing a violent jolt. The passengers start screaming. Already, the jaws are closing around the back of the bus, plunging the rear rows into darkness.
photo © Mak