The Replicator

3:35 and the the coach moves deeper into the unknown. At this precise point in time the driver takes another swig of vodka from his coke bottle. His teeth grit as the liquid stings the back of his throat and ignites the daemon inside. He glances into the wing mirror, steps on the brake pad and pulls the coach over onto the hard shoulder.

Outside in the baking July sun the highway stretches out, from inside the coach the world looks as if it has been plunged into the silent vacuum of space. An idle sky harbours a rouge cloud frozen over a lustful crop of rape. A few minutes pass as the driver sits at the wheel thinking about his next move waiting for a passenger behind him to speak up. Nobody does.

He looks at the clock, twenty more minuets have passed. He still sits there afraid to look back at all their agitated faces sweating in the afternoon heat. There is no air conditioning on this shit tip. His mood hopscotches. Biting at his lip, he moves deeper into insanity yet still the passengers tolerate this unscheduled stop. They are going to be late, he has even forgot where they were headed?

After and hour of looking at passing traffic a car pulls up in front of him. A family carrier. An elderly gentleman walks towards the bus. He mouths "do you need any help?" holding up his hands with a friendly gesture. The driver is sweating, wondering if he does really need any help. He wants to get away, he wants to turn the key and take off, be he cant. This is all beyond his control. He opens the passenger door and nods his head welcoming the old man on board.

If only the poor old man knew the situation. The poor poor man should never have stopped, should never have interfered. He realises this when its too late, he realises this at the top step of the bus, he realises this as he looks at a coach half full of decaying bludgeoned do gooders just like himself.

The old do gooder looks at the driver in horror and sheer astonishment. The driver cant look them in the eye, his passengers. He sits tight looking down at his feet ashamed, embarrassed, defeated. He slowly reaches down and draws out a blood caked hunting knife resting in the foot well. The old do gooders eyes widen, his fingers bury into his arm as his heart stops beating and starts quivering like jelly. No sound is made, not even when he falls to the floor cracking his head open against the coach steps.

The driver moves into action, the body is quickly dragged into the nearest empty seat. He dumps him next to a rotting corpse that starved to death 5 days prior. This man was a flies paradise and a maggots wet dream. The old man still twitching is tied just in case, a mistake only made once. The driver pulls out a black marker pen from his pocked and draws a number on his forehead for the records. The slumps back into his seat, starts the engine and pulls the bus back onto the road. As he passes the old mans car he sees a bemused boy playing with a cigarette lighter in the front passenger seat. He merges with the traffic heading north. The driver still sweating wishes these ungrateful passengers would shut the hell up. He begs them to be quite, and tells them they will reach their destination soon enough.