the bus. I'm thrown forward onto the broken glass from the window. It's safety glass, but those little beads still hurt when you fall on them.
Metal screams and I'm yelping as the back seat deforms inward. The rear side windows shatter. There's glass and seat stuffing everywhere.
The Echo's horn is droning in an endless cycle like a wounded beast, and there's the sharp, stinging odor of fuel. I shake my head. I try to slow my crashing breaths. I want to rub my eyes, but there's no telling what I'd be grinding into them.
I reckon I've got about thirty seconds, maybe a minute, before they're out of that car. It's going to take much more than a collision with a bus to stop them. There's bits of glass in my hands but no deep cuts; it hurts like a bastard, though, which is actually a good thing since it distracts me from the headache regrouping in my skull.
'Are you all right?' Lissa asks.
'Can anyone in that bland suit be all right?' Tremaine says.
I'd be better if he shut up. I've never been a fan of Tremaine, but then again, he's never been much of a fan of me or my family, either. He sees us Queensland Pomps as a bunch of slackers and, sure, I may have gotten drunk at a couple of training sessions, but the guy's about as boring as they come.
'You and your taste.' Lissa shakes her head.
Tremaine gives her a smug smile. 'Darling, it was yours for a while.'
'We all have to regret something, Eric.'
I glance at these two-Lissa scowling and Eric giving her the sleaziest, most self-satisfied smile I've seen outside of a porno. Bastard. Oh God, Lissa and Flatty Tremaine!
I'm jealous: bloody burning with it. But there's no time for this. I scan the bus; people are slowly recovering from the shock of the collision. I was the only one who had a moment's warning, and I'm still as shaky as all hell. There's a few nosebleeds, but that seems to be the worst of it. I have to get out of here fast, or someone is going to die. It may not be me, but it's sure as hell going to be my fault. I run for the front door of the bus.
'Have to get out,' I say.
The driver's on the radio, calling it in. No one seems to know a rifle was involved. Everyone is shaken but not as disturbed as they should be. The driver waves at me irritably. 'No, you're staying on the bus until I say so. Council policy.'
Fair enough, but not today. I reach over, turn the release switch. The door sighs open.
He grabs my arm; I tug my arm free, and bolt for the exit.
'What? You! Get back-' I hear him slamming down on the switch.
I'm almost through and the door closes on my leg. It's a firm grip and I'm hanging, suspended by the door. I yank my leg like some sort of trapped and clumsy animal, and something gives because I'm dropping onto the road, the ground knocking the breath from me.
'Smooth,' Tremaine says.
'Screw you,' I manage, which is stupid because I shouldn't be wasting any of the breath in my lungs. Blobs dance in my vision.
'And ever so charming.'
I give him the finger. Tremaine raises an eyebrow. Lissa's watching the bus.
'Get up,' she says. 'Get up, get up.'
Winded, I lie there on the side of the road. Even with the adrenaline coursing through me that's about all I can manage. I stare blankly at the looming city with its skyline of genuflecting cranes. I'm on the verge of slipping into manic, gasping chuckles. The sky is lit up by the city, everything's calm… and I've been shot at-twice-by my parents.
'Get up,' Lissa says. 'Now.'
At last, after what really can't have been more than a few seconds, breath finds my lungs.
'I'm trying.' I get very unsteadily to my feet. Which is when the bus driver comes crashing through the door and tackles me.
I'm back down on the road. More cuts, more bruises.
'Get the fuck back in the bus!' he growls, his arms wrapped around my legs.
'No, I can't!' I scramble, kicking and twisting and flailing, to my feet.
We circle each other. He's taking this personally, his face beet-red, his hands clenched into fists. The driver is a big man. I'm not, just tall and thin. He also looks like he might practice some particularly nasty form of martial art that specializes in snapping tall, thin people in two.
'I don't want to have to fight you,' I say, mainly because I don't want to have to fight him.
'Then get back in the bus.' The way he says it suggests there's no gentle way of getting back into the bus.
He advances, his eyes wild, obviously in shock, or just extremely, extremely pissed off. I lunge to the right, then sprint around the side of the bus. He crashes after me, swearing at the top of his lungs. There's not much room to move-we're hemmed in by traffic, though none of it is moving that quickly, on account of the accident and the show we're putting on. We get around twice; I've got the edge on him, speed-wise, which is kind of meaningless because all I'm going to do is end up running into his back.
There are cars pulling up everywhere. Some industrious and extremely helpful guy has stopped and is directing traffic, and there's a woman over at the crumpled, smoking Echo. She sees me and starts waving at me to come over, maybe to help. I yell at her to get away. Someone is moving in the car, and I suspect that someone is going to have the rifle. Every passing second improves his or her hand-eye coordination.
The bus driver's boots crunch on the gravel behind me. 'Get back here, you prick!' the bus driver yells. I glance around to see how close he is. He catches a mouthful of smoke and bends over, coughing. The air is positively toxic. For a moment I worry that he might just drop dead. But at least he's not running after me anymore.
'This is all going so wonderfully,' Tremaine says, startling me. I ignore him.
I pull my sunglasses over my eyes and sprint-sneak over to the helpful guy's car, a green hatchback. I feel like an absolute bastard. The keys are in the ignition, which is a relief. I start up the car, and shoot down Coro Drive, fishtailing around the bus, and nearly smash into oncoming traffic. I straighten the hatchback at the last minute, not knowing where in Christ I'm going.
In my rear-vision mirror the bus driver is roaring away at me between coughs, the helpful guy with him. He's not looking that helpful now, and I don't blame him. I feel awful, like I've mugged a nun.
'Was that wise?' Tremaine is grinning at me, now also in the rear-view mirror. I've never seen a dead guy looking so full of himself.
'Shut the fuck up.'
'It's so nice to see that you can keep your cool in a crisis.'
Tremaine's lucky he's dead already. 'Well, only one of us is still alive,' I snarl.
Low blow, but true. Tremaine is a prick, and being cruel to him is the least of my crimes today.
'What the hell else was he supposed to do?' Lissa asks him.
They flit around each other in the back seat of the car, two aggressive and luminous blurs.
'Not breaking the law might have been a good beginning,' Tremaine says prissily.
Yeah, I could have fled the scene on foot. Not having the police chasing me as well as Stirrers would have been a good idea. But the Stirrers would have caught up with me for sure. I needed to get out of there fast, even if that meant stealing the Good Samaritan's car. I glance back at Tremaine. 'Next time we'll follow your plan. Which was… Hey, didn't we already ascertain that you were dead?'
'You're deadest.' Tremaine clenches a fist in my face. 'That's what you are. Which really doesn't surprise me, you bloody hick Queenslanders.'
'Come a little closer, and I'll fucking pomp you, dead man.'
'Oh, shut up,' Lissa says. 'Both of you shut up.'
Four blocks later, and heading back into Paddington away from the city, I ditch the car (leaving whatever money I have on me in the glove box for the owner's trouble) hoping that there are no CCTV cameras around. There's nothing to connect me to it. I should be safe, particularly when I shave off my beard, which I am going to be doing very soon. Clean-shaven, I'll look like a different person; certainly not the kind of guy who would steal a car, anyway.
