“Fine, then,” said Ollie. “See if I care.” And she lifted her sandwich as though she meant to take a huge bite, even though she wasn’t hungry, not at all.
Right before she sank her teeth into it, the driver asked, “What questions, little girl?”
The noise at the back of the bus was deafening. Probably no one could hear this conversation but them. Ollie thought hard, keeping an eye on his thick fingers.
“Who is coming?” she asked. “At nightfall.”
The white eyes swept her up and down. Then he said, “His people. His servants.”
Ollie swallowed. “Who ishe?”
“He has many names. As many names as people have words.”
That wasn’t helpful. Ollie thought again. “What are hispeoplegoing to do?”
“Take you to him. Bargain complete.”
Ollie felt another twist of fear in her stomach. Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, “You said we had to get moving. Where?”
The driver smiled a little. “Forest. Get into the forest. The farther you go, the longer you stay free. Maybe you even find a way out again. Maybe.”
“Free?” squeaked Ollie. “Who are his servants? What do they look like?”
The driver only licked his lips. “You’ve already asked too many questions. That was all the questions, I can’t answer any more questions.” His eyes skipped to the windows, to the kids in the back of the bus, and back to Ollie. “You run fast, run far, and maybe you’ll get out in the end. A few do.” He looked again at her classmates in the back. “They are lost already,” he said, with a jerk of his chin. “They just don’t know it.”
“Lost? They’re not lost. They’re on this bus,” Ollie snapped. She was getting scareder and scareder.
The driver only shrugged. “Give me food, little girl; I answered your questions.” His thick fingers reached out, fluttering like spider legs.
Ollie’s fingers were tingling with a slow dread. Numbly, she handed over the sandwich. Was he lying? Why would he lie?
But—arrange for the bus to break down just for a joke? That seemed ridiculous. And those white-marble eyes... and the book, and Ms. Webster’s real terror...Think, Ollie. Think.
The quarter-sandwich disappeared in a single gulp, the way he’d inhaled his soup on the farm. “Where in theforest?” Ollie asked, low. “Please—will you tell me? Where can we go that’s safe?”
Two gleams of light shone in the driver’s white eyes and his lips looked moist and satisfied. “Good food,” he said. “Dead meat, cold, but good. I said too much already. Besides, nowhere’s safe. Not here. Not on this side of the mist.”
But his eyes flicked once to the left, out into the dripping skeleton forest. Ollie followed his glance. There was a little gap in the fog, on the driver’s side of the road. Between the trees was the beginning of a path. “They can move in the daytime,” said the bus driver, almost too low for her to hear. “Just not while anyone’s looking. They have to stand in the sunshine world too, see, to keep the door open, and that makes them weaker. More rules in the sunshine world, after all. But on this side of the mist—at night—there’s only his rules. They’ll grab you if they can. Now go away.”
Mr. Easton came bustling in through the door of the bus.
“Ollie,” he said. “What are you doing up here? Go back to your seat; there’s no need to worry.”
“But he said—” Ollie began, and stopped. The bus driver was sitting behind the wheel, looking straight ahead. Now he seemed perfectly—normal.
“Thanks for the snack,” he said. He crumpled up the wax paper, dipped his head to lick his fingers, and seemed to peer slyly at her beneath his eyelids.
“That was nice of you, Ollie,” said Mr. Easton, lookingsurprised. “To think of the driver. But better to go back to your seat now. Off you go.”
“But he—” Ollie stopped again. Mr. Easton looked just as he always had: cheerful, red-faced. Suddenly it seemed ridiculous to imagine monsters in the forest, to imagine that her book was anything but a story. The bus driver was joking. Her imagination had gotten away from her, just like her dad always said.
Ollie went back to her seat.
Mr. Easton was talking with the bus driver, although Ollie couldn’t hear what they were saying. Finally, Mr. Easton said to the sixth grade, looking irritable, “Well, phones don’t work, and I’m not having any luck with the bus. I’m going to just nip back up the road to the farm and call for help from there. Mr. Jones here”—Mr. Easton gave the driver an annoyed look—“has a bum ankle. I’ll have to make the walk. Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes. You all mind the driver and I’ll be back before you know it. Anyone who tries anything atallwhile I’m gone will be in detention until Christmas.”
He popped out the door. Ollie wanted to warn him. But warn him of what? She didn’t say anything. The thud of Mr. Easton’s footsteps went the length of the bus, following the way they had come.
Then the sound was lost in the fog.
