“Wait.”
The problem for the Guild is that with a Flawed bus, everyone on it is Flawed. For people who are not usually allowed to gather in more than twos, there was no getting around the rule when they created the curfew bus. At the beginning there was a Whistleblower on each bus, but then it proved too costly, so it was a Whistleblower as the driver. But then leading up to an election campaign, the bus drivers went on strike, said their jobs were being taken from them. The government wanted to create new employment and opened the bus jobs back up to civilians. Surveillance cameras were installed in the buses instead to make sure of no uprising plans.
An old woman turns around and addresses me and Carrick. “Can’t you two do something about this?”
Everyone twists around to look at us. The driver included.
“Shit,” Carrick whispers.
“What are you two up to?” the driver asks, recognizing us immediately.
“As if they’re going to tell you,” the old woman barks at him. “They’re young; they’ve time on their side; they’re doing exactly what the rest of us should have done from the beginning.”
I smile at her gratefully.
“Look.” The driver holds his hands up. “I got a grandson who’s Flawed. Couldn’t stand the sight of you all until that happened to him. Guess you could say it opened my eyes.”
Silence.
“I don’t want to be on this bus with these two,” another woman shouts. “I’ll get into trouble for just having seen you. You’ve made us suffer enough. Why don’t you just keep your head down and do what you’re told, Celestine North? Stop getting the rest of us into trouble.”
I stand up and address the bus, my legs shaky.
“I’m on your side, remember? I’m trying to prove that we’re not Flawed. Or if we are, that there’s nothing wrong with that. We’ve made our mistakes, we’ve learned from them. I just need some time to make it all come together.”
“She’s the only one who’s speaking up for us,” one woman says. “The only person who’s not using violence, at least. Those hooligans behind the riots aren’t doing anything to help our cause, at least Celestine is doing it peacefully.”
“Yes, she’s right. The people like her, you know, I’ve overheard them talking. They’re confused about it, but they like her. They’re talking about whether she had a fair trial. Can you believe they’re talking about a Flawed like that?”
“Nothing will come of it,” a man says. “It will die down like talk always has.”
“What talk?” the old woman snaps. “There’s never been this amount of support for Flawed. We need to help it grow.”
“The support won’t die down,” I say firmly to the man. “I won’t let it.”
The bus driver seems to take all this in, considers the arguments thoughtfully, as though he’s judge and jury on his own bus.
“Are you going to make my grandson free again?” he asks.
“I’m trying my best.”
He nods again. Looks at Carrick. “Are you helping her?”
“She’s helping us all.”
“Where are you going?”
I hand him the address. He studies it. “I’m guessing this is important.”
I nod.
“Everyone else is getting off, and I’m taking these two wherever they need to go—does anybody have anything to say about it?”
The doubters don’t say a word.
“Any word to anyone about this and I’ll tell them you’re a bunch of liars, do you hear?” the driver threatens.
The women in front of me shake our hands and wish us luck.
“I want you to know I’m only getting off this bus for them,” says the man who started the protest in the first place. He looks at me. “Do it for us, Celestine. You can do it.” He points a finger in the driver’s face as he passes. “You better get them where they need to go.”
My eyes fill with tears, in gratitude for the gesture. I have to do this for them, for everyone.
The driver sits down behind the wheel and closes the door, stopping any of the others from boarding again. They all glare at the bus angrily. He starts the engine and drives off.
It was on a bus that I lost my faith in humanity. It was on a bus that it was restored.
FIFTY
THE DRIVER DROPS us as near to Mary May’s address as possible, but it’s difficult to get too close, as a Flawed curfew bus off the beaten track would attract too much attention.
Mary May’s cottage, with its thatched roof, sits alone by a fishing pier. There is a sharp turn right into her driveway before the end of the pier, and her garden juts out into the lake. Fishing paraphernalia bobs gently on the shore. The lights are off in her house. I hope that she’s not home, which would make this all the easier, but so far nothing has been easy.
We make our way down the pier and climb the wall attached to her garden, a long lawn of luscious exotic flowers, well tended, with a pretty bridge across a stream. Such a picturesque place for a monster to reside.
We keep low and I follow Carrick, hiding behind Mary May’s shrubbery to get in a good position to view the house. It’s the back of the house that faces out to the lake, the back of the house that does all the living. The plan had been so simple—go to Mary May’s house and grab the snow globe—but now that we’re here I see the gaping holes in my idea. How we are going to get in being the biggest problem.
“How are we going to do this?” I whisper.
“We ring the bell, tie her up, I punch her if I have to, punch her even if I don’t have to. You grab the snow globe.”
I look at him, certain that is the lamest idea I’ve ever heard.
“If we hurt her, it will get us into more trouble. The police will be after us, too. Mary May is the most prized Whistleblower.”
“So I won’t hurt her. I’ll just tie her up. Really tight.”
“Carrick,” I say, frustrated, “we need to think of something other than brute force.”
He looks at me blankly.
I curse, knowing I’m alone on the plan-making front. I can understand his nerves, just the very idea of what we’re risking by being here. I study the house, trying to figure out a way to break in. A figure appears at the door. The back door opens suddenly and we duck.
“Crap. It’s her.” I’m sure she’s seen us; who goes out to their garden for a leisurely stroll after 11:00 PM?
An old lady in a nightdress wanders outside barefoot onto the grass. She has long gray hair, plaited to one side, and appears like a kind of ghostly vision, in her floating white gown in the dark night.
She has left the back door open, I can see Carrick looking at it. I know what he’s thinking, but my gut instinct says he’s wrong to make a run for it.