Sleep comes quickly to the weary traveller.

For some, a paper bag is a sign of inherent beauty in the world, a flitting dancer in the breeze; for those who don't live in some pseudo-realistic, Hollywood bullshit world, plastic bags are just a symbol of the throwaways and the unwanted. Julian had slept for the last five years with these pliant, cast-off products and embraced them entirely – he felt a weird camaraderie with them. Tonight he slept with them, cushioning the area between the hard side of the carriage and his weary head. It was just him and the plastic bags, alone together in the empty bus barn. Slowly, he drifted into sleep...

...and out again. There was something wrong. At first it was a subconscious call to wake, a hesitant jerk back to reality. Then Julian heard a bass noise with just a tiny beat of a treble thump – footsteps. They were cautious, slow and quiet and deafening. And close. Julian's body tensed up, adrenaline starting to flow through his blood. The blinding insecurity of the darkness around him was forced back by a click and a predatory beam of light. It barged into a wall about five feet away from his place of rest, causing his pulse to violently rise. He could feel large breaths clawing their way through his lungs and trachea like impatient beasts, but his muscles constrained his feral impulses. His heart pounded intensely; he could feel slamming from within his wrists, neck and temples. It was suffocating him, a sulphurous brimstone of noise and light and panic which poured into every limb, follicle and orifice of his being. He couldn't be thrown out into the world, not tonight; the air of the outside hung like talons and bit with a fierce frost. The fire of fear which was consuming him danced a vicious tango with the hunter's stalking tread, engulfing more of his body with each step, until Julian thought he could hear the footsteps die away – they, whomever they were, were moving away from him. He let out a slow breath of relief, calming himself down a little, but his dread still burned inside him. He wasn't going to take a chance. Beside him, on the floor, was a metal pipe he had picked up from a skip a month ago – he usually used it to keep any of the unsavoury, or downright fucking horrible people, whom he occasionally met and dealt with away. He leant his body slightly to the side and reached down towards it with one hand.

Sleep comes quickly to the weary traveller.

Attempting to grasp the metal pipe, his fingers flailed and fumbled in the air, almost achieving their desired state, but not quite. It kept slipping from his grip, and he noticed his palm was sweating fervently. His hands were wet and hot, not ideal for the current situation, and, furthermore, he was shaking. Swearing in his mind profusely, Julian lowered his outreaching arm further, hoping to gain more success. Come on, come on, come on. The tiniest, teeniest of clangs resounded through the heavy silence of the barn as he knocked the bar against the kindred material of the seat below. A single profanity boomed through his internal monologue. He quickly pushed his digits against the pipe and managed to secure it in his grab. Finally! But what about them? He slowed his breathing down, right down until it was barely a breath, allowing him to hear every sound which vibrated in the hard hush around him. The footsteps were still there, just as stagnant and deliberate as before, but this time they were ambiguous to him. He could not tell where these paces were coming from. He listened with an even greater concentration. Step. About twenty seconds went by, with no sound. Step. Again, another fifth of a minute lay in a dumb lull. Step. This uncertainty punched into his lungs, and his breathing became difficult. The pyre was back and it spread from his chest through his body. Step. His heart burst to action with a vengeance, filling his temples with a rush of bloody percussion. Step. His body tensed up, expectant of danger. Step. His arms shook, and his core shook, and his whole physical existence convulsed with the torment of the newly-awakened inferno of distress. Step after step after terrible step. The doubt added to the blaze – Julian was now more hormonal, fiery holocaust than he was a human. The torture they were causing him was unbearable, inescapable, a torrent of misery. Then Julian remembered the pursuing light that he felt such abhorrence for; for all of the animosity that he had against the demonic beam, it would give the location of his stalker. He raised his head and looked out of the window at the end of his feet, just as a burst of luminous energy penetrated his eyes and filled him with a sharp light.

Sleep comes quickly to the weary traveller.

 

This is short story about a guy in a bus (And yes, I know this is at the bottom so you've probably already read it). Hope you enjoy!

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