Last Stop

The M-Line bus route of Humpleton City did not stand for Midnight Line, despite being the only commuter route running to 11:45 pm. It was a silly nickname this city gave to a letter and then forgot it did not mean anything at all. There were 13 main routes and M was the last route.

From the edge of the throng of people I witnessed a group of Spanish tourists conversing with the ticket kiosk worker, who attempted to communicate with them. He spoke in broken strings of words in an attempt to dissuade them to not ride the M-Line after dark. I assumed he tried to explain to them that unlike the city lines, this one was privately owned and had a different ticket kiosk further down the street.

Foolish people will believe everything but the truth, but people are foolish by nature. They all go about their mundane lives making up stories and tales, thereby muddling this reality of ours.

That always sickens me.

“The Madness-Line.”

“The Mythical-Line.”

“The Mystical-Line.”

For years now I heard these insufferable ramblings. Those idiots say something weird happens right before midnight at the last stop before the bus retires at the M-Line depot near the trainyard. The rumors start off all the same: some friend of a friend recounts seeing alien lights seen on the bus, or being scared stiff from ghosts of family members appearing in the seats next to them. Then there is that one story going ear to ear about demons reaching through the bus floor to snatch your soul to hell. There were endless variations, all more full of senseless crap than the last.

Ordinary observations, not magic apparitions, make this world as it is – that is the truth that calls us to act. The mundane world is bare and dry. How could they not see that?

Since three years I had been gone from this city on an extended trip, the existence of the M-Line had now erupted into a near mythical status among the casual city walkers. Idiot tourists were of course fueling the lore as much as the food trucks parked around each corner were feeding them. Humpleton was a rising destination spot and a growing mid-sized city with a large industrial railroad hub for steel transportation and scrap metal yards. There were plenty of wayward paths to explore on the outskirts of town and take pictures for their social media page.

Most locals were privy to the understanding not to use the M-Line when the sun went down, especially going past Highview and into the Mercantor District. They knew the M-Line was owned by the Sparrow Transport company, which also owned several train freight lines that had become under investigation for embezzlement- all of them so far unsuccessful. They knew Mercantor was a dilapidated mess and nothing but trouble rode that bus at night.

The route operated on a lot of kick-backs given out by our fair city council, the governor, and higher up deep in the feds territory. The M-Line passed by all the necessary locations around Humpleton for a national organized crime Syndicate to flourish. They bought guns, distributed drugs, planned high stakes extortions, and were the best at disposing of bodies. The M-Line provided an inconspicuous travel route from the city to the Furnace, the Syndicate’s main location. The abandoned factory was surrounded by plenty of useful warehouses for the business.

I knew the truth. But somehow these rumors – this unpruned garbage of gossip – kept popping up all day while I was here. In passing through the foggy downtown, through overflowing crosswalk crowds, around pigeon filled parks, and under homeless ranting bridge walkways, I heard more mouth breathers speaking about weird supernatural incidents on the M-Line than I did of the recent scandal of Humpleton’s mayor who embezzled two million from the city budget to fund his cocaine addiction and lavish hooker filled parties!

How pathetic this city was – it always has been. Mighty are the achievements where the filth stands below.

I strode through Humpleton on the cloudy night in order to get business done for the last time. I had planned to tie up loose ends throughout town, however these rumors slowed my actions. I was being distracted. Those tall tales got under my skin and crawled around like a million ants gnawing at my nerves.

My head lurched suddenly to the street as a car tore the air with an ear splitting sound of an unmuzzled exhaust.

More cars screeched behind them as a negligent street race had begun. The loud commotion attracted plenty of drunks. They poured out of bars to watch the speeding cars race along the streets and record on their phones.

“So-rr-ya!” exclaimed a drunk man, bumping into me.

I pushed him away and I gave no notice to his obscenity filled response. I only increased my pace to get away from this hellish place. People like them were a nuisance. Nothing to live for – nothing to stand for – unlike me. Meeting my proprietor required me to take the M-Line and it was 11:00 pm. I would not be late.

I gripped my briefcase tighter. Inside the steel case, there was an item worth more than any money I had earned and any that I could accumulate. The other was worth a great deal of money, more than that stupid man could pay for. Both items represented a promise. My purpose in life was nearing an end.

I passed the remaining portion of the entertainment district towards the lower end boroughs where the sidewalk ceased to be one continuous path and shattered into an unleveled mess worse than cobble stones. The last of the preposterous noise faded right as the windows with bars appeared. The tall buildings shrank and the sound of gunshots rang in the distance. What beauty that echo was! I knew exactly what gun it was and who was likely holding it. I had an excellent memory for this sort of thing.

Over two decades of work, both across the country and overseas from sixty-two countries all accumulated with this moment. This was a destined pilgrimage. Dead bodies lay scattered across the world for me to return to this place with success at hand, where I was born. Although, it would be better described as the place where I was made; I was born from a dying womb in the basement of the Furnace, yet I was carved, hand sculpted into existence by the dark corners of this city. Humpleton made me the man I was. Everything that helped the Syndicate grow in strength, so did it for me.

It birthed Rodger Wilhelm: the hunter who has never lost to another hunter.

I knew I was different from other people since I was young. I have always lacked that normal fear of dying, but I am cunning enough to be vigilant against it. Dying without a cause would be regretful. For my whole life everyone who knew the true me, knew I am rightfully a monster. To them I was insane and far from being human, yet I know that I am and nothing else.

No part of this world was truly any stranger than the next. There were no great hidden mysteries; there was only known and soon to be known. People hung up on any existential questions should forget all the “whys” of why things happen so that they can accept when the unsurmountable happens to them.

The future is absolute and already set in motion. Accept it!

There was not a grand battle of good and evil. Get over it!

Evil existed anywhere there were people, despite not really existing at all. I have lived a sinfully moral life doing what I did best: contracted killing for a price. This is not morally paradoxical at all. At least I abided by a code – I had integrity. I am ruthless, but a fair hitman. However, I do not forgive nor forget. My profession is to kill righteously. This makes me better than those without any convictions – much like all politicians.

My fate was already charted and I had an obligation to fulfil it today. I only had one last stop to make. I neared the Cliffview Bridge that left the “safe area” district.

***

I sat down at the bus stop named Departure. A broken light flickered above me, causing shadows to appear and disappear in patterns like Morse code. I was living in an alternating existence of light and darkness as I waited. The clouds had completely covered the stars and the fog was thick. Down the street, a couple of shoddy light poles created round circles like small islands of light between gaps of darkness. This place was at the lawful mercy of the lawless. Extended visits included murder and tales much darker.

I smirked in a deadly glee. Mercator had grown worse in the last two years. Cardinal sins had been committed all around me and I could feel them fresh as I could remember witnessing them myself. I sat exactly where the six year old me had spilt the blood of another human for the first time on a night like this – he deserved his unlucky fate. Thereafter, I knew the color red very well. There was a deep understanding of that color – having been the only thing I’ve seen in life that was so beautiful in sight. Crimson red was the color of both life and death.

A rambling of noises from the shadows alerted my attention. I focused my sight on it, however, it was nothing but a feeble rat scurrying out from the trash. I looked up at the broken windows in the surrounding buildings. Most were abandoned and used by vagrants, small drug dealers, or taggers, and the others were cheap storage locations for those that paid the correct amount of Syndicate extortion fees. Departure was the last stop in Mercator and it led to the front entrance to the Furnace.

I checked my watch. It was almost that time. 11:43 pm.

I looked around again, diligent in searching, methodical like clockwork, over every street to see if there was any unexpected deviation to the route. Yet all streets were empty. My seat squeaked at my movement. It was bent and battered by fights gone bad. Above me was a mostly empty metal frame where a glass panel roof once hung. Nothing here was in great shape.

It was downright cold tonight.

The winter chill stuck to me despite my clothes. The black duster with a fleece jacket underneath, along with a pair of black slacks, steel-toe boots, and leather gloves did not drive away the cold. There was something about the wind tonight that pierced my skin through every layer as if the wind slithered through the fibers and grasped my body with icy hands.

I shook off the feeling like any other pain.

That’s how I lived. A true monster would not feel pain. I gritted my teeth and endured.

Being an assassin had its downsides. Mostly living on edge at all times and getting shot was not all that pleasant. However, I am the best at what I do. Everyone in the underworld acknowledged that now.

I ate the finest foods, conversed with the famous and influential, and saw the most intimate wonders of many cities. I saw much of humanity in all of its raw forms right before I killed them all. Every contract I made, I always finished – no exceptions, no exemptions. However, never did I kill another person that was not in the contract or had unprovoked. I stayed true to what an oath means: an agreement to the benefit of each other. All other concerns are infinitely insignificant. I lived this long in order to finish my first contract that I made.

I turn my head up at a distant sound. The bus was arriving.

Out of the darkness the headlights burned bright against the coldness of the night. The headlights looked like two shining stars hurtling down the street and the sound of the brakes screeching sounded more other worldly than mechanical as if a wraith of the night took control of the bus. I watched closely as it slowed down and passed the bus sign that had once spelled out the name “Departure” before it had been blasted by bullets. The bus finally rolled to a stop right landing on top of a pile of trash and human feces.

My eyes stung from such a cancerous sight witnessing something so pristine being ruined by the human filth around me. What then struck me as most odd was the perfect condition of the bus. It was in splendid shape for a bus in Mercator, more and unlike any of the buses I had seen in their fleet before.

I rose from my creaky seat with my briefcase grasped tightly.

The bus was painted white with black stripes along the sides with no marks The windows like all Sparrow Transport ones were heavily tinted. The electronic sign at the top of the bus flashed “M-Line”. The bus pressed the breaks, stopping right in front of me.

My watch beeped at 11:45 pm.

The bus was right on time.

The exhaust flowed out of the pipe, much like my breath did from my mouth while I waited for the bus door to open. The idling engine vibrated with an eagerness that was becoming uncanny. Something about this thing set off an alarm in my head the same way right before an ambush.

Yet…I could extract no assumptions. There was nothing but unknowns hiding on this bus.

My thoughts were cut away, as the air brakes adjusted with a loud hissing as the hydraulics lowered the bus down a few inches in front of me. I awaited the opening of the doors to see the person who would drive me to my fate.

The door whooshed back to reveal a woman sitting at the helm of the wheel. The light above her was not working and the rest of the lights did not provide enough coverage to illuminate her in detail. She was cloaked in shadows.

A surprise of tingles sparked all around my mind at the sight of a supposedly normal woman of average height and weight. She was ordinary in appearance, yet something felt much more uneasy, and bizarrely formidable. This woman would not have blended into a crowd of people, because there was something so uncharacteristically off about her – it set her apart from everyone else without giving away a reason for why. I felt a signal of danger ruin up my spine, but I could not pin exactly why!

She had no apparent weapon compared to the syndicate bus drivers I was used to seeing on this route.

The woman wore a black velvet vest and a baker boy hat of the same color. Her white button-up was spotless and her black dress pants were wrinkle-free. Nothing seemed worn down, including her glove hands, which must have gripped the steering wheel for hours without a break. Pinned to the side of her hat was a silver letter M. Her curls bounced under her hat as she tilted her head to the side without looking directly at me.

“Your feet will get cold Sir if you don’t step right up,” she said.

I shuddered. Her face was masked in the shadows of her hat and I could not see her eyes…Yet I still felt her gazing at me.

I did not move one step. Not an inch.

For the first time in years of flawless execution, I hesitated, feeling a thick pressure stuck in the air around me. My legs were immobile, not responding to my intentions in the least. My head felt dizzy as if the outside fog had entered my brain. 

Nothing felt right, not this woman or this bus.

The brim of the bus driver’s hat prevented me from seeing her eyes, yet I felt them again staring at me like two bullets penetrating my chest – it was unruly and insufferable. I was being choked. The whole situation delved into an ineffable category of experience that I could not understand. 

What the hell was going on with this midnight bus ride?

“If you delay any longer – Sir – you will find nothing at your inquiry.” She spoke louder than before.

“Right.” I responded, squeezing the hand of the briefcase. 

I had to gain control of myself before this imbecile of a woman got the best of me. She called it an inquiry, not a destination – how odd and inaccurate. There was no inquiry or further questions to be had as I knew my destination once I called my employer to confirm I finished what I set out to find.

I stepped forward and passed her, yet not two steps later she spoke.

“We will have one additional stop along the way tonight.” she stated.

I stopped. Anger slid up into my throat and the fear I felt subsided as discontent boiled inside me. I turned around.

Departure leads to only one place. There could be no more stops but one more for me The Warehouse. Every Syndicate bus driver knew this – no exceptions.

The reason why I felt so betrayed was that I always arrived on time. That is part of my contract.

“Pardon me, Miss –”

“Call me Mary.” she said, having turned back around.

She looked at me through the bus driver’s mirror. I still could see no eyes.

“Mary – this stop is the second to last stop. The last one is The Syndicate Warehouse at Wilhelm’s Junction where this bus is stored for the night. So what other damn stops do you mean?”

My response was met with a mere smile in the mirror as I stood there impatiently, one hand gripping handrail to prevent my hand from flying at her face and the other guarding the briefcase.

Mary had a coy and cold smile that cut me somewhere in the murky thoughts better left abandoned by most sane people. What was disturbing about it was that it felt like mine.

Who the hell was she?

I did not recognize her as a competing assassin or knew any description about Syndicate affiliates. Only the ones with nothing left to lose would choose to work for a bloody organization as this one.

“You must become used to the last-minute deviations, good Sir. This is the new M-Line express bus. We adjust, we alter, and we update to changing schedules.” 

M-Line Express – what kind of express bus takes more stops? There was no mention of that from anyone in the Syndicate. It was unlike the Barrow Brothers to play tricks on him. Words were how the two Barrows made an empire. Their hunters were the least to receive any kind of deceit. That type of code was what I respected most from them. They lied to their customers, to the public, to the police, to their wives and kids, but never to me. They relied on brutal force to command the Syndicate.

I frowned in agitation and she took an acute notice.

“But do not worry. The stop is a short one – it will not delay your arrival at your destination.” Mary said.

I was appalled by the change to my route without notice!

I looked at the back of Mary’s head with scorn, then turned around, thinking better letting anger get a hold of me. Indulgence in passions has no place in my rules of conduct and engagement. Yet something was pissing me off about this situation to warrant this much arousal of reaction.

First it was fear that held me back, now it was anger. Mary was upsetting my mind – my very process of thinking and behaving.

I took a breath and I walked on, down the corridor of the bus. As I was looking for an appropriate seat, an observation struck me. I somehow failed to perceive it when I entered. The overhead lighting was unnatural. It muted the colors of the bus. All vibrate tones were melted, dissolved, and vaporized away to a state of bleakness. There was nothing but shades of gray on this bus.

But that simply could not be – color can not disappear!

I wiped my face with a cloth I pulled from my coat pocket.

I concluded my mind was simply playing tricks on me. I took a seat at the very back of the bus. I chose the middle of the aisle and placed my briefcase on my lap. The bus driver closed the doors and I felt a pressure swell in my chest and I felt like I walked straight into prison.

The bus began to roll forward as the release of the brakes gave out a horrid scream, which was striking as the bus looked new, however the sound indicated the bus was being used frequently.

My nerves felt frayed every passing second. I looked out the window to see nothing but fog, which worried me that Mary would drive slowly to be cautious.

The bus was rolling smoothly until it began to jerk. The change of gears was audible and we accelerated faster and faster as if Mary did not know how to read a speedometer.

I cracked a sarcastic smile at this madness. It seemed Mary did not care to exercise caution or less sense than I did on the most riskiest contracts. The bus swayed back and forth from the gusting of the wind the faster we accelerated. It caused me to drift from side to side, making it difficult to fight against the momentum. The frame and the wheels bounced up and down harder than a careful driver should care about. The worst of the sounds was the vibration underneath me.

I planted my feet down firm and looked ahead as I held on to counter the shaking of the bus. No normal vehicle could sound as loud as an airplane engine. No normal transit bus could go at this speed for very long in these conditions without crashing. Nothing made sense as all these noises scraped across my ears. I looked forward to what Mary was doing – wondering at how she could be driving with this madness?

Yet, I could not see properly. I put my hand in front of my face and it became distorted. Not my vision, but my hand became distorted.

The entirety of the bus seemed to stretch like a rubber band in another strange illusion. This madness! What is going on! I squeezed my eyes shut.

Something was terribly wrong.

I clenched my hand to my chest.

It felt like an invisible hand twisting and crushing my organs. I felt held them ready with anticipation to rip them all out in one swift motion. I could barely focus on anything. All the previous times I removed pain from my mind worked. I ignored massive amounts of crippling pain from being shot, stabbed, electrocuted, beaten, hit by cars, slammed into walls, ripped tendons, tore muscles, burned, froze, and even falling ten stories onto ground. There was nothing I could not overcome!

And yet this pain was different. I held my skull with both hands, careful to keep a hold of my briefcase.

“Aaaahhhhggg!” I let a moan of pain out.

My skull felt as if it was being cut into, agonizingly slow. It pounded at my brain and I saw flashes of light. I could no longer control the rest of my body. My mind began a journey of infinite branching thoughts while my feet fused with the floor. Every sudden movement of the bus changed and that action caused a new type of pain. It drilled into every nerve in every part of my body. It burned and itched unlike anything I could fathom.

If this torture continues I would surely black out!

And then it was all gone.

I opened my eyes again and blinked a few times to be sure what I was seeing.

Everything was as typical as it was before. The grayness of the light was unchanged. The bus looked normal. Mary was driving. The bus was not shaking anymore nor was it louder than a typical diesel engine vehicle.

I truly was going mad. I refused to believe those shit filled rumors! It could not be true. I would accept myself as insane before that fiction became true.

I needed to focus on the present and tune myself internally to the precise feelings required to keep a level head. I needed to remember the training the Barrow Brothers gave me when I was young: ignore outside influence. No matter what kind of influence. The mind is power.

I tried to shake off this sick feeling, but when my eyes strayed to the window I became enthralled at another sight that went unnoticed until this second.

If not for the fog I should have seen the outskirts of the city as we passed into the heart of the industrial park. Currently, beyond the fog there faint lights which should be the warehouses and a few operating metal refineries. My brow furrowed in thought about what stop was about to be made. There was no where on the road to stop with all the chain link fences around.

I glanced back to the interior display that showed the name of the stops blinked, alternating from the words, “M-Line” to dashes “—”. There was no location because there was no such bus stop, unless you count being in limbo.

No sooner than I had this thought and the brakes squealed.

I felt the same stretching force as before. I felt my mind retreat out of my skull as we slowed. I held my arms to my body to keep from vomiting up my organs. I was powerless to feel anything but agony – there was no method to block this kind of pain. Time became uncountable to me – I was unaware of how long it was until we stopped to a jerking halt. I gripped the seat in front of me to steady myself.

I looked at my watch to dissolve my confusion. What a mistake. It increased my disorientation as I discovered it had stopped working. My watch froze at 11:55. The digital display was stuck blinking at midnight. No button I pressed could reset it. I used its precision every day. It was a durable brand and I was sure it was working properly.

I looked back out the window.

The fog obscured any sight more than a foot away. There was no way Mary could see the road while she drove.

She pressed a lever to open the door. I heard the air rush out as it opened and felt an icy touch run down my spine like the cold air had entered the bus door and snaked its way right to me.

My eyes waited for someone to walk up the steps. Who would step forward at this time of night – someone like me or someone like Mary?

I waited.

No one had entered.

I rose to peek at the door and see beyond the angle of steps as Mary was staring at something.

Then the bus wobbled as if someone had gotten on. An immense weight pressed down on the tires as it shifted. My eyes darted everywhere, yet my mind went nowhere, wondering how this could be? Who got on?

Again the bus shook the right, then the left, and again right as if something was taking slow steps through the aisle without being visible.

The bus shook hard down, then up to such a degree it caused me to fall back in my seat. Whatever that invisible force was, it must have sat down. 

This whole thing was unreal! 

If Mary was human – by all means – she should have let a shriek out. Her posture was unfazed. Mary shut the doors, released the breaks, and the bus rolled onward.

I braced myself for the pain and it came pouring into me like a waterfall of electricity and searing hot needles. However this time I embraced the pain as I clasped my hands to my face. I allowed it to enter my concentration and accepted there was no escape from it. It was here to stay and I would no longer run. I took a breath and slowly it became bearable.

There had to be some reasonable explanation for all this?

Drugs, dreams, dementia – something rational. From between my fingers. I saw my briefcase slide to the side of the bus, balanced on the edge of the seat. I slid over to grab it, when I thoughtlessly looked at the window and saw something shining. I shifted myself over in a curiosity that was unlike me. The white wisps of fog flowed around the bus forming raindrops on the windows. Some drops hung tightly onto the window, while others streamed together, pushed along by the wind. They collected into larger streams that ran across the whole of the bus until the wind tore it off into the void of darkness and fog.

It was then I noticed a particular raindrop that had stopped near my line of sight.

My head drifted forward, leaning on the cold glass, my eye almost touching the transparent surface. I stared into the world of the droplet. There in the reflection of the droplet was me upside down. Much like the mirrors in the grocery store that seemed to go on infinitely, the drop of water reflected me, but I was able to see my reflected eye that reflected the window again reflecting the droplet in a never-ending cascade of myself watching myself. I should not be able to see that far – not without a microscope, but I kept falling down in an endless spiral that kept repeating even after I closed my eyes. It created a sense of worthlessness inside me.

A throbbing migraine exploded all over my head. It struck like a hammer to all sides of my head. It rang and echoed inside my mind. The pinching of all my nerves felt like it was beyond what a human could conceive of feeling even in the most horrid torture’s. This was worse than when the bus changed speeds.

I shook my head back and forth trying to get a hold of myself. Then, I heard them. There were voices indisputably screaming in all directions. I heard them all. Everyone I killed. Every life I snuffed out. I felt the moments of terror they had right before death. Flashes of memories that were not mine, yet infiltrated my head as if I was living them.

I should not be hearing these voices who all screamed for vengeance or mercy and all begged of me to have repent with guilt. However there was nothing in my heart I could deliver to them. I could only pity them for being weak.

I care not for torture. I have only two rules in my contract that I have always abided by: that I will always be on time and that I will not waste time on torturing when I can simply kill.

If a Contract specifies it I did not hesitate to kill animals or children. That did not matter me, but I would never agree to a prolong torture as it served no benefit. I did not find pleasure in killing them anymore than an adult who deserved to die as much as I – I simply did not care about their lives lives, not when there was a job to do.

Let society call me a psychopath with an apathetic view of life.

I care not for the feelings of others and I erase others’ existence without remorse. I am arrogant and proud of how great a killer I am. Life should be lived without regrets as death comes swift and without warning. I get my pleasure from knowing I am the best assassin born to this world.

Forget the voices Rodger!

I opened my eyes to see that I was laying on the floor of the bus between the rows of seats. I took a mental note to not look at the windows anymore. Whatever was outside when the bus moved – it did not want me to see it.

I pushed myself up back onto the seat and regained composure. I tried to reach for my briefcase, but felt nothing in the seat beside me. It was not there. A burst of apprehension sent me to the floor to find it!

That briefcase contained a part of me. I got on my knees and hands and looked around until I finally spotted it. My precious cargo slid down the walkway. Despite the nausea still present in my mind, I walked towards it with caution.

That thing was there ahead of me and Mary drove without notice to my derangement.

I could not describe to myself how I knew my briefcase was near that thing, but I knew. I was without prior knowledge that would give me an understanding of what to do – or how to react to this threat. I know how humans think, how they act, and how to disguise myself like them. I could not guess if this thing was humanoid shaped or was something more hideous to imagine.

I was one step away when the briefcase left the ground. I arched my back and was about to reach for it, when it rose into the air in front of me with nothing seemingly attached. A readiness to fight gathered inside my chest. I clenched my fists ready to kill however the means. I was willing to die, but not right now, not here.

I watched tensely, but no action happened. Instead, a feeling rushed from my head down to my feet and caused me to relax.

My briefcase floated towards me. When it was within reach, I held out my hand to grasp it. The handle landed in my hand and I let it slowly fall back to my side. I stood like an imbecile wondering what to do next.

“Thank you,” I said, letting the words slip out of my mouth.

I never meant it beforehand. Not truly so. I say it for the sake of human interaction. Even then it is a signal devoid of emotion and simply a flattery. It tasted so unfamiliar this time around because I meant it. I needed the briefcase delivered.

“You are most welcome.” a voice said inside my head.

A shiver then went through my body as I heard that voice. No sound emanated from any place in the air, yet I felt it squeezing into my brain. Those words were not spoken in English, let alone a human-constructed language. Unbelievably, I understood them, yet could not repeat them or even remember them. I had simply gotten the gist of the meaning.

I felt the bus slow down and the same pain and confusion impaled me. This time around, the jarring interaction was dulling as if I had acclimated to the feeling or perhaps the bus itself caused me less anguish for being nice to a creature of unspeakable name.

The bus came to a stop and the door opened, letting the wisps of fog flow back inside. The air was cold and empty and smelled of nothing. I waited, standing still to bear witness to the invisible passenger disembark. I was rocked back and forth by the motion as the creature moved. With the last wiggle of the bus, the wheels decompressed, relieved of the extra weight.  

I looked out the door and saw the same dense wall of fog. The only indication something exited was a disturbance in the fog, which divided and then rushed back together like flowing water. I saw no ground nor sky, only fog.

A world of fog. Limbo.

With the closing of the door, I was alone again. Mary revved the engine sending the bus on its way. I took a step right behind Mary.

I expected to see headlights scatter somewhere in the mist, yet there was nothing but darkness, not one light. I turned to the side of the and saw fog wrapping around the bus as before. Any amount of comprehension of how this bus worked went out the window and was sucked into the window since the last stop.

Unlike the other times, I felt no mental or physical upheaval while the bus had accelerated. There was another feeling that must have overtaken it. It was a heaviness like gravity around Mary. When standing near her everything felt staggeringly difficult to comprehend, but it was calming nonetheless. I misunderstood when I met her or rather I misinterpreted it.

This new feeling of intrigue for Mary kept me grounded in constant curiosity, rather than falling into a never ending hole of insanity. She was certainly someone to fear, yet I felt it was not outwardly her intention to scare. There was a beast lurking below that tipped hat and a clever one at that.

“Where am I?” I asked her.

“The M-Line Express, of course.” she says, keeping her eyes forward into the darkness.

She held the wheel like any other bus driver and turned every so often despite no change in direction within the darkness. Everything felt static from this perspective. I could not discern if the bus was moving or everything around us was shifting away behind us – I could not conceptualize any answer as being the correct one.

“Right,” I say, stunned for words, “but where exactly am I?”

I looked into the vastness of the inky sky beyond the windshield.

“You are on a bus. You are exactly where I need you to be.”

Pierce Barrow. Quinton Barrow. The Syndicate. I needed to be there and yet I felt compelled to talk to her. I felt feeble in this bus and vulnerable in her presence.

“I was wrong.” I finally let it roll off my tongue.

“About what?” she asked and glance at her side.

Her eyes remained hidden behind the brim of her hat, but this time I saw more of her features and I felt a tingle throughout my body again. Her face was normal enough, a little pulp, yet a very fair degree of beauty for an apparent middle aged woman. 

I felt that stare again. This time it was friendly and without the force behind it as before. There was no need to hold back my mind on hesitations of trust, for there was no need for any at this point.

Mary could see right into me.

“My certainty is born of my confidence. I was wrong about that.” 

“That is a strong emotion to be wrong about. I am glad that realization came to you. One should always be humble on this bus. For that is how you get to your proper destination.” Mary stated.

A mad grin overcame me. My disdain for her should have tripled by now. In no way had the despicable freaks of my world disturbed me as much as those who distorted reality with foolishness. Then there were people like Mary who were conceited enough to judge me as if they were a god. Those are the ones I absolutely loathe.

Everyone had a boss. Mine are the Barrow Brothers, whom I made my first contract with and while I respect them, listen to them, and are indebted to them, yet they were not above me.

Mary was different. I now accepted how insignificant I was compared to her. This midnight bus ride had broken the unbreakable will of mine. I have finally submitted to her authority and her power.

“I have always been chained to my destiny. This was to be my last stop. It was to be unavoidable and absolute because of who I am.” I answered, “Now you say there is a proper destination other than the fate that lies at the Warehouse?”

I started recalling incident after incident that led me here, to a midnight ride among the spirals of time and space. This bus did not look like a spaceship, but it was as much one, which meant Mary had to be some type of alien.

“The confidence of one who does not falter, will at some point meet an unsurprising end. You are meant for more then that.” Mary commented as she turned the bus wheel of space between time.

I was hoping to see more than a nightfall of murkiness

“How do you know anything about me?” I asked with intrigue.

“I learn approximately enough about everything I come across. Including a set of facts about you that not even you know. – I am a great researcher.” she said slyly.

“How can you know more about me than me? Know about my past, my thoughts, and my memories?”

Her head moved back and forth as if she was mulling something of great importance in her mind before answering, “It would be too much effort to explain how. Just know that I travel to many places and talk to many beings. Yet each time there is something different in that experience. The same stories are told differently each time. I can never get enough of it to fill…complete.”

“How empathetic of you to indulge us lowly ones with mere conversation.”

She smiled lovingly and said, “It’s not empathy, it’s self satisfaction. I love to indulge in a good story. One look at you is all I need to know you are a hunter like me.”

“And I thought I was the arrogant one.”

She held a hand to her mouth as she giggled while keeping the other on the wheel.

“What a flippant tongue you have, but I admit, I am indeed quite arrogant. I steal the time of others to collect a set of all possible facts. All I am is a bus driver who has too much time to think.”

What absurdity! To know that I was kidnapped by something so utterly bizarre! How wrong I was about magic and mystery. Life is truly strange.

“What of these other passengers? What was that shapeless form?” I asked, intrigued. 

“Many get on this bus. Some from far away places. I talked to them too. That is all.” she answered briefly.

“Was there specific information you needed to observe from me? Is the Warehouse my true destination? Am I already dead?” I asked impulsively.

“Yes, like many who come on this bus. You will arrive at the stop you want to arrive at. And no – not yet.” Mary answered succinctly. 

I was ready and set to send another barrage of questions for her, but I held my tongue to think about what I should ask. Never in my life was I this inconsolable, this uncontrollable. Even as a kid I had more restraint.

“Why drive this bus, Mary? With your power you could do so much more than a traveling scholar.” I asked with a final line of questioning.

A few seconds eclipsed before she answered.

“I still search for things that others have and I don’t. Just a bite of true knowledge is what I am after, even if it takes forever. My power is a means to find the answers that I seek.”

“How quaint.” I said.

There were infinite possibilities for Mary – potential cosmic domination and yet, she chose to drive a bus. That was a farce beyond comprehension. 

“Now that’s funny coming from someone who works not for money or power, rather solely because you reduced your own destiny to one path.” she commented sharply.

I shook my head wondering where the conversation was going.

“Mary, can’t you see my future from my past? I had little free will, but the will to make contracts, so I did. My usefulness as a killer convinced me that I was only good at killing. Is it not a natural conclusion to maximize my purpose?”

“I see the past and the future in many possibilities. You mistake my power. I am not a clairvoyant, rather a statistician.”

“Then what do the other possibilities say?”

“In many possible worlds like this one destiny marked you as a cunning beast among innocent sheep, however in many other worlds you had a more fruitful upbringing where you excelled in businesses. Other worlds you even held the reigns of power in politics for better or for worse.”

I shook my head, thinking how odd of an outcome for those other Rodger’s.

“I can only speak for this Rodger. I am a hunter second and a perfectionist first. I have continued to live for and will die for the completion of my contracts because they are the only thing I value in life. Human life. Family. Friends. Companionship. Pets. None of those things mean anything to me.”

“Then what drives you to make the contract to kill in the first place? What makes this Rodger so good at killing?” Mary asked, amused.

She must have already known my answer and was only toying with me or maybe she was being literal with her words on gaining knowledge through conversation. Possibly a prerequisite for her power required me to talk while she examined my mind. Regardless, I am compelled to talk with her as if I bumped into an old friend on the street.

I stared right at Mary as she drove along the invisible highway thinking about how she knows so much. A silence filled the air as I now felt Mary’s presence permeate throughout the bus as if to goad me to keep talking. Would it be necessary to continue this conversation to sort through such a disgusting history?

“I would very much like to hear it from your own mouth.” she answered my thought for me, “there is more down there in the well of your mind.”

“Very well.” I said looking forward into the darkness, “I was born in the Warehouse the Syndicate now uses as their main operating location. It was abandoned decades before it started to be inhabited by two pathetic humans. They deranged drug addicts that broke in and squatted in that filthy basement. One was a weapons smuggler with outstanding warrants for murder and the other was a prostitute born herself from sex trafficking. They could hardly be called parents let alone a couple, yet they were responsible for my birth. As I recall both used each other and hated each other, but they benefited from a partnership no one else desired of them.

“So there was a lack of nurture in this world.” Mary stated without a smile.

I had a hunch she had little capacity to feel empathy. We both entertain others by mimicking emotions and reacting the way we think others want us to act. Mary took my story seriously, if anything meant she was interested in how my mind worked like a clockmaker diagnosing a broken clock.

“How could I not become a killer? The only nurturing I received was torture and abuse – the concept of love did not exist for me. I was beaten to obey and forcibly trained to steal and lie all the sake for my vile parents. I was the unsuspecting delivery boy for drugs and used as a distraction for their crimes. I came to know physical pain well in my early memories. And after one brutal beating, I killed both of them with one of their guns. I was six years old and I had enough. For a year, I killed anyone trying to exploit me and had a good aim for my age. I learned to survive like an animal until Pierce and Quinton Barrow found me.”

“And thus born was your infamous contract.”

“Yes. They understood me to an extent. They saw like all who met me that they could use me, but they treated me as an equal. They were savage monsters themselves, but they made a deal with the devil for even more power.”

“And you believed yourself to be the devil.” Mary commented.

“Of course! I was inspecting being so young, yet so ready to kill without crying or being upset. They taught me to negotiate and find leverage in deals in the underground. They taught me logic where I was only instinct. I was paid, fed, and learned how to properly use a gun. They even loaned me their prized father’s gun. In exchange I worked for them until I repaid my cost incurred to them. I was free to leave the organization after that.”

“It’s never that easy is it? To complete a final task in a brutal world like yours.”

I felt Mary’s longing to finish her own task. My own was comparably easier than hers seem to be.

“No. It is never that easy.” I continued, “Five years ago the Barrow Brothers split the organization in half over a dispute. Each contracted with me time and time again. They both wanted complete control over their father’s empire, but unlike the betrayal of their uncle by their father, they each stopped before a fight would end with the death of one of them – there one weakness caring for each other. After each contract ended, they were left with less personal, less money, and less control, so they made a truce last year and decided I needed to die.

Mary stared at the briefcase with a deathly smile.

I felt an eagerness growing all around me as if Mary mentally motioned for me to keep going with my life’s story, “Whoever contracted with me, held an advantage as I was impossible to stop, but my limits were the rules of my contract. The Barrow Brothers grew afraid of who I would contract after I paid them back and put aside their rivalry. So as I gathered more information about it, they had completed one last objective, which is inside this briefcase.”

I held it up to her line of sight. By now I already suspected she knew the two objects that were inside.

“Then why not go on the run?” Mary asked, “You would win until the last body falls. Why return to this obvious trap? Is a contract truly your only way of thinking about the world?”

My guiding desire outside the contract was to live on, becoming a more skillful hunter, until I can no longer. A contract is a method to live by that ideal. I make contracts to become a better killer in the same way a writer becomes a better writer, page by page, word by word.

“I simply act without any means to an end. I do as I do because it is so already done. The only free will I have is to make contracts. The first contract came with three guarantees. One – to return their father’s gun. Two – never kill them so long as I worked for them. And three – was to always sit down and eat a meal when asked.”

Mary paused and then let out a nearly uncontrollable laugh as she leaned back. Through the darkness I had no idea if we could run into something, but I was glad the bus did not move erratically as her eyes were not on the road.

“When you say it aloud. It sounds so ridiculous! Now that is an interesting story!” Mary let the last few giggles out.

I looked at her with a vexed expression of wonder, hypnotized at having delighted a god.

“The Barrow brothers were fond of family diners. A strict tradition set up by their father. During the meal, they were going to poison me before I returned their gun and left the Syndicate.

“Would the killing of you contradict the contract you made with them to not kill them? Is there not an implicit reciprocal understanding to that promise. Why promise what the others can not do themselves?”

“Because it is a testament to my values not to give in to breaking the contract under any circumstances. I would win the moral battle, even if I die. That is integrity.”

“Ok. Socrates.” Mary joked.

My eyebrows raised at the humor.

“You are fundamentalist on morals. You live to kill. You never betray a contract. It does seem you are trapped by your own rules. What to do?” Mary said playfully.

“I can only do as I can do. Return to the Warehouse, eat a well cooked dinner, and die.” I said, wondering where this was going.

“Let’s say, hypothetically. The Barrow Brothers died. You did not have anything to do with it. What then? What would the great hunter Roger Wilhelm do?”

I looked at the ceiling bus. It was quite normal. Nothing about it looked abnormal besides the fact everything was black and white. I had forgotten the colors of reality were gone…or perhaps I did not care. What had color done for me? I was still Rodger with or without it. It meant nothing to me.

“To be honest. I really had no plans. If I contract to kill a target, I have a hundred plans. But to be free of being a hunter. I am not really sure. All I could think was going to eat and have a drink of late night coffee at a place I had never been to.” I said with a smile.

It was odd. That single thought brought me almost as much joy as fulfilling a contract. For the first time in life I felt a pain of regret for a future that could not happen.

“You are quite remarkable.” Mary said.

“You and me both.”

“Close your eyes and I will drop you off at your stop at the right time.”

It seemed our chat was over. She must have had her fill of tales tonight. I hoped my watch would start working at 11:55 pm because I needed 5 minutes to get to the gate where the Barrow Brothers were to meet me.

I shifted into place, held onto the pole next to me and closed my eyes as I was told. A light shone in front of me, strong enough to bother me even when my eyes were closed. Right away the bus lurched forward as Mary pressed the brakes. The screeching was as loud as before and the hum that I heard before suddenly became audible as if earplugs had popped out of my ears. A few seconds later the hum died down, the bus slowed to a crawl and I opened my eyes again.

I was back to normality, but in the wrong place. Outside the windshield was the Departure bus stop. The city looked as it was when I left, although the color was missing since the bus world had greyed my vision.

“This is your stop, Sir.” She said, gesturing with her hand to the door.

Outside there was no longer any fog. It had vanished as if it had never existed in the first place which was odd, because with a beep of my watch it showed me it was 11:55 pm. Ten minutes ago there was a lot of fog.

The bus door opened for me to get out. Yet again, I hesitated.

“I can not. I must return to the Warehouse Mary. My contract.” I pleaded and touched her arm.

She did not react nor move. I dared touch her, knowing that she could find bloodlust at any second and kill me. But in that case I would lose against a much stronger hunter. That outcome was one I was willing to die for, but not one where I could not complete my contract.

Mary gently pushed my arm away and staggered back. I swallowed a mouthful of spite that had been uncomfortably building up. At this moment I was utterly pathetic. I was no hunter, only a prey. I could not kill Mary. I could not run away.

“Please Mary…Help me.” I uttered painfully low so as to not hear myself say it.

When I blinked I saw her open her palm to show me two gold rings that she held on her gloves. Both of them had blood splattered on them. I looked at them closely with horror. Etched in beautiful ornamental designs with diamonds studding, the words “Pierce” on one and “Quinton” on the other. Each brother had the ring of their brother. A promise bestowed from the father to his two sons not to make the same judgement he did to his own brother.

“Think of it as fate if you wish. All those you lives you ended had their own promises to keep, yet now they are shattered. A contract can be breached for any reason – its power is comes from the mutual belief between its parties. Yours would be completed upon return of the briefcase, yet broken in spirit when they kill you. Values make the person, but they can also kill the person. Sometimes it may be better to ask for help when you can not decided what to do.” Mary said and cast the rings out the door.

With a small clang they bounced onto the filth lined streets of Humpleton and came to a stop under a dim light pole. Two sparkles shone where they lay. I walked out the door of the bus and onto the sidewalk.

I looked at the rings once more under the light, then back to Mary who had the door still open.

“Just like that,” I said, looking at her wide eyed.

Her hat still prevented any view of her eyes – for the best I thought. Those eyes might be infinite in depth.

“Yes. Just like that. You are free to live whatever life the new Rodger wants to live. Good or bad or somewhere in-between.” she responded.

I simply could not believe it. She had killed both of them. Probably the entire Syndicate in a blink of an eye. The entire Warehouse must be flooded with blood right now.

I put my briefcase on the ground and snapped back the two combination turn locks. Carefully I opened the case. Inside was compact foam that helped hold two items in place. One was a gun with a suppressor on it – Nolan Barrow, the father of the Barrow brothers. The second was an apple. A lustrous, red apple. I took out the sinful fruit, closed back up my briefcase, then stood up.

I tossed the apple to Mary, who caught it with her gloved hand effortlessly.

“This apple represents all my life’s work. It took thirty-five years for a mad, but now dead genius to make and a year for me to locate. It is worth 4.98 billion in black market research.” I said.

She turned it around with her fingers like it was a precious jewel to be admired. I thought I caught a glimpse of her eyes, which were dark as space, yet glowed white around the edges like the glow of a black hole.

Mary gripped it and recognized what it was, then took a bite of my poison apple. A poison that is unnoticeable and unidentifiable. The Barrow brothers wanted to make sure it was not used on them. It was a perfect opportunity for them to use it on me at the same time. I wondered if she could taste the color of my experience?

“What do you taste?” I ask, hands in my pocket.

I waited for a grand answer, hoping for everything, yet knowing that it would be less than she would actually reveal. 

“It was what I expected, but it wasn’t enough.” she said with a most curious smile.

“Will you continue to drive?”

“My observations are always accurate, yet each one leads to another. No matter how precise I reassemble my facts, I always miss something – another one out of reach beyond me like pulling on infinite strings all webbed together. I guess I will keep going until I am truly satisfied.” 

“You may have a long road to travel.”

“And so my story keeps going on.”

“Mary. Thank you.” I said with a type of sincerity that I did not think existed in me.

Mary tilted her hat in acknowledgement.

“It’s what you don’t know that guides your fate. Live more, explore, ask questions, and don’t be boxed into only one way of thinking. You are more than that. Most are.” Mary said right as the bus door closed.

I watched the bus roll normally down the street until it went through a wall of fog further down the street that had not been there before. Then it disappeared from this reality.

I now realized that I can no longer sit back in the past and observe myself acting in the present, not when the future possibilities are soon to appear. There was much to plan and consider.

I turn on my heel, scraping against some gum that was spit carelessly on the concrete. I walk away from thinking that I was the joke here.

The shadows cast on me were the same as before. I stepped in the same garbage and saw the same wall art vandalized on buildings, but it was all different. The color had deepened and become enriched in life. The anomaly that was the Midnight-Line awoke something inside me – a realization to the many other threads of destiny.

The world will have to figure out if that is a good or bad thing, but this is no longer my last stop. I am back from an old Departure and arrived at a new Appointment. I, Rodger Wilhelm, will find something else to hunt in life and live another day.