And at this moment he felt almost the same horror. Horror at the sight of faces on paper, which live—and die…
But from the depth of his consciousnesses came a saving thought—“What if it was not paper at all? Modern technologies, a superflat display—OLED or electronic ink… But no”—he pushed his face up to the billboard—“It’s not any kind of display, it’s the most ordinary poster…”
“Rotten hell!” he thought. What an idiot he is! He was simply looking at the other side of the billboard from within the bus stop! Obviously, different posters were placed on different sides!
Yes, of course. Everything has a reasonable explanation. And we will ignore questions about who needs such advertising—either one, or another variant of it…
And now go and look at other side of the billboard.
“What for?” Tony objected to himself. He knew, yes, knew already that it was the same picture which he had seen approaching the stop. Because anything else is simply impossible. So, there is no need, absolutely no need to look there. Only he will not wait for the bus at this stop. (Tony once again looked askance at the wheelchair.) No, he will not.
He wiped his hand against a glass wall. Despite the darkness, long traces of bloodstained fingers appeared quite distinctly. And now he noticed that they were not the first on this wall. And it was unlikely that all his predecessors simply wiped soiled hands. Some, seemingly, limply fell with bloody palms against the bus stop wall, and some vainly tried to catch hold of smooth glass when they were dragged…
“Perhaps, it is just ordinary paint,” Tony told himself. “Local guys having fun…” Nevertheless, he quickly walked farther along the street without looking back. The bus still could come from ahead—if indeed there was one-way traffic and if the M13 bus operated at night…
“That’s the wrong question,” a malicious internal voice noted. “Certainly it operates at night. The question is whether this bus operates in the daytime…”
Ahead in the gloom two shining eyes appeared. Yellow. Round. Unblinking.
“Headlights,” Tony told himself. “This must be the bus. But it stops only at bus stops.”
But one could not say that Logan regretted it. To tell the truth, with each second he desired even less to meet this bus, whether it intended to stop or not. Partly because again he did not hear any engine noise. And also because he could not even discern a silhouette. The headlights—if they were headlights—were approaching absolutely silently.
Tony understood that if he turned back and ran, this thing would overtake him somewhere right near the stop. But ahead one more crossroads loomed. If he managed to get there first, he would have a chance to turn…
But he still did not run. He yet remained too sane a person to run away from a bus. He just quickened his pace. Even so, the headlights neared not as quickly as could be expected of a bus. But also not so slowly as he would like.
As he walked closer, he felt he wouldn’t be in time to reach the crossroads.
“What nonsense,” he told himself, “this just a bus, or, well, maybe, some other vehicle… And even if there are any nasty guys inside, they hardly have any business with me…” But at the same time, another voice in his brain named an absolutely different reason not to run: he should not show that thing that he is afraid.
Now he discerned a vague silhouette in the darkness and fog. It really seemed to be the bus. Without any light, except the headlights—without even a route indicator in front. And still approaching completely silently, without even a garbage rustle under its wheels.
Only several yards remained to the crossroads. And only a few more—to the bus. Tony broke down and ran.
They reached the crossroads simultaneously. Logan jerkily darted round the corner, quickly moving to the left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the long dark frame (unlike usual New York buses, this one obviously was not white), square holes of black windows, dimly glowing symbols “M13” on one side, and lower—an inscription along the side: “ARE YOU FREE FROM SIN?” The bus was so close that Tony felt a wave of warm air coming from it. For a moment Logan was certain that the irreparable had happened, he had given himself away, and now this thing would turn and pick up his trail…
No. It just passed by. Of course, it is simply a bus following its route, and it is silly to addle his brain with any nonsense… Curiously enough, the stern inscription on the side of the bus convinced him more than anything else: it was simply an advertising of some religious organization. Tony had seen it several times in the daylight, in a normal city. And, unlike other posters in this weird night, it looked the same then as now.
But had he just imagined it or had he really seen at the last moment vertical pupils inside the headlights? Pupils which turned in his direction?
And that warm wave that had poured over him… in it there was no smell of gasoline and oil which could be expected from a working machine. It resembled much more the hot stinking breath from the chops of a big animal. And more likely a scavenger than a predator.
Tony ran for about hundred yards, then slowed to a walk, panting and telling himself that there were no grounds for panic. Everything has an explanation, even in this crazy place. Perhaps, after sunrise, he’ll even laugh at his fears. (The thought that he would have to stay here until morning did not pain him as much as earlier—not because Tony began to like this place any better, but because he had started to get used to the inevitability… or to that which more and more seemed inevitable.) He darted a glance along the street stretching into fog—as empty and dark as as previously, then listened—it was absolutely silent. However, this silence was not calming. It seemed deliberate, unnatural—he realized that he was not hearing even his own footsteps, as if fog, like cotton wool, absorbed sounds. Tony stopped and forcefully stamped his right foot, wishing to overcome this oppressive silence. Old asphalt under his foot cracked, crumbling to pieces, and Tony fell knee deep in the wide open hole.
“Shit!” he muttered, having fallen to his left knee and trying to pull out his right leg. This, however, was not so easy. Apparently, underground water approaching close to the surface had affected the street from below, and his leg plunged into a dense viscous dirt, dirt which, without asphalt above, would be a real bog… Logan, still feeling more rage and vexation than fear (now his trousers were ruined for sure!), pulled his leg harder, then, without having succeeded, rested both hands against the asphalt—and felt it continue to break and crumble under his palms, like thin ice on a swamp surface…
“Hooey!” Tony thought. “I can’t sink in the middle of a New York street!”
But he felt the real horror only in the following instant when he realized that his leg had not simply got stuck in a cold dense bog—but was being pulled downwards. He felt something blunt and strong (fingers? tentacles? jaws?) close on his ankle and drag it deeper…
His leg was already sunk to the groin. “Help,” Tony desperately shouted, though several seconds ago the notion of calling for aid in this area would have seemed a bad idea to him. Even now, having heard the hoarse sound of his own voice, he looked around with more fear than hope.
And saw in the fog two burning eyes—headlights. Approaching.
“Bus M13,” Logan thought. “It’s followed me. Or I’ve just called it and now it’ll come for my soul…” Tony realized, though too late, that, while running away, he had again jumped out from the sidewalk to the middle of the street. And now this damned bus does not need to do anything supernatural, it will simply squash the helpless victim in a trap…