by J.P Jackson
Taylor slammed into something metal, hard. He rolled onto his back and lay there in a state of stunned exhilaration. Sharp pains fired up his chest and he thought he was having a heart attack. It wouldn't surprise him.
"You're fine," he said, filling his lungs. "It's all..." he grimaced. "Good."
He couldn't remember how long he had held onto that drone or how far it had flown him. The only thing Taylor knew for certain was that he was awake, and somehow alive.
Cuts blighted his face, neck and hands. Flat on his back, he was enveloped in an apocalyptic shroud of dust and smoke. Along with a burst ear drum, the holo-lens over his right eye had fused with his cornea, leaving him half blind as well as half deaf. The pain in his joints was constant, and with no concept of night or day, he sat up and felt the steel roof of a yellow school bus that had broken his landing. Nestled between his legs was the now malfunctioning surveillance drone, bleeping and sparking. Taylor swept it aside, along with the glass over his stomach. An excruciating crunch in his right shoulder caused him to shriek. It was dislocated, the nerves shredded. Stinging tears ran from his remaining good eye as he slid across the bus roof. He took his time lowering himself over the hood then gingerly onto the ground. Slumped against the front tire, heard screams and the sound of running footsteps from within the dust cloud, lost in the ghost of the ravaged towers. Taylor padded his way along the side of the bus, coughing up a mixture of blood, phlegm, concrete dust, soot and powdered glass. He felt for the rubber seals of the two doors, and using his good arm, pried them apart far enough to squeeze inside.
The interior was dark and stifling, the windows obscured by a coating of dust. Another cough forced more blood from the corner of Taylor's mouth while he climbed the two steps to the driver's seat, which he promptly flopped into. He wouldn't move, he wouldn't talk, he wouldn't think. Resting his face against the steering wheel, he closed his good eye and drifted away.
"Sir?"
The voice came from behind him. Taylor's eye twitched and he ignored it, it was nothing.
"Is that you sir?"
Taylor blinked and turned his head. Standing obediently behind the white line was a hollow cheeked and malnourished 8 year old boy. The kid was dressed in drab, orphan issue clothing, and he had a buzz cut to prevent the spread of lice. The boy's initial look of relief was replaced with horror as he recoiled from Taylor's gruesome right eyeball.
"It's okay," Taylor murmured, but still the boy drew back, joining 24 other orphans, somehow alive and well in their seats. There were many orphanages in the city and plenty of (mostly immigrant) children to fill them. It was an attractive option for compromised parents and the country would benefit too, having a large crop of workers for the menial jobs of tomorrow.
Taylor was in too much pain to express surprise. "Don't be," he groaned, lurching to his feet, "scared."
One little girl, eyes raw from tears, raised her hand in the murky air. "Are you gonna hurt us, mister?"
Taylor shook his head and the children stared back, breathless, hungry, terrified. Already feeling the burden of responsibility, Taylor turned his eye on the door and considered using it.
"Shite."
Slumping over the wheel, he glanced underneath the steering column to see a key jangling from the ignition. He figured that the driver had fled during an attempted evacuation from the city. Who could blame him?
"Name's Taylor!" he declared, standing to rest against a stainless steel pole. "I'm your new supervisor!" He wobbled before coughing up a vile amalgam into his palm.
"Now kids," he continued, smearing the gunk on his jeans, "before we set off I'd like you all to help Mr. Taylor!"
The meek children peeked up from the seats. "In a few seconds," Taylor panted, "I may pass out. I want you all to know that I am not dead, and that I'll probably wake up very soon. Mr. Taylor would appreciate very much that you turn him onto his side so that he doesn't swallow his tongue."
Several of the kids nodded dumbly while Taylor wrapped his hands around the steel pole. 'Sturdy enough,' he thought.
He rocked himself back and forth, grimacing as he aimed his dislocated shoulder at the bar. "This is going to suck," he hissed, grinding his teeth.
Taylor rammed his shoulder into the pole. The bone popped and he yelped like a wounded dog. The children whimpered and cried as Taylor drifted backwards. He wanted to close his eyes and sink into oblivion, but the sound of the scared children kept him from unconsciousness. He shook his face and slapped his cheeks. "I'm okay," he slurred, inhaling the drool escaping his lips. "I'm okay."
Taylor returned to the driver's seat and took a large breath as he turned the key. The engine rumbled and the dashboard lit up with a reassuring blue glow.
"You are not the assigned supervisor for this vehicle," said a voice from the console. "Identification please?"
"Kids?" Taylor yelled. "What's the name of your last supervisor?"
Despite the unprecedented safety of autonomous transportation, a human supervisor was a legal requirement for all vehicles transporting children, the sick and the elderly.
The same girl raised her hand. "Mr. Oakley. He ran away."
Taylor winked at the girl then directed his voice back at the console. "Mr. Oakley was the assigned supervisor. Unfortunately Mr. Oakley has buggered off, citing the end of the world as reason for his resignation. Now I have children here in an emergency situation, I'm going to need this vehicle operational as soon as possible."
He violently coughed as the bus replied. "This is a public service vehicle, and therefore may only be operated by a public servant."
Taylor pounded his fist against the steering wheel. "I am a public servant! My name is Dr. Hamilton Taylor. Born April 5th 2000. Get fucking moving!"
The bus responded promptly and officiously. "More information is required before authorization can be given, and foul language will not be tolerated."
Taylor sighed over the wheel. "My CIN (Citizens Ident. Number) is 753-104-546. I'm 5'11 and weigh 190 pounds or thereabouts. My blood type is AB positive, my Mother's name is Morag, her maiden name is Ramsey and she has a cat called Squirts. My favourite food is Chicken Vindaloo and my team are Glasgow Rangers. I once met the Queen of England - she smelled like cabbage. I hate onions, enjoy pornography and occasionally - at the court's behest - serve my local community by pruning trees. Start the fucking bus bitch!"
The bus roared into life and Taylor revved the engine. Squinting into the rear view, he was pleased to see some hope in the orphans' eyes, but the weight of that hope caused his hands to shake like a dry junkie. For a second time, he glanced at the door.
"Sack up," he growled, tightening his fingers around the steering wheel.
With full beams blazing and wipers clearing the windshield, Taylor shifted the bus into first and set off through the dust cloud.
Flaming vehicles illuminated the expressway. Taylor burned rubber through the smoldering assault course, ignoring the pleas of panicked pedestrians fleeing the city. His natural tendency was to stop, but a momentary glance at the terrified kids in his rear view was all the reason in the world to keep his foot on the gas.
The crowds grew larger as they neared the city limits, forcing Taylor to slow down. They attacked the windows with fists and bricks, while the more desperate threw themselves or strangers under the tires. Anything to get a spot on the bus. Taylor winced and the kids wailed as the bus rolled over arms, legs and heads, there were many bumps in the road.
A sudden pain in Taylor's shoulder caused him to squirm and grip his throbbing arm. When he glanced up at the road again, he gasped at hundreds of faces caught in the headlamps. The kids were thrown from their seats as the bus slammed into the horde. Despite the revving engine and Taylor putting the hammer down, the bodies seemed to sandwich the bus in place. A legion of fists pounded at the windows, pulled on the doors and rocked the bus back and forth.
"Fuck off!" Taylor screamed. "I got kids here!"
; The children dropped to the floor as the mob heaved the bus on it's left side. Too heavy for them, they backed off as the bus righted itself, cracking the windows inside.
“Stay down!” Taylor yelled back, as more arrived to work over the bus.
Taylor ducked at the steering wheel, racking his brain for a life saving solution. Eye closed, he was yanked out of his thoughts by a soda bottle that had rolled down the aisle and had come to a stop by his heel. He smiled, picked up the bottle and swirled the gassy pop inside. "That'll do."
Taylor felt his bare toes rubbing against his boots and remembered he had left his apartment without any socks. It didn't matter. He would make it work.
He left the drivers seat, got to his knees and faced the whimpering children down the aisle. "Kids!” he yelled, as loud as possible. “Hands up who has the largest feet! Come on now, hands up!"
Two boys with dust smudged faces held up their hands before steadying themselves against the rocking bus. Taylor enthusiastically clapped his hands together. "Boys, I will need to borrow one of your socks! The biggest sock wins! Quick now!"
Everyone hit the floor as once again, the mob heaved the bus onto two wheels. Taylor clung to the steering wheel for balance as he ripped the fire extinguisher from its shelf under the driver's seat. As the bus righted itself again the last of the windows shattered, showering the kids with shards of broken glass.
With the extinguisher tucked under his arm, Taylor scurried down the aisle to a red headed boy, who had pulled off his shoe and was pulling off his white sock.
"Thank-you very much," Taylor panted, snatching the sock as the children crouched around him. There came a heavy thud as an obese man slammed down on top of the hood. He and several others kicked at the windshield while Taylor aimed the nozzle of the extinguisher deep into the sock, squeezing the handle and filling it up with CO2.
"What are you doing, Mr. Taylor?" asked one child.
"Making a bomb!" he exclaimed, as the sock expelled a frigid gas. "Chemistry kids, it's all good."
When the sock was fat with dry ice, Taylor tipped the sock's contents into the pop bottle. "What's your name son?"
"Michael," said the boy with the bare foot. "Michael Hopkins!"
Taylor sealed the bottle tight, shook it, then handed it to the young boy.
"Do the honours, Michael! Throw that out the window! Right now! Then cover your bloody ears!"
Michael accepted the bottle and leapt to a broken window. Taylor meanwhile returned to the driver's seat, hovering his foot over the gas pedal as Michael dropped the bottle out of the window. The kid ducked down and covered his ears as Taylor screamed "Get down!"
A terrific explosion blasted the side of the bus, the sound loud enough to momentarily disperse the crowd. Taylor slammed his foot down and cut through the modest gap, shaking off any hangers-on and those brave enough to call his bluff.
The crowd thinned out as the bus left the expressway. With the city finally behind them and the rising sun ahead, every new mile felt like one more away from danger.
The country road, flanked by thick beech trees and dashed with Autumn leaves, cut straight to the horizon.
Taylor bent over the wheel, his bloodshot eye on the road. A stiff breeze streamed in through the broken windows and was enough to keep him awake and alert. The kids were quiet in their seats, sharing numb expressions as they observed the countryside. The picturesque view was likely a first for them.
They were 15 miles from Dutchess County when the bus gave up the ghost. The gauges were in the red, the computer had died and the engine had been steadily losing power. When it finally spluttered and died, Taylor let the bus roll to a stop at the side of the road. Through the windshield, he noticed a flash of sunlight strike the side of a high-flying drone. The cavalry were coming.
Taylor stretched his tired bones and stepped away from the steering wheel, scowling at the stabbing sensation in his shoulder. Most of the kids were crying, their lost expressions begging the only adult in the bus for some kind of reassurance.
"Fuck," he sighed, hobbling towards them, balance thrown off by dizziness due to his burst eardrum.
Slinking into the first available seat in the aisle, Taylor wanted to console them, to tell them it would be alright. He just wanted to believe it first.
"When I was your age," he whispered, "I used to get beat up in school. I was a science geek, the skinny wee nerd the bullies preyed on. After the bell at 15:30, they'd wait for me outside and give me a good kicking."
The kids wiped their tears and listened intently as Taylor told them a story. "One weekend...my mum took me to the King's Theater in Glasgow where I saw a magician called 'The Magnificent Mondero!' Mondero was an escape artist all the way from Germany, and that night I watched him get out of a burning box moments before a guillotine smashed it to splinters." He grinned, excitedly. "I'd never clapped so hard in all my life. Mondero was wonderful, and I wanted to be just like him. Better even." Taylor went silent for a moment, savouring the memories replaying in his head. The kids meanwhile, came closer. "At home I taught myself coin tricks and sleight of hand. Dumb stuff."
Taylor placed his right hand over his left index finger then slid it across. The simple yet gruesome illusion made it seem like his index finger was coming off at the knuckle. The kids gasped and giggled, echoing the wondrous expressions that had lured Taylor into magic. "All that stuff was fun and I was good, but I wanted to be magnificent. To escape every bully and any situation. To find the way out."
Taylor glanced around as the kids leaned in close. "When I got better...I went further. One day, wrapped in my mum's best blankets and my dad's old bike locks, I went to a dock and threw myself into the dark and cold River Clyde. I told no-one what I was up to, and as I sank alone to the river bed the water came pouring in through the blankets." He paused, and the kids gave him time.
"I was so scared," he resumed, visibly trembling. "I couldn't breathe. I was going to die."
"What happened Mr. Taylor?" asked a freckle-faced girl.
Steely eyed, Taylor nodded. "I held my breath, that's what happened. I focused. I picked those locks. I threw off the blankets and got out. I escaped!"
"And...did the bullies pick on you after that?"
He shook his head. "I'd beaten something much greater, kids. After that I got into football and girls. Got some confidence in myself, maybe too much. The point is, when you think you can't get out, when you think there's nothing left, just hold your breath...and focus. There's always a way out."
An itch caused Taylor to search over his shoulder. "You hear that?" he asked no one in particular.
There was a faint sound in the air, the thump-thump-thump of a helicopter's rotor blades. Taylor and the kids ran to watch a black gunship buzz the bus, causing dirt and leaves to gust through the broken windows. Seconds later, five heavily armed SUVs broke out of the woods to surround the bus. Brakes screeched, doors were flung open, and twenty or more soldiers in camo raised their rifles at the bus. The helicopter hovered over the scene, a voice blasting from it's public address system.
"STEP OUT OF THE BUS, DR. TAYLOR!"
The kids shuffled up the aisle, crowding around him.
"OUT OF THE BUS! WE KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"
Taylor didn't recognize the voice or dare ignore it. He opened the doors and raised both arms in the air. Soldiers trained their rifles, but before stepping completely out of the bus, Taylor looked confidently back at the children. "I won't leave you."
"COME OUT TAYLOR! WE'VE WASTED ENOUGH TIME ALREADY!"
"You wanted me here!" he yelled at the helicopter, as he shuffled down the steps. "What next? Where's my brother?"
The gunship touched down on the road while a young soldier approached Taylor. "Orders are to take you with us. Step into the helicopter."
The soldier grasped Taylor by the elbow and he petulantly shirked off the soldier's hand.
"There are children in that bus!" Taylor bawled at the win
ding down helicopter, and to those in charge. "They're coming with us!"
"Negative!" the soldier cried, sticking his rifle into Taylor's chest. "Get into the helicopter before I break something!"
"Thank you for being a prick!"
"You're welcome."
The soldier jabbed the muzzle of his weapon into Taylor's shoulder. Taylor's face contorted in pain and he threw his elbow into the soldier's nose, breaking it and causing blood to come gushing down his stunned face. His fellow soldiers swarmed in but a voice from the gunship ordered them back. The men followed the order, leaving their bloodied comrade writhing on the ground.
"WE DON'T HAVE ROOM!" returned the voice from the helicopter. "IT'S YOU ALONE, TAYLOR!"
"Bullshit!" he roared back. "The Corporation of the United States can and does whatever the hell it wants! The only way I'm leaving these kids is in a body bag! If you know me then you know I'm serious...and that I don't give a fucking shite!"
The helicopter did not respond, "You want me bad for some reason!" Taylor added, squinting at the gunship's external cameras. "I don't work for free! My price is these kids!"
The voice responded, loudly and impatiently.
"ALL MILITARY PERSONNEL WILL MAKE SPACE FOR CIVILIANS! SOLDIERS LEFT BEHIND WILL MARCH TO WEST MOUNTAIN STATE FOREST AND WAIT FOR EXTRACTION!"
Soldiers immediately climbed out of the SUVs to provide room for the children.
"Come on out kids!" Taylor yelled over his shoulder. "I got us a ride!"
Michael Hopkins was the first boy down the steps, with the rest filing out behind him. Taylor hobbled over to Michael and bent down to the boy's confused face. "It's going to be fine, all right?"
Michael nodded dazedly and Taylor ushered the kids into the armored vehicles. With the doors closed and the kids secure, Taylor stooped down before the soldier whose nose he'd broken. "Don't move," he whispered, raising both hands to the soldier's bloody face. The man recoiled and Taylor repeated. "Don't...move."
Cupping his hands around the soldier's broken nose, Taylor corrected it with a swift jerk and crunch. The soldier yelped, and the doctor offered him his hand.
"You're welcome," Taylor said, pulling the man to his feet. The SUVs kicked up dirt as they sped off down the road. Taylor meanwhile, surrounded by soldiers, went to the helicopter as it's rotors began to spin. A soldier opened the side door and Taylor saw no one inside the helicopter. Unsurprised, he ducked his head, climbed inside and strapped himself into the seat nearest the door.
"This is General Wertz," a voice announced from the cockpit console. "I will meet you at the rendezvous location. The package is wrapped."
The soldiers stepped back and the autonomous helicopter rose into the sky, trailed by several silver drones. With the weight of the world temporarily off his shoulders, Taylor lay back and used the time to sleep.
