Gregory Yates

The rain pattered down on the bus window, tracing tiny droplets of water down the scratched glass surface. Each little bead followed a different pattern, sliding down and joining with other eddies and streams until they were at the bottom, and shaken off onto the road below. It was interesting to watch, in the dim, hazy light of the vehicle – and in between the regular flashes of yellow from the street lamps.

At least, for the moment. The bus was deserted, save for driver and it’s one occupant: a weathered looking man in his mid twenties, dressed in ripped jeans and a long, brown raincoat; both of which were soaked through, and covered in dirt and grime. He’d been in the back seats for the last two hours, staring grimly out the window and clutching a leather backpack to his chest.

It was strange, really. The bus route had already taken them past the city borders, onto the rural roads that winded around the outskirts, and was now nearing at the depot itself. Nobody stayed on this long.

The driver, an old, portly guy with greying hair, leaned over, craning his neck to get a better look at the man in the rear view mirror.

“You alright back there, buddy?” he asked.

The man turned from his window and looked up at him for the first time.

He wasn’t the ragged homeless the driver had expected, though, his hair was messy, and he did look like he could use a shave. There was something else to him. An odd light that shone in his eyes, maybe – or a particular way of staring that suggested more than just a cheap drifter. Either way, it was damn weird.

Weirder still, the man hadn’t replied yet. Instead, he had closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side, apparently deep in thought.

A moment passed, before the man eventually opened his eyes and said something.

“Nah,” he said in a gruff tone, “but I can deal with it okay, thanks.”

The driver laughed. “Nice, buddy, nice. You got a name?”

Again, there was an awkward silence as the man closed his eyes, shutting out the jolting of the bus and the sounds of pounding rain on the windows.

“It’s Jacob,” he muttered after a few seconds. He seemed reluctant to say it.

“Well,” the driver said, glancing at the glowing clock on the dashboard, “It’s two o’clock, Jacob, and this is the last number. You’re gonna have to get off the bus.”

“Can’t I stay on for a little longer? It’s pissing it down out there.”

For a moment, sympathy flashed in the driver’s face. He stared at Jacob sadly, regarding his hopeful expression and wet, unkempt hair. Perhaps he’s hanging on for somewhere to sleep tonight, he thought. Maybe this is the only warmth he’s had all day?

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, focusing once more on the dark, winding roads, and trying to ignore the gnawing feeling of guilt inside him. It didn’t work; the image of the poor man’s pleading eyes still bore into the back of his head, refusing to let it lie.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. He couldn’t keep this up. Fine, he thought, before addressing Jacob once more:

“I’ll wait until we pass someplace with a roof. But that’s the best I can do, y’hear? I can’t let you stay on. I’ll lose my job.”

Jacob merely nodded, turning back to the droplets on the glass and closing his eyes.

---

Ten minutes later, the bus pulled over to the side of the road, grinding to a halt in the hard shoulder. The doors opened with a hissing sound.

"End of the line, buddy. No more stops now."

"Thanks," said Jacob, shouldering his bag and walking down the bus. He stopped for a moment at the end, staring through the window and out into the deluge outside. From what he could make out in the gloom, the vehicle had stopped on a roadside gas station - right in the middle of nowhere. Great, he thought to himself. Just great.

"You are gettin' off now, aren't you?" the driver asked, "I don't wanna have to call the police. That would ruin both our days."

"Yeah, I'm going." Jacob said. He drew his coat tighter around him and stepped off the bus, looking up at the station sign. Last Chance, it read. How fucking appropriate.

"You take care now!" the driver shouted behind him. The doors closed before he could reply, and the vehicle carried on once more down the outskirt roads. Jacob watched the bus recede into the night, until it was just a small pinprick of light in the distance - and then gone.

"Where now..." he muttered to himself, glancing around. There was the station, of course, he could go there. But it looked pretty bad; the pumps were rusted and broken, and the store was little more than a derelict wreck, the owner having long left the place to ruin. There wasn't much chance of a good night's rest there. Though, it beats sleeping rough, Jacob thought.

As if to confirm that decision, there was another roll of thunder, followed by a fresh downpour of rain.

"Last chance it is then," he said, heading for the station.

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