You would think that working for the feds would get me all kinds of cool transportation. Private cars, helicopters, maybe even a tank if things got really intense. But no. I got to take public transit. This bus was designed for long hauls—padded seats, a restroom in the back, and a driver encapsulated in his own cabin. The bus would be on autopilot, but vehicles were required to have a driver in case of emergencies.
After my rather abrupt ejection from San Francisco, Prefect had booked me a ticket to Oregon. I assumed my next job would be in Portland.
But as the saying goes, life is not about the destination.
The bus chugged along I-5, through a southern Oregon burn zone. Swathes of the west had been forcibly evacuated after the great fires of the forties. Entire towns had been abandoned, farms left behind, and houses boarded up. It was illegal to resettle, at least for now. The only people allowed inside a burn zone were government employees and the cars traveling along the interstates.
I watched the hills roll by; the trees were blackenedneedles against the horizon and the summer smoke painted the landscape in shades of gray blue. The off-ramps were crisscrossed with orange cones and a flimsy wooden barrier.
How did I know it was flimsy? Because abruptly, the bus took a right turn and crashed into one. The barrier broke as if it had been made of wet tissue paper. I heard a faintcrunchas we rolled over the orange cones.
Someone cried out in surprise. I clutched my own seat as we jounced across a bit of uneven pavement and began to drive on a long-forgotten road.
I checked my visor for our location. Just north of the city previously known as Grants Pass. Now it was Burn Zone O-173.
“What’s going on?” a man called out from behind me. I craned my neck to see the other passengers; their faces were all shades of confusion and alarm. “Is this a mandatory detour?”
“Is the interstate blocked?”
“Did a new fire cross I-5?”
“I’ll ask the driver,” I called out. Gripping the seats for balance, I made my way toward the front of the bus. An old lady sat in one of the front rows, an elaborate lace crochet in her lap. I gave her what I hoped was a comforting smile. She did not look comforted.
The driver’s cabin was encased in bulletproof plexiglass. The driver himself was slumped across his steering wheel, his mouth slack and eyes closed. A cup of spilled coffee rolled on the floor. I rapped on the glass. He didn’t so much as twitch.
“Well,” I said, “that’s not good.”
The bus was driving off course.
The driver was unconscious.
And there was a wraith aboard.
Stuff like this was why I’d stopped believing in coincidences.
I twitched my fingers, activating my phone. It was built into my visor, the tiny speaker nestled just above my right ear.
Prefect picked up on the first ring. As though he had been expecting my call.
I said flatly, “You’ve got to be kidding me. The bus is the job?”
There was a beat of silence. Then he replied, “What’s the situation?”
“We’re heading down an off-ramp into a burn zone,” I said, keeping my voice low so the other passengers wouldn’t hear. “The driver’s unconscious. There are a bunch of scared passengers.”
“Oh.” His tone brightened. “Good.”
The bus jostled.
“Prefect,” I said, “your definition of ‘good’ needs some adjustment.”
“Is the driver dead?” he asked.
I peered through the glass. “Can’t tell.”
“Could it be natural causes?” said Prefect. “A stroke? Falling asleep at the wheel?”
I shrugged before I remembered he couldn’t see it. “I don’t know. I’m looking at him through a wall of glass. But it looks like the last thing he did beforepassing out was drink from a coffee. Wouldn’t be hard to drug it—I’m just saying.” I shifted from foot to foot, trying to stretch out my hips as I spoke. “So what’s good about a bus being hijacked?”
