AS THE BUS rolls up First Avenue, I stay a safe half-block behind, weaving around cars and motorcycles. Suddenly, I hear the blast of an air horn behind me, so loud that it makes my ears ring. I wobble on my scooter and turn around. A huge trailer truck is about three feet from my rear wheel. I bank to the side and let the truck pass, but now the huge box of the trailer is blocking my view. I give a couple hard kicks and swoop out in front again. But now the bus is out of sight.
Dammit!
I look down on the river side of the street. I see a huge culvert pipe running alongside the roadway—another abandoned city project. I slide down the incline and roll my scooter into the empty metal tube. It’s so tall that I only have to duck my head a little bit. About twenty feet ahead, the light fades out. Spooky for sure, but it looks like a pretty good shortcut.
The floor of the tunnel is pretty smooth, a lot smoother than asphalt. I kick my scooter along, picking up speed. I can see the seams on the sides of the tunnel zipping by and I hear the rattle of my wheels echoing against the concrete walls. It’s like gliding through a space warp. A few blocks ahead, I see a circle of light and bright flashes. The tunnel is ending!
I shoot out of the tunnel like a cannonball past a couple of scrappers with acetylene torches. The sparks shoot across the opening as I fly past. I sail through the air and land hard on the ground, my face planted in the dirt.
I hear the scrappers laughing and applauding.
I look up. At the top of the incline, just a few yards away, I see it. The bus. It’s stopped to pick up more prisoners. My shortcut worked!
I drag my scooter behind a cement piling and toss a few pieces of scrap lumber on top. I climb up the slope to the street. The bus door is open. Just outside, three TinGrins are herding the new prisoners up the steps. Inside, I can see another guard shoving people into empty seats. Nobody fights back. What’s the use?
I take a breath. I concentrate. I feel the rush. I disappear.
I slip into line and step onto the bus. I take a seat on the aisle.
The last in line is a lady in a bright red turban. She walks up and tries to slide into the seat I’m already in. We bump hips. She turns around. I hold my breath. “Hey!” she says, waving to the guard and pointing to the seat. “I can’t…”
“Quiet!” he says. “You don’t like that seat, take another!”
With his gun, he points her toward the seat across the aisle. The woman takes it, but keeps staring across the aisle. I know she can’t see me, but it feels freaky anyway. Freaky and risky.
The bus takes off again up the east side of Manhattan. A few minutes later, we turn onto a narrow bridge. In the distance I can see the abandoned airport. The bridge leads to another island. A smaller one.
I stare out the window at the end of my seat row. My heart is racing but I concentrate on holding still, not moving my feet. I’m aware of every sensation in my body. I know I’m probably headed for trouble, and this time I can’t let my focus wander.
I look down the aisle toward the front of the bus. Over the head of the driver there’s a yellowed sign from the old days. Better days.
It says RELAX & ENJOY THE RIDE.