Sixty

SIXTY

Sarah cried out—the glare from the son like a punch to her throat—and fell back into one of the seats. Nearby, Michael and Julia flinched. “Stay down,” Sarah told them.

“What is—” Julia began. Stopped.

Footsteps outside. Slow and deliberate.

Wind blew across the bullet holes, whistling breath over the mouths of Coke bottles.

Michael imagined running out the door and into the trees beyond the shed; and before he knew what he was doing, turned toward the front of the bus. Jack pounced out of nowhere and threw him to the ground.

“Stay the fuck down,” Jack said, a fist raised.

Michael blinked, confused, and felt a shadow crawl over his face. They both turned their panic-stricken faces to the window on their left.

Julia screamed.

The son peered in at them, a dark silhouette with burning, murderous eyes. The bus rocked. He must be standing on the wheel, Jack thought, rolling off the faggot beneath him until he could see the man outside. Jack had never seen eyes so crazy.

Dian