The swaying of the old bus, like ocean waves, rocked her back and forth. A screech rent the air, puncturing Dolly's dream. Her eyes flew open. The ancient vehicle swerved and skidded.
The young woman grabbed her child as he started to tumble from her lap. "My God, we gonna crash!" she cried. The boy began to wail. Passengers cried out as the bus jerked to a violent stop. Dolly lurched sideways into the woman next to her.
Before she could apologize, a man in front of her jumped to his feet. "A holdup! They shot out the front wheel!" Shouts and exclamations died to whispers as a ragged troupe of three men in sack masks boarded. One of them aimed a pistol at the driver's head. "All your money. Don't fight." He jabbed the gun at the driver for emphasis. "I ain't afraid to shoot." His two sidekicks loomed behind him. One of them spat a wad of chew onto the floor and drew a filthy hand across the mouth hole of his mask.
"Tent Towners or my name's not Rosie," Dolly's seatmate whispered. "Lookit them masks. Reminds me of the incident at Market last week. One guy got himself kilt and..." The young mother gasped and clutched her boy so tightly that he whimpered and squirmed. A man behind them reached forward and poked Rosie in the shoulder. "Shhh!"
A drumbeat pulse pounded Dolly's temples. She glanced around. Round eyes filled blanched faces. A young man wearing a clerical collar moved his lips silently.
"I...I can't open the strongbox," the driver quavered.
"Well then, we'll help you, won't we, boys?" the leader growled, aimed at the box by the door and fired. The explosion rocked the vehicle. The bullet blasted through the flimsy tin box, blew a hole through the windshield and shattered the glass. Shards of metal flew outward. Passengers shrieked, heaved themselves on top of screaming children and ducked behind seats. Both Dolly and the mother instinctively pushed the boy to the floor.
Images of Cory and Alyson flashed through Dolly's mind. Something sharp hurled into her shoulder as she hit the floor. Her last memory before she blacked out was of Rosie keening, "Knew it would be an evil day, I did. Saw it in the bones this morning. The runes don't lie..."
*
Blurry shapes as if seen from underwater resolved themselves into a ring of faces. Dolly blinked and tried to sit but hands held her down. "Slowly, dear, not so fast. You'll just faint again."
"Wha-a-a?" Dolly struggled to speak. Where was she? Her left shoulder throbbed. Strips of torn cloth covered her aching shoulder and bound her left arm to her body.
Someone detached himself from the sea of faces by standing up. Dolly's addled mind registered the clerical garb. He said "Your shoulder's injured. It doesn't look serious enough for the hospital but I'm not a doctor." He *. "If the medics can't look at you here, you should go to the clinic."
Several other people lay nearby on coats or blankets, being tended by other passengers. Others huddled in clusters, talking. Dolly recognized some of the regulars. The wrecked bus still sat where it had screeched to a stop. A street officer directed two men carrying someone on a stretcher. The driver?
Memory drifted back. She'd been on her way to work...
"Michael." she croaked. Her throat still scratched from the acrid fumes of gunshot. Must contact Michael. They'll all be worried. She tried to sit again.
"Easy," instructed a woman kneeling on Dolly's other side. "You don't want to faint."
Dolly lay back again. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the moans around her. She heard the young priest remark, "I hope they can save the driver. That poor fellow will be lucky if he ever walks again."
The medics finally arrived in a sputtering van. One of them went to the driver while the other began making the rounds. The first medic spread a piece of cloth on the ground, set down his leather bag and took out scissors, a knife and a bottle.
Dolly wanted to crawl under her coat, hide, do anything to escape what she suspected would follow. The medic uncapped the bottle, poured some liquid into a cup and dipped his instruments. Then he brought the cup to the driver's lips, pried open his jaw and poured the contents down the helpless man's throat. She driver coughed and struggled weakly.
A familiar voice called "Preacher, git over here." Rosie lumbered into Dolly's view. Together they held down the driver while the liquor took effect. The driver sagged back down. The medic picked up his knife.
Dolly heard the driver's howls of pain in her dreams for weeks afterward.
