The School Bus Chronicles: Apocalypse Road Trip

Snacks and Survival

Chapter 2: Snacks and Survival

The horizon blurred into a smear of grey ash and dying light. Drovian’s hands were locked to the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his mind a jagged piece of glass. The silence inside the bus was heavier than the explosion that had leveled the city. Thirty-two sets of lungs worked in shallow, rhythmic gasps. Nobody dared to cry. They were too busy staring at the back of Drovian’s head, waiting for a permission slip to breathe.

"We’re stopping," Drovian said. His voice was a rasp, stripped raw by the smoke pouring through the vents.

"Stop? Mr. D, you said we weren't stopping!" Jax stood up, his hand still gripping the crowbar. The metal was stained with something dark and viscous.

"Fuel, Jax. And water. We have three cases of juice boxes and half a bag of stale pretzels left," Drovian said, pulling the bus onto the gravel shoulder of a desolate highway. The store, a derelict structure labeled Lucky’s Stop, sat like a rotted tooth against the blackened landscape. "If we don’t resupply, we’re walking in two hours. Do you want to walk?"

"I’m not walking," Veylor muttered, sliding out from under the dashboard. He wiped his greasy palms on his jeans. "The coolant is leaking again. If I don’t get some distilled water, the engine is going to melt."

Drovian killed the ignition. The sudden absence of the bus's mechanical roar felt like a physical blow. "Jarevik, stay by the door. Keep the bolt gun aimed at the entrance. Everyone else, stay down. I’m going in."

"I'll go," Jarevik said, hopping over the seat. He was a skinny kid with eyes that moved too fast for his own good. "I know this place. My uncle used to own it. It’s got a back door, and there’s a basement storage room. If there’s anything left, it’s going to be in the back."

Drovian studied him, then nodded. "Fine. Quick. If you see anyone, you don’t talk, you don’t negotiate. You run back to me."

They stepped off the bus. The air tasted like copper and burnt plastic. Drovian gripped his tire iron, his pulse thumping in his throat. As they reached the glass doors of the store, a man stumbled into view from behind the counter. He looked like he’d been chewed up and spat out—blood matted his hair, and his left arm hung at an unnatural angle. He was clutching a box of crackers like a holy relic.

"Get back!" the man wheezed, brandishing a rusty kitchen knife. "I found it first. It’s mine. You don’t come in here."

Drovian raised his hands, keeping his voice low and steady. "Hey, easy. We don't want your food, man. We’re just trying to get some water for the engine. Look at us. We’ve got a bus full of kids. We’re just trying to get through the night."

"A bus?" The man squinted, his eyes darting toward the vehicle. "You brought more mouths to feed? You’re crazy. There’s nothing left. The trucks took it all. The marauders are coming back, they said so!"

"Who said so?" Jarevik stepped forward, his tone shifting into a sharp, dismissive jab. "Look, old man, we don't have time for a sob story. You’ve got a case of water behind that shelf, and I know it. You give us two gallons, we’ll leave you alone. We’ve got gear you don't."

The man trembled, the knife shaking in his grip. "You kids... you don't understand what’s out there. They’re turning. I saw them. My wife... she’s still in the back. She’s... she’s not herself anymore."

"Jesus," Drovian whispered, his grip tightening on the iron. "Jarevik, stay back."

"I’m just going for the water, Mr. D," Jarevik said, his voice turning into a quick, tactical mutter. "He’s too cracked to stop me."

Jarevik lunged, not toward the man, but toward the storage door. The man screamed, a high, piercing sound that cut through the silence of the highway. He swung the knife, but Drovian stepped in, blocking the blow with his forearm. The man collapsed into a heap of sobbing, defeated flesh.

"It’s gone," the man wailed. "Everything is gone!"

"Jarevik! Get the water and move!" Drovian barked.

"Found it!" Jarevik shouted from the back. "Two gallons of distilled, a box of energy bars, and a flashlight. Let’s go!"

They scrambled back toward the bus, the gravel crunching loudly under their boots. Drovian looked back at the road. A dust cloud was rising in the distance—far too fast to be a sedan.

"Bikes," Drovian cursed. "Three of them. We’ve got company."

"They look armed, Mr. D!" Jarevik yelled, reaching the bus steps. "What do we do?"

"We don't outrun them," Drovian said, his eyes scanning the store’s exterior. "Jarevik, get inside. Start the engine. Jax, get the kids away from the windows. I’m going to rig the store entrance."

"Rig it? With what?" Jax asked, his face pale.

"The fuel line we patched. I’m going to drain the remaining fuel from our spare can and set a trail. Get the bus behind the cover of the store’s loading dock. Now!"

Drovian worked with a frantic, cold precision. He poured the fuel in a thick, slick line across the entrance of the shop, looping it back toward the discarded gas canisters. He moved behind a row of rusted barrels, waiting.

The bikes roared closer, their engines sounding like chainsaws ripping through silk. Three men, draped in leather and dust, skidded to a halt. They looked less like humans and more like predators, their eyes hollowed out by whatever had happened in the city.

"Looks like the bus is empty, boys," one of them growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Check the store."

"Yeah, let’s see what the driver left behind," another laughed, stepping into the fuel-soaked entrance.

Drovian didn't wait. He clicked his lighter and flicked it into the puddle. The ignition was instantaneous—a wall of fire erupted, turning the doorway into a furnace. The bikers shrieked, scrambling back as the fuel line ignited in a blinding, hungry orange glow.

"Go! Move!" Drovian sprinted for the bus, the heat singing his eyebrows. He leaped onto the steps as the engine roared to life.

"They’re coming around!" Jax screamed, pointing to the side mirror. A biker was peeling off, heading straight for the bus's rear bumper.

Drovian slammed the bus into gear, the tires spinning on the loose dirt before biting into the asphalt. The vehicle surged forward, the heavy frame shaking as he pushed it to sixty. The bus jolted as it hit the highway, the roar of the bikes trailing behind them like hornets.

"We did it," Veylor gasped, clutching his chest. "We’re clear, right?"

Drovian checked the mirror. The fire had turned the store into a beacon, and the bikers were struggling to navigate the burning entrance. He let out a long, ragged breath, his heart finally beginning to slow.

"Everyone stay down," Drovian said. "We aren't home yet."

"Mr. D?" Sarah’s voice came from the back, thin and trembling. "There’s a problem."

Drovian looked in the rearview mirror. Sarah was standing over one of the younger students, a boy named Leo. Leo was curled on the floor, his shirt soaked in dark, spreading crimson.

"What happened to him?" Drovian asked, his voice tightening.

"He went to the back when we were hiding," Sarah whispered, her hands shaking. "One of them... it didn't look like a person, Mr. D. It was in the alley. It got to him before he could pull the door shut. It bit him."

Drovian looked at the boy. Leo was staring at the ceiling, his eyes rapidly glazing over. The wound on his shoulder was jagged, the skin around it turning a sickly, mottled grey.

"He’s burning up," Sarah sobbed. "Mr. D, he’s not waking up."

Drovian felt his stomach drop into a bottomless pit. He looked at the road ahead, at the endless stretch of darkness, and then at the boy who was no longer a boy. The bus hummed along, a yellow metal box carrying a cargo of ghosts.

"Keep him away from the others," Drovian whispered, his grip on the wheel tightening until his fingers ached. "Don’t let him move."