The Ride (short story)

Eric Donavan was nervous as he sat on a bench beneath the worn plastic awning of a bus-stop shelter. It was just after midnight and clouds hung still and thick in the dark sky, so that few stars could be seen. The moon was full, and a shaft of light penetrated the gloom, illuminating dark splotches on the tops of his shoes.

“I’ve got to get home, where’s the damn bus?” he thought, clenching his fists inside his jeans pockets. A few moments later, he heard the rumble of an engine and watched as the large vehicle rolled toward him at a steady pace. When it had come to a halt, the driver opened the door by pressing a button on the dash, smiled toothily and said, “Just you, huh?”

“Yup.”

Donavan stepped aboard and when he’d paid the required fare into the automated collection-box, took a seat at the very back. There were more passengers than would be considered usual at this hour, but he was lost in his own thoughts and didn’t give it much notice.

As the journey got underway, Donavan tried to calm himself and deal with what had happened a short while before. He’d been to a bar called Dante’s and although he wasn’t usually a drinking man, scorning alcohol as a “crutch of the weak-willed”, tonight was different because he had met a man by the name of Simon Caldwell.

They didn’t move in the same social circles; in fact, if he hadn’t contracted Caldwell’s modest construction firm to renovate the home he shared with his wife, Claudia some months before, they might never have met at all.

The project was going well, with most of the additional rooms complete but Caldwell wanted to discuss some of the finer details of the “party room”. Ordinarily, things like this would be handled in the office, but being a jovial kind of guy, Caldwell insisted they talk about it over drinks.

“Over here, Eric!” Caldwell hollered from a table near the entrance. As always, he wore a boyish, charming smile. His sandy-blonde hair, broad face and sparkling eyes contrasted starkly with Donavan’s high cheekbones and calculating expression.

When Donavan sat down, Caldwell signalled a nearby waitress and looking at his guest, said “So, how’s the import-export business treating you?

“Fairly well, actually. The China trip was quite profitable.”

“Glad to hear it. With what your wife wants to do to this room, you’ll need all the extra cash you can get.

He explained that although work had been going according to schedule (even running ahead of it in some aspects), when it was almost finished, Claudia decided that the whole thing would have to be remodelled. “She keeps saying the space is cold and uninviting.”

“Well, it’s being built for her, so we should give her what she wants,” Donavan replied.

Being the Senior Manager of Eastman’s Trade Emporium, Donavan travelled extensively and often for months at a time. This left Claudia frequently alone, so he had suggested the renovations as a way to occupy her time. In the “party room” she could entertain friends and have a good time.  

For the next two hours or so, while getting his scotch glass topped up at regular intervals, Caldwell laid out all the options for the remodel; which suppliers would give the best deals, the style of window that would let in the most light and so on. Aside from a question every now and then, Donavan said he would rely on the contractor’s better judgement.  

“Well, that’s about it,” Caldwell said finally, “I better be getting home.” He called the waitress over and after settling the bill (he would take none of Donavan’s money, since it was him who decided they’d meet at the bar), rose to his feet slowly, swaying a little as he did.

“Hope a cop doesn’t pull me over tonight, I may have had one too many.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, I’ll walk you out.”

Donavan followed him to the door and once outside, it became clear that he was having trouble keeping his balance. As he walked, Caldwell lurched forward and nearly fell. Donavan quickly stepped beside him and shouldered some of his weight. “Looks like you could use a little help there, buddy.”

“Uh...thanks, Eric,” he slurred, “I don’t think I can drive like this.”

Donavan chuckled strangely, “That won’t be a problem, where are you parked?”

“The lot across the street.”

The men slowly made their way toward the lot and when they came to Caldwell’s black SUV, Donavan took his keys, unlocked the driver’s door and heaved him onto the seat.

“I really appreciate your help. Shouldn’t have had so much to drink, not professional.”

“You know, I think your first lapse in professional ethics was when you started fucking my wife.”

Caldwell stared blankly for several seconds, “Wha...how did you find out?”

“That doesn’t really matter, what’s important is that I did.”

“Look, we didn’t mean to, it’s just that you were gone a lot. She was lonely and—“

“It just happened?”

Suddenly, Donavan drew a large bowie knife from his jacket, its blade glinted with the light of a streetlamp overhead.

“Wait, I’m sorry, I’ll never see her again!

“Unfortunately, as I’m sure you can understand, this concludes our business together.”

Donavan thrust the blade into the contractor’s gut several times, with each stab, Caldwell slumped closer to him. When he pulled the knife back for the last time, blood was flowing freely from the wounds, over the edge of the door frame and onto the street. His eyes were glassy now, the light had left them.

Caldwell’s limp form had bent double, and was about to fall to the ground when Donavan  pushed him roughly back into the seat. He dropped the knife at Caldwell’s feet and popped open the cubbyhole, removing the chamois cloth he found there. Once he’d  cleaned the warm blood from his hands, Donavan stuffed the cloth back into place, shut the door and walked away, leaving the keys in Caldwell’s lap.

He crossed over the street and walked quickly, but as calmly as possible back to his own car, a sleek sedan, which was just around the corner from Dante’s. He wanted to get back to the house. He hadn’t told Claudia where he was going, nor had he decided whether he would reveal that he knew of her infidelity,  he would consider that on the drive home.

He got into his car and tried to start it, but the only response when he turned the key was a grinding metallic sound and a faint sputter from the engine. He tried several more times, but the result was unchanged. Panic overcame Donavan’s mind, “I had this thing serviced a week ago, what the hell is happening?” He was keenly aware that he lacked any mechanical knowledge and realising that just sitting there would do no good, he got out of the car and began to walk.

It had gotten late, so no-one else was around; Donavan moved as if in a trance, his mind devoid of all thought except getting home. By car, that would take thirty minutes, but the trip would be much longer on foot.

Donavan had gone about three blocks when a sudden gust of wind came up, causing discarded cans to rattle softly and a plastic bag to roll like tumbleweed across the deserted tarmac in front of him.

A piece of paper was lifted into the air and smacked Donavan in the stomach, waking him from his stupor. He ripped at it frantically, his first thought was to crumple and throw it away, but then saw the stylised image of a bus printed at the top of the page. Below it, he could just make out the words:

SPEEDI-TRANS BUS LINES

Need a ride? We’ll get you where you’re going. Pick-up every 15 minutes, day or night!

(New route to Riverton beginning 22 October 1989)

He had never heard of the company before but since he hardly ever took buses, it didn’t seem that important. Besides, he could hardly believe his luck in discovering a way home which had not existed the week before. At the bottom of the page he found the depot’s address and was relieved by the realisation that it stood just one block over from where he was. His home was only ten minutes walk from the Riverton Civic Hall and so he moved with purpose toward the Speedi-Trans building.

Now he sat on the bus, contemplating what his story should be when people started to wonder where Simon Caldwell had disappeared to.

While Donavan concocted his alibi, there had been several more stops and though he hadn’t noticed, an elderly black man in a shabby suit was sitting across the aisle, watching him intently.

“It looks like you’ve had a rough night, my friend,” he said in a harsh, rasping whisper.

“Huh? Oh, my car broke down, that’s all,” Donavan replied, smiling uncomfortably.

“That’s a shame, good thing you won’t need any more rides where we’re headed.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’? I don’t know you.”

In answer, the man just laughed. It was a hollow, ugly sound which sent tremors through his thin frame.

  

Donavan looked out the window and saw nothing but deep, unending darkness. He knew they couldn’t be going the right way, because by now they should almost have reached his stop. He got up and walked to the front, grasping the rail bolted to the ceiling for stability.

“Excuse me, driver. This isn’t the way to Riverton.

“Right you are, sir, we’re taking a slight...detour,” he answered without turning his head.

“What? No, you’re going to stop and let me off right now.”

“Afraid I can’t do that, no more stops until we reach our final destination.

“Listen to me, you bastard, I—“

“Oh, stop your whining!” called a woman’s voice in a kind of shrieking sing-song, “You heard the driver, no more stops, we all go together!”

“Now sir, I must insist that you sit down. Safety first.”

In the rear-view mirror, his eyes flashed from hazel to inky white and without warning, Donavan was flung bodily into an empty seat. The engine roared suddenly as the bus began to rapidly gain speed. “Not to worry,” he said with that same toothy grin, “We’re nearly there.”

Donavan shook off the shock of impact and looked ahead; through the windscreen he saw that they were fast approaching a wide tunnel. Above its entrance flashed a massive neon sign with letters of red and gold. The sign’s message was simple, it said: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

 

- End -