The Glory Bus

by Richard Laymon

  ‘You mean it’s not headed this way?’ Norman was appalled.

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘Oh shit. We’re never gonna be saved.’

  ‘Don’t give up hope.’ Boots rubbed his back.

  ‘Never give up hope,’ Duke said. ‘Unless you wake up dead in your casket.’

  Boots laughed at the joke. Norman thought: Oh, Christ. Gallows humor I don’t need.

  I’ve gotta get a drink.

  Gotta rest in some shade.

  Duke said, ‘Come on. Start walking.’

  They continued along the dirt road. Cactus. Sunlight. Dust. Dunes. Mountains. Plenty of those. But no diners, no houses. No proper freaking road.

  Shit. Do I want to die out here?

  Not with the gruesome twosome I don’t.

  Duke must have read the pessimistic expression on Norman’s face.

  ‘Don’t fret, bud. That bus was running along a regular highway. You can bet your last dollar that this back road plugs right into it.’

  ‘A ride would be good.’

  ‘I could sure use a little air-conditioning right now,’ Boots said, with a sigh.

  Duke grinned, the desert reflecting in his sunglasses. ‘In a couple of hours from now we’ll be in a motel room and Norman will be soaping your bazooms in the bathtub.’

  She perked up. ‘I’ll hold Norman to that.’

  Norman pulled a tight smile. ‘The pleasure’ll be all mine.’

  Duke tapped his finger against his nose. ‘But I reckon it’ll be only right if Boots sucks my cream-pump dry first. After getting us out of trouble I reckon I’ve earned it.’

  ‘Sure you’ve earned it, Dukey honey. I don’t mind blowin’ you right here.’

  Duke considered. ‘Later.’

  Then all three continued walking.

  An hour later saw them at the junction. Now a paved two-lane road ran east and west. In the heat of the midday sun there was no traffic. Not at first . . .

  Then Duke tilted his head. ‘Here she comes again.’

  ‘Uh?’ Boots’s face was red with sunburn. ‘Here comes who again?’

  ‘Same vehicle,’ Duke told them. ‘Big old diesel motor. Purring sweet as honey.’

  They peered to the east.

  Like a ghost manifesting itself from the ether came a large, shining object. It rippled. Was distorted.

  Eerie-looking, Norman thought.

  A ghost bus.

  Here it comes.

  The bus surged by with a blast of hot air and dust.

  Kept on rolling.

  Boots let out a whistle of surprise. ‘You see that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Norman said mournfully. ‘It went right on by without stopping.’

  ‘It’s an old school bus,’ Duke said.

  ‘But not painted yellow,’ Boots pointed out. ‘It was a funny-looking gray. And did you see the drapes covering all the windows? They were bright yellow.’

  Duke nodded. ‘Boy, that motor was running sweet. Someone loves the old girl.’

  ‘It didn’t stop,’ Norman reminded them. ‘It went on by.’

  Bastard.

  Must’ve seen us. Two guys and a gal.

  Drying out under a murdering sun.

  ‘Bastard saw us and left us out to here to die.’ Norman didn’t stint on words now. ‘He’ll have been fucking laughing at us as he drove by.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ Duke said.

  Norman’s throat felt raw but he still yelled. ‘The bastard knew we were here. He’s fucking laughing at us. Murdering bastard!’

  ‘You might want to revise your opinion of said bus driver,’ Duke said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Check out the bus. It’s coming back.’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The bus’s door opened with a hiss.

  Norman was ready to fall on his knees.

  Thank God!

  Thank Beelzebub, Stalin and the IRS man, come to that.

  Anyone who brought the bus – the miracle bus! – along the road is all righty by me.

  He stood beside Boots and Duke who gazed through the open door at the driver. It was hard to see against the glare of sunlight but he looked like a young guy in sunglasses, boasting a flat-top haircut. A suggestion of lean and fit.

  ‘Your call,’ the driver said in a controlled voice after a pause. ‘Ride with me or walk, either’s okay with me.’

  ‘Riding’s my bag. Thank you, sir,’ Boots enthused. She dashed up the steps.

  Duke nodded an understated ‘thank you’ at the driver. Then climbed the steps.

  Norman followed, half stumbling in his eagerness to get on board. The strap of his backpack caught on the door mechanism, yanked him back.

  Could be a sign?

  Could be a demon driver.

  But he struggled free. Three seconds later he stood in the aisle with his two amigos. They blinked.

  In the dull yellow light sat rows of passengers.

  ‘Not a lively bunch, are they?’ Duke observed.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ the driver told them. ‘Company rules. No standing while the bus is in motion. No smoking. No talking to the driver.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Duke said.

  ‘You’re a nice man, too,’ Boots cooed. ‘I sure am grateful. Really, really grateful. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Thank you, thank you. Oh, Jesus. I thought we were gonna die out there.’ Norman was close to babbling. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Take a seat, sir.’ The driver was scrupulously polite. ‘You, too, ma’am.’

  Norman sat alongside Duke and Boots who had taken the long bench seat behind the driver. The sort that faced the aisle.

  ‘Nice drapes,’ Boots said, waving her arm to take in the yellow fabric covering the windows. ‘After blue, yellow’s my favorite color.’

  The driver said nothing. Merely released the air brakes. With a whooshing hiss the bus rumbled away. The throb of the well-maintained motor rose smoothly in volume as the bus picked up speed. Duke nodded. He knew a healthy internal combustion engine when he heard one.

  Norman leaned forward to try to catch a better glimpse of their driver. There’s something steely about him. Something kinda righteous like a preacher or . . . Norman gulped at his next thought.

  A cop.

  All he lacked was an officer’s hat. His black hair was cut short close to his head at the back and sides. On top, it stuck up as stiff as bristles on a brush. Norman looked at the man’s reflection in the rearview mirror. The eyes covered by shades revealed nothing.

  Nothing, that was, but an aura of steely determination.

  The face possessed that aura, too. The features were lean, a little rough-looking. Yet the guy had shaved his strong jaw so expertly that the skin had a glossy smoothness to it.

  Yeah, something of steel in that, too.

  Wonder who would win if bus-driver man and Duke went head-to-head in a battle royal?

  An elbow dug into Norman’s side. He glanced back at Boots. She was making eyes at him.

  Not here, woman.

  Norman smiled. Nodded.

  Then Boots nudged him in his ribs again and made little indicating movements with her head.

  She was gesturing to Norman to notice what was happening in the main seating area of the bus. Norman looked back into the hazy yellow glow.

  Odd.

  Scratch odd.

  Weird.

  The yellow drapes appeared to be rugs that had been fastened with silvery strips of duct tape to the frames of the bus’s windows.

  Whooah, Mister Bus-driver Man takes his passengers’ eyesight seriously. He’s not exposing these suckers to the old retina-searing Mojave sun.

  But what kind of passengers are these, anyway?

  Norman frowned. Old people. Middle-aged. A young couple in tennis wear. A kid of around eight in a baseball cap, jeans and a T-shirt. There was a slogan there, half-hidden by the strap of a safety belt.

  Odd.

&nbs
p; ‘I’ve been to Pits,’ it read. ‘It Is the Pits. Pits—’ Something or other – he couldn’t read the rest.

  And why did everyone sit so upright and so still? No one tried to peek out the covered windows. No one sneezed.

  Coughed.

  Not a fidget amongst them. And you always have at least one fidgeter on a bus.

  Norman was still working out the freaky nature of the passengers when Boots piped up.

  ‘Sir . . . Oh, sir? Did you know that you got yourself a bus full of dummies?’

  The driver didn’t turn back. He kept his attention on the road.

  Boots persisted. ‘Sir, there’s dummies sitting on the seats.’

  ‘No talking to the driver while the bus is in motion, ma’am. Company policy.’

  Boots scrunched her shoulders with a smile of apology on her piglike face. ‘Oh, gee. I’m sorry. Just thought you should know, that’s all.’

  ‘Boots, the guy’s gonna know, isn’t he?’ Duke growled. ‘His bus, his business who rides in it.’

  ‘I guess.’ She fanned her face with a thick-fingered hand to cool it. ‘Looks kinda peculiar, don’t it, Normy?’

  Agree with Boots, and disagree with Duke?

  Norman shrugged. ‘At least they’re not throwing peanuts at us.’

  Duke nodded as if those were wise words.

  Boots chuckled and said, ‘I guess.’

  Norman’s eyes had all but recovered from the hell-glare of the desert sun. In the murky golden gloom of the old school bus he now began to make out its inanimate passengers a little more clearly. Dummies. All of them. Like the kind you’d find in clothes stores. Most modeled casual wear. Knit pullovers, Bermuda shorts, T-shirts (including one ‘girl’ mannequin who wore a white T-shirt with the slogan ‘I ate a Pitsburger and lived to tell the tale’). There was one mannequin dressed in a pinstriped suit and tie. He even wore gold-rimmed spectacles to make him look like a well-heeled executive.

  ‘Make great conversation, don’t they?’ Norman observed.

  The driver said nothing. Neither did Duke. To him this was a ride. That was all that mattered. Could have been chimpanzees back there dressed in Hawaiian shirts and tennis shorts. Wouldn’t have bothered him.

  A ride is a ride, you dig?

  Lowering her voice, Boots said to Norman: ‘They give me the willies.’

  Norman couldn’t resist saying, in a spooky whisper, ‘I see plastic people.’

  ‘Oooh.’ Boots elbowed him and gave a girly laugh. ‘You’re making me all goosefleshy.’ She pointed at her breasts. ‘Just look at that. My nipples have gone all hard.’

  Her breasts jiggled under the tank top as the bus went over bumps in the road. Then Boots slipped her hand onto the inside of Norman’s thigh. She smiled up at him with what experienced people called ‘Come-to-bed eyes.’

  Oh no . . .

  Norman felt himself getting hard against the confining fabric of his underpants.

  Man, she’s so ugly. So piglike. Only she’s got a certain something that fires me up inside.

  A cool, air-conditioned motel room would be pretty damn wonderful right now. Nude Boots. Lying on a bed. Stroking her stomach. Teasing strokes that worked down toward that magic zone of crisp hair and moist—

  ‘Ten more minutes,’ the driver announced. ‘Then you folks can get yourselves some vittles.’

  He didn’t turn round. Didn’t say any more.

  Norman turned away from hot, sweaty thoughts of a hot, sweaty (and naked) Boots to the view through the bus’s windshield. Still brush, mesquite and cacti. But more ravines and jagged piles of rock and mountains. Just as desolate as the desert. In fact, even more remote-seeming. The granddaddy of wilderness country.

  Then, straight up ahead, a sign:

  MAKE A PIT STOP AT PITS

  IT’S REALLY THE PITS

  PITS, CA, pop. 6

  The T-shirt on the kid. Norman looked. The slogan blazoned across the chest read in part: I’VE BEEN TO PITS.

  Norman thought: Looks like we’re heading to Pits, too.

  Hell of a name. He ran his tongue over his lips.

  Hell of a name.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  That Friday afternoon was a busy one. Pamela had been waiting tables since noon. The weekend traffic had started early. Now there were plenty of people with appetites to satisfy and thirsts to quench. Everyone from truckers to vacationers.

  Phew-ee. Hot work.

  Yet satisfying, Pamela thought, as she served ice cream to a young couple with a child in a high chair. The two year old sat munching on a French fry. Once he’d yelled out loud. The little tyke had bitten into his own finger instead of the golden sliver of fried potato.

  He was happy now, though. Already he had a dribble of strawberry ice cream on his chin.

  At the counter Pamela met up with Nicki.

  ‘The Pitsburger Largesse is really flying today,’ she said.

  Nicki smiled warmly. ‘Yeah, and to think I never thought Zak had a tender side.’

  From the griddle Terry sang out, ‘Three Pitsburgers for table five.’

  ‘This job’s going to keep me slim,’ Pamela murmured. ‘I must walk five miles a day waiting tables.’

  ‘You think you’re gonna stay?’ Nicki’s expression was hopeful.

  ‘Just try and drag me away.’ Pamela winked at her, then moved to where Terry had set three massive plates on the counter. Double meat patties turned the hamburgers into mini-skyscrapers. Surrounding those were fries, coleslaw, potato salad.

  Even though I know what the dish of the day consists of I’m starting to feel hungry myself. Pamela lifted the plates onto the tray, then whisked them across to three guys in shirts and ties. They waited with eager anticipation for the delicious feast that was gliding their way in the hands of a beautiful girl.

  There was a great tip coming her way. She could sense it.

  As she took their appetizer dishes away Lauren intercepted her, a serious look in her eye.

  ‘Pamela,’ she whispered by the counter. ‘Sharpe’s brought some people in.’

  Pamela experienced a sudden thrill. ‘He saved them?’

  Lauren nodded. ‘Look like teenagers. Two men and girl.’

  ‘They’re okay?’

  ‘They were stranded in the desert when their truck broke down. They’re tired. Very dehydrated.’

  ‘Looks as if they could use some cold drinks.’

  ‘And then some.’

  ‘You want me to prepare a table?’

  ‘The empty booth. I’ll need to talk to them when they eat. Find out their story, that kind of thing.’

  Pamela sensed a dizzying swirl of flashback. Just a few days ago it was me being brought to Pits. Saved from psycho Rodney by Sharpe.

  ‘You okay?’ Lauren asked, concerned.

  ‘Oh, me? I’m fine. It’s just all so new.’ She looked up at Lauren. ‘Do you think they’ve been in trouble?’

  ‘They look pretty tired. Sharpe figures they’re running from something.’ Lauren shrugged. ‘All they’ll say is that they were heading down to Las Vegas when they got lost, then their truck died from under them.’

  ‘You think they might be lying?’

  ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ Lauren gave a little smile. ‘That’s what the Good Book says, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Wise words.’ Pamela nodded.

  ‘We always take people as they are. It’s how they act and what they say now that defines their character. Not what they did to people or what people did to them in the past.’ Lauren handed a menu to a plump old guy in a baseball cap. Clearly, in Lauren’s eyes, he looked like a man ready for dessert. ‘We’ve got a real nice fresh-baked apple pie,’ she told the man.

  ‘Sounds sweet to me, ma’am.’

  ‘Large slice, sir?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Cream or ice cream?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Apple pie, cream and ice cream.’ Lauren wrote the order down on
her pad. ‘Table seven. Be right with you in a moment, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. And let me tell you, I’ve never eaten a hamburger like I’ve eaten here. Flavor’s out of this world.’

  ‘Why, thank you, sir. I appreciate your feedback.’

  ‘How d’you make ’em taste so good? Kinda sweet and savory at the same time.’

  ‘Oh, our secret recipe, sir.’

  ‘Secret, eh?’ He chuckled. ‘You can tell an old man, my dear.’

  Lauren leaned over to whisper into the man’s ear. ‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you and serve you to the customers.’

  The man threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ah, that’s rich,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘Just you keep griddling up hamburgers like that, sweetheart, and I’ll keep coming back.’

  ‘And you’re welcome anytime, sir.’ Lauren beamed. ‘Now, I’ll get that apple pie.’

  ‘And cream and ice cream.’

  ‘Shan’t forget those, sir.’

  Lauren and Pamela left the man chuckling to himself.

  ‘Another happy Pits visitor,’ Pamela observed.

  ‘And speaking of which,’ Lauren nodded toward the cafe door, ‘here comes Sharpe with his three lost lambs.’

  Pamela turned to look at the trio as they walked through the doors.

  Lost lambs?

  Sharpe held the door open for them as they sauntered in, covered in desert dust and radiating a certain aura that Pamela found somehow disturbing.

  She looked at each in turn.

  First in: A girl of around eighteen but she looked a lot older. She had a wide face. Blunt features. Broad shoulders and hips. Short bleached hair. Clothes consisted of cutoff jeans with slits up the side that exposed a dimpled white skin that contrasted with sunburned lower legs. Her bare shoulders were exposed by a tight – over-tight – tank top. Her makeup needed refreshing. Looked on the heavy side, too. She carried a bulky denim bag.

  What was most striking about her were the boots that she wore. Dirty white high-heeled, pointy-toed cowgirl boots from which a pair of stocky legs emerged.

  Second in: A college boy for sure. Late teens. Looked unkempt, as if a nice, tidy kid had been sleeping in a field for week. He’d got nasty-looking bruises on his face.

  Sheesh, what was his story?

  Third in: A swaggering tough guy. Could have passed for a young Elvis. Beneath his blond, greasy swept-high hair a pair of shades rested on the bridge of his nose. Age? Might be a teen; certainly no more than twenty-one, Pamela guessed. He wore a muscle-hugging T-shirt that would have brought appreciative gasps from girls and jealous glances from guys. On his bottom half, oh-so-tight blue jeans that had faded in a kind of interesting way round the crotch and buttocks. Below the cuffs of the jeans she saw a pair of black motorcycle boots. Metal side-buckles winked at her in the late afternoon light.