After the Golden Age

She climbed on top of him, using him as a seat because there wasn’t time to pull him out of the way. She was small, she fit. Steering wheel in hand, she could only try to hold it still, hoping she had the strength to steady the vehicle. She put both her feet on the brake pedal and straightened her legs.

It wasn’t going to be enough. Tires screeched, burned—the smell of rubber reeked. They had too much momentum, the whole frame of the bus was shuddering. Ahead, through the windshield, Celia saw water. The road ended at the pier. If they hit the water, their chances of escaping would shrink to nothing.

Celia turned. She grabbed one spot on the wheel with both hands and pulled, not caring which way they ended up, not seeing where she steered to, only wanting to get away from the drop into the river. The bus turned, rocked, tipped—fell.

Celia screamed a denial, echoed by two dozen other screams. The asphalt rushed toward her, the bus was spinning, sparks flying.

And it stopped.

The bus had seemed to be flying at the speed of light, and now it sat still, with no apparent slowing in between. It just stopped. Celia clung to the steering wheel, but flipped over it, her back to the windshield which displayed a lacework of cracks. She stared at the driver, whose face was purple, his eyes bulging and dead.

Police sirens, ambulance sirens, dozens, hundreds of sirens broke the air. She smelled dust, blood, gasoline. That was all she needed now, for the damn thing to explode.

People were piled against the ceiling of the bus, flung over the backs of seats. Some were struggling upright, apparently unhurt. Most were groaning, an agonizing and horrific sound. Celia couldn’t think about it. They might have been better off sinking into the river.

Emergency windows popped off, sprung from the outside, and EMTs called into the bus. Celia didn’t feel hurt. Numb, but not hurt, so she stayed quiet and let emergency crews help the others. Slowly, she unkinked herself from the dashboard. The lever for the bus door still worked. Hauling on it with both hands, she opened the door. It seemed a long way away, straight up. But she didn’t want to sit around staring at the dead driver anymore.

In stages, she found footholds on the railings in front of the seats. She shouldn’t be able to do this. She wasn’t that strong. But she badly wanted out of that bus.

As soon as her head peered out of the open bus door, like some gopher blinking in the light, a pair of firemen balancing on ladders grabbed her and hauled her away.

Tall, handsome, wonderful firemen, in manly yellow coats and impressive helmets. They set her on the street, and she clung to their arms, even while she insisted, “I’m fine, really, I just need a drink.”

“Celia!”

It took her far too long to focus on the sound, especially when she turned and found Arthur Mentis standing right in front of her. She let go of the firemen and fell into his arms, hugging him tightly.

“I thought I was dead. I really thought I was dead this time.”

A good sport, he hugged back, patting her shoulder. Finally, she straightened, thinking she ought to recover some sort of dignity—if for no other reason than to help Arthur recover his. She wobbled.

“You should sit down. I think you have a concussion,” he said.

“No, I’m fine.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

She squinted. They kept moving. “Three? Six?”

“Definitely a concussion. Come on.”

“My bag—my attaché case, you have to find it, it’s got some information about a lab Sito used to work at ages ago. Do you know he worked for West Corp, for my grandfather? I can’t lose it, I have to show Dad—”

He gave her an odd look, like he thought it was the concussion talking. “We’ll find it, Celia. Don’t worry. I’ll look for it myself, but you must sit.”

She let him lead her to a quiet curb and a blanket. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

“They’re helping with the injured. There were forty people on that bus.”

The emergency crew was spraying fire retardant foam everywhere, and dozens of stretchers carried away the wounded. So many of them. No one had gotten out of there unscathed.

“They’d all be dead if it weren’t for you,” Arthur said helpfully.

Celia gripped his arm in a sudden panic. “The baby, is the baby okay? There was this baby, it was screaming, and I think we all wanted to throttle it … is it okay?”

He pointed. The mother was sitting on a stretcher while an EMT dabbed at a cut on her forehead. She held the baby in her arms, smiling and cooing at it. It was still crying, but the sobs were reduced to tired whimpers.

Celia continued holding Arthur’s arm, because it steadied her. The world was still moving at eighty miles an hour. “I killed the driver.”

“I know. You did what you had to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re a hero.”

She started to laugh, but it hurt, so she stopped. “I just didn’t want to die.”

He gave her a wry smile. “That’s good to hear.”