Colombia - A Short Story

The bowels of the ancient bus belched streams of brown soot as it rattled and groaned its way over the barren mountains of Central Colombia. Vincent sat cemented between a tiny brown woman with a coarse burlap face and the searing skin of the bus. His soiled knuckles drummed on the two thick pads of currency stashed underneath his trousers. He’d liked the sound at first; the firm thump that resounded through his torn cotton jeans. Now his pupils shot at every squeak that echoed inside the quivering shell. He’d been eager for this adventure. But as they neared his rendezvous point everything was changing. The starched circles around his eyes had bleached to white, revealing more than just illness and fatigue. Vincent could sense something. It wasn’t fear. It tasted sour.

The steady tap-tap-tap of the engine changed to a deafening clatter. The bus lurched to a stop. Vincent grabbed his stomach. The muscles flinched back, rumbling their disapproval. “Not again” he muttered. Fingers of pain tightened around his torso, bubbling up dead parasites waiting to be eliminated along with his last undigested meal. He pulled himself up. His gaunt reflection squinting back at him from the grimy window no longer startled him. He turned & shuffled towards the open doorway.

The scorching, mid-day sun stung his hollow eyes. He squatted behind a dust-caked bush imagining the microscopic predators burrowing into the deepest recesses of his guts, striking bone. The boom of the rusty hood caught his attention. The driver’s pudgy arm swept across his chest and pointed towards the bus.

Hours later they rolled into a cleft between two fertile hills. Vincent slung his worn pack over his shoulder as most of the passengers, clutching awkward bundles in their callused hands, disembarked. The cool moist air made him shiver. He struggled over to the small stand that crouched in the corner of the lot, right where it was supposed to be.

“Senior Edgar”? he inquired?

“Se fue” came the reply from the shadowy interior.

“Safeway?” he responded.

“Si senor”. A gold Rolex pointed up the steep winding road where small crosses stood clustered like sentinels.

Vincent’s chin slumped to his chest. He turned and reentered the rusted leviathan.

The light was waning when the bus crested the outskirts of the village. Low, lifeless-colored clouds draped themselves over the town like a shroud. A steady drizzle rapped against the metal roof. The driver downshifted around a bend where plumes of gray cascaded over the miry embankment in thick curling waves. The bus skidded to a stop. On the narrow ledge ahead, a bearded figure was slowly wading through a river of mud. Sinewy strands of vapor trailed behind him. Vincent stared at the familiar face. He rose to signal him when a billowing blanket of fog swallowed the man whole.

The bus crunched into gear. It inched along the slender trail. The right rear wheel began to spin, causing the vehicle to rotate towards the edge of the precipice. Vincent heard the operator gun the engine as the miasma entered the convulsing hulk and consumed the passengers, one by one. The sound of the sinking wheels whirling in the ooze filled the deadened interior. The vehicle hung there for a lifetime, then vanished into the swirling mist.