Sideways
Wilderstory 04
It was a strange mix of popping, grinding and creaking. The sound of glass, already broken, being pressed against itself
Dot heard it (and felt it) as she tried to move; first her head, and then her shoulders, which were pinned against the bus window.
“Everything is sideways,” she thought, opening her eyes.
Dot wondered at the span of windows along her side of the bus that was now level upon the ground. Dusky sunlight filtered down through the windows on the other side, facing skyward.
She saw movement in one of those windows. A pair of legs, skirted above the knees, pushed off against the side of a seat through the opening. The window was mostly free of glass, but a few stray bits still clung along the edges. One of these caught hold of the girl’s skirt and ripped straight through. Her legs shuddered before being pulled up and out of the window frame.
“Dammit!” the girl exhaled, now outside.
The metal panels groaned as the girl crawled unevenly out of sight along the side of the bus. Dot could hear her slide down to the ground, amid the muffled sound of voices — the other girls — as they started to move away.
Dot blinked. The corners of her eyes were sticky. She felt an impulse to rub them, but could not lift her hands to her face. The instrument cases and overnight bags were piled up and around her. And the massive amp lay directly on top of her chest.
She was alone.
“Maybe they thought I was dead,” Dot pondered, pulling herself slowly from under the loose heap. With a heave, she pushed the amp to the side. “Maybe they couldn’t see me under all this crap.”
The voices from the girls outside were fading. Dot stifled an urge to cry out to them. She tossed a cheap violin case out of her way , “Or maybe they just forgot I was here.”
Dot steadied herself on one knee, leaning against the arched ceiling panels and gripping the edge of her seat for balance. Shots of pain erupted from different parts of her body. Nothing specific. Just a vague overall feeling of hurt.
She looked toward the front of the bus. The big rear-view mirror was there, running along the top edge of the windshield. Turned on its side along with the rest of the bus, it looked like a full-length mirror from a dressing room.
Dot marveled at her own reflection. The messed hair. The ripped sleeve. Blood on her forehead. She looked like an animal. Or a drunk.
Through the mirror, she could also see the exit door, which was just over her shoulder in the back. It was mostly obscured by the same pile of clutter that had covered her. But in the mirror, Dot could see a portion of the large red swing handle and the bold, printed letters reflected backwards:
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, LIFT AND PUSH TO EXIT.
“Dumbasses,” she whispered, thinking of the girls clambering up through the window. Dot turned to make her way to the door.
And that’s when she heard it. A muffled rustling from the front of the bus.
Dot froze.
The sounds of movement wavered for a moment, then stopped.
In the silence that followed, Dot could hear a labored wheeze. It was like the sound of a cat purring, but wetter. Like a straw when there’s not much left at the bottom of a shake. Sputtering. Crackling.
Breathing in. Breathing out.
“Miss Florence?” Dot called, peering toward the front. She could just make out what she had missed before — the silhouette of Florence’s beehive hairdo, fixed beneath a layer of dust against the windshield. It was motionless.
Dot stumbled forward over the loose bags and cases, straining to keep her balance. Four rows of seats separated her from the front of the bus. She started to imagine what might have happened to Florence in the driver’s seat. And she dreaded what she might see when she got there.
“Dottie,” said a broken voice from up front.
There was a rustle of movement again. Dot watched as the fingers of one hand slowly wrapped around the edge of the driver’s seat.
Dot strained her neck to see better. It seemed impossible for Florence’s hand to be gripping the seat, while her head was so clearly against the windshield.
She looked again at the bundle of beehive hair. It appeared hollow and empty. A lifeless wig.
“My little Dot,” the voice rattled.
Dot hesitated. She took a step backwards to keep her balance. A feeling of unease took root inside. And it filled her body with dread.
“That’s what Florence always called me,” Dot thought to herself. “But that’s not Florence.”
