The Last Bus Through the Tunnel

A headache pressed hard against both temples. The pills always did that, along with the dry mouth and the slow stretch of time after each dose. Elena, Arthur's personal physician, called them minor side effects. Whenever I complained, she reminded me how difficult I had been before treatment and told me the prescription was for my own good. My phone buzzed. The unknown number had sent a photo of Elena in our bedroom. She wore the silk shirt I'd bought Arthur for our anniversary. I recognized the loose thread near the second button. Her hair was mussed, and one corner of her mouth lifted at the camera as if she had been waiting for me to notice. The message beneath it read: *He's waiting for you to sign the papers, Vivian.* The divorce papers had been sitting on the mahogany desk in Arthur's office for weeks. His texts said the same thing every time: *Sign them.* I kept refusing. Arthur was headed for higher office, and I was still his wife. Years of campaign dinners, donor calls, and staged photographs had taught me to treat every crisis as temporary. If I could speak to him without Elena or a campaign aide in the room, I thought he might remember who I had been before the prescription took over my days. That hope was thin, but it was enough to get me onto the bus. I put the pill bottle in my coat pocket and boarded the last bus to our mountain villa. Damp wool and disinfectant hung in the nearly empty bus. Rain had darkened the hems of the seats, and the heater blew warm air that smelled faintly burned. I took a place near the front and kept one hand around the pill bottle in my pocket. Four men in heavy work coats sat several rows back, quiet enough to disappear into the engine noise. None of them used a phone or spoke to the others. I noticed that, then returned to rehearsing what I would say to Arthur. Inside the main tunnel, yellow emergency lights blinked across the windows. The bus shuddered and stopped halfway through. The driver, a heavy-set man I didn't recognize, grunted. "Engine's acting up. I'll go check." He forced the doors apart and climbed out. Cold tunnel air rolled through the opening before the doors folded shut behind him. The engine coughed twice. Then metal struck metal with a hard *click*. Someone had slid a bolt across the doors from outside. I stood. "Hello? What was that?" My voice came back from the tunnel wall. The driver didn't answer. Boots scraped the floor behind me. The four men had filled the aisle. Their work coats lay across the seats behind them, and none wore the clothes of a laborer underneath. The weak light caught the same tattoo on every wrist: an obsidian serpent eating its own tail. I had seen that serpent on Arthur's wrist after our wedding. He had called it the seal of a private brotherhood and refused to tell me more. These men belonged to him. The leader stepped closer. A scar split one eyebrow, and I recognized him from one of Arthur's fundraisers. Damon had spent that evening beside the service door, speaking only when Arthur spoke to him. Now he looked me over with the brisk attention of someone checking a delivery. "He's not here," I stammered, backing away until my shoulders hit the cold glass of the driver's partition. "What do you want?" Damon smiled. "He's not here, Mrs. Carter. He sent us." He took another step. "He's tired of waiting for your signature. He thought you might need some persuasion." The other three spread out behind him. One blocked the rear door, another moved beside my row, and the last stayed near the emergency handle. There was no open aisle left and no driver coming back. Arthur had known exactly which bus I would take. Damon took a small audio recorder from his pocket and rested his thumb on the play button. "He left you a message." He pressed play. Arthur's voice came through the tiny speaker.