The Last Normal Morning
CHAPTER ONE
Arjun woke to the sound of Raghav puking his guts out.
Nothing new there. Raghav threw up before every exam, every school trip, every time life demanded more than his seventeen-year-old nervous system could handle. What was new was the silence afterward—no groaning, no dramatic death announcements, no colorful commentary about the unfairness of existence.
Just quiet.
Arjun sat up in his narrow bunk, the boys’ dormitory around him caught in that gray hour before dawn when the world felt temporarily paused. Twenty-nine other guys breathed and shifted in their sleep, unaware that in six hours they’d be climbing into yellow buses bound for Leh. Unaware that some of them wouldn’t be coming back.
But Arjun didn’t know that yet either.
He pulled on yesterday’s jeans and padded toward the bathroom. The door hung half-open, fluorescent light cutting a harsh line across scuffed tiles. Inside, Raghav sat against the wall, staring at his phone with an expression Arjun had never seen before.
Relief. Pure, unexpected relief.
“You okay?”
Raghav looked up, and his gray eyes held something that looked almost like peace. “My sister called. First time in eight months.”
Arjun knew about the sister. Knew about the accident at the ghats, the way Raghav blamed himself for not being faster when the current tried to take her. Knew about the silence that had grown between them like infection.
“What did she say?”
“That she forgives me.” Raghav’s voice cracked around the edges. “Said she’s proud of me. That I did everything I could.”
Something cold touched the base of Arjun’s spine. Not because of what Raghav said, but when he’d said it. People didn’t forgive eight months of silence at five-thirty in the morning unless they had a reason. Unless they knew something was coming.
“That’s good,” he said, because what else was there?
Raghav stood, pocketed his phone. “Yeah. It really is.”
Across the courtyard, the girls’ hostel was already buzzing with pre-trip energy. Through their windows, Arjun could see silhouettes moving in the early light, catch the distant sound of argument and laughter that meant Anjali was holding court.
By seven, both buildings had erupted into familiar chaos. In the boys’ wing, thirty students tore through lockers, fought over phone chargers, crammed extra socks into backpacks already bursting. The noise should have been comforting—routine as breathing—but something felt off.
Arjun sat on his bed, fully packed since the night before, watching patterns. Kabir moved through the chaos like smoke, never hurried but always exactly where he needed to be. When he spoke, others listened without knowing why. When he smiled, they smiled back. Natural leadership wasn’t taught—it was born.
“Bus leaves in twenty,” Kabir said without raising his voice. Somehow, everyone heard him anyway.
Arjun had been studying Kabir for three years, like learning a foreign language he desperately wanted to speak. The way he tilted his head when listening. How he could end arguments with a look. The way fear never seemed to touch him.
That last part Arjun envied most.
“Ready?” Kabir dropped onto the bunk beside him.
“Always.”
“No, I mean ready ready. This isn’t just another school trip. Leh changes people.”
Something in Kabir’s voice carried weight that hadn’t been there yesterday. Arjun studied his friend’s face, looking for clues. Kabir’s features were sharp, precise, carved from mountain stone. But his eyes...
His eyes looked like goodbye.
“Kabir, what aren’t you—”
“Just trust me, okay? Whatever happens up there, stay close. Promise me that.”
Before Arjun could ask what the hell that meant, the call came to load up.
The buses crouched in the courtyard like sleeping yellow beasts, exhaust steaming in morning cold. Beyond the school walls, the Himalayas rose in impossible layers of blue and white, peaks disappearing into cloud. Beautiful. Deadly. Indifferent to small human dramas playing out in their shadow.
Cherry Singh stood beside Bus 10, checking tire pressure with the efficiency of a man who’d driven these roads for twenty years. His Punjabi warmth was legend among students—he remembered birthdays, family crises, stupid jokes. This morning, though, his usual grin seemed forced.
“Everything good, Cherry bhai?” Arjun asked, loading his bag.
Cherry looked up, wrench still in hand. For a second, his cheerful mask slipped. “Roads are different lately, beta. Weather’s been strange. Landslides where there shouldn’t be any. Animals acting...” He shook his head. “Probably nothing. Your generation worries too much.”
But he was the one who looked worried.
Students filed aboard with practiced efficiency, but hostel hierarchy followed them onto the bus. Girls and boys mixed freely—their school wasn’t the type to enforce Victorian separation—but the real divisions were about age and social standing. Seniors claimed back rows by divine right, sprawling across seats like they owned them. Juniors huddled near the front, automatically accepting their lot, staying close to teachers’ watchful eyes because that’s where they belonged in the pecking order.
Middle rows became contested territory where ambitious juniors tried to sit near popular seniors, and where the social dynamics got most interesting. Arjun watched a sophomore get quietly but firmly relocated when he tried to claim a seat that a senior had reserved for his friends. No harsh words needed—just a look and subtle body language that said “not happening, kid.”
“Rohit, grab those two seats for us,” Vikram instructed a eager junior, who immediately dove for the spots like it was an honor to serve.
“Nice work,” Aman said approvingly, and Rohit glowed like he’d won an award.
Across the aisle, the girls had their own version of the same hierarchy playing out. Anjali was already organizing her small kingdom—phone charger, snacks, and a carefully curated playlist that would somehow satisfy everyone’s musical tastes—while younger girls automatically arranged themselves in supporting roles. She had that gift: making others feel included while clearly being the one in charge.
“Priya, can you make sure everyone’s got the trip itinerary?” Anjali asked a sophomore, who nodded eagerly and started distributing papers she’d somehow been carrying.
Arjun took a window seat halfway back—senior enough to have options, smart enough not to challenge the real power players. Kabir settled beside him without discussion. Three years of friendship meant some arrangements transcended the formal hierarchy.
“You brought your camera, right?” she called across the aisle, dark eyes bright with excitement. “I want real photos, not just phone selfies.”
He patted his backpack. Anjali had been recruiting him to document school events since sophomore year, claiming he saw things others missed. Not entirely wrong.
Behind her, Sana gazed out the window with quiet intensity, fingers drumming against her phone case. Where Anjali blazed, Sana observed. They balanced each other like Arjun and Kabir did—fire and analysis, action and thought.
“First time to Leh?” Sana asked, catching his eye.
“Yeah. You?”
“Third time.” Her smile was small but genuine. “It gets in your blood. The silence up there... it’s different from anywhere else.”
Something in her tone made him look closer. Sana was easy to overlook next to Anjali’s brightness, but there was steel underneath that stillness. Intelligence that cut deeper than most people realized.
Two rows ahead, Meher had already pulled out her sketchbook, pencil moving in quick strokes. She drew constantly—faces, landscapes, moments that caught her eye. Her work had a way of capturing not just how things looked, but how they felt. He’d seen her sketch of the school courtyard during monsoon; somehow she’d made graphite and paper convey the smell of rain on stone.
“What are you drawing?” he asked.
She held up the page without stopping. Cherry Singh in profile as he made final checks, but something was different. In Meher’s version, shadows fell across his face suggesting worry, fear even. Lines around his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
“You see it too,” Arjun said quietly.
Her pencil paused. “Something’s been off since yesterday. The way people are acting. Like they know something’s coming.”
Mrs. Kapoor stood at the front, clipboard in hand, surveying her charges with the eye of a woman who’d chaperoned a thousand field trips and lived to tell about it. Small, severe, absolutely fearless—the kind of teacher who could silence a room with a raised eyebrow.
“Seat belts,” she announced. “No exceptions. No arguments.”
Thirty teenagers groaned and complied. Even seniors knew better than to challenge Mrs. Kapoor.
Mr. Bhalla counted heads with his usual befuddled kindness, gray hair sticking up at odd angles, sweater sporting a hole near the elbow. Students loved him because he never remembered to confiscate phones or enforce lights-out. Mrs. Kapoor tolerated him because he was genuinely good with kids.
Together, they made an effective team.
The engine coughed to life. Cherry adjusted his rearview mirror and caught sight of two seniors—Aman and Vikram—already making their move toward the front.
“Cherry bhai,” Aman called out with that easy charm seniors perfected, “long trip ahead. Mind if we keep you company? Road gets boring alone.”
Mr. Bhalla, still fumbling with his attendance sheet, looked up nervously. “Boys, please return to your assigned seats. The seating chart is very specific, and I—”
“Sir, it’s a six-hour drive,” Vikram interrupted smoothly. “We’re just being friendly. Helping Cherry bhai stay alert.”
Mrs. Kapoor appeared beside Mr. Bhalla like a hawk sensing weakness. “Absolutely not. Assigned seats exist for safety reasons. Return to your places immediately.”
But Kabir was already moving, that natural authority working its magic. He approached Mrs. Kapoor with a respectful smile—not challenging, just reasonable. “Ma’am, Cherry bhai mentioned the road’s been tricky lately. Extra eyes up front might actually be safer. We’ll keep things calm.”
There was something about the way Kabir said it—not asking permission, just stating facts—that made even Mrs. Kapoor pause. Cherry caught on immediately.
“The boys have a point, ma’am,” Cherry said, adjusting his cap with a grin. “These mountain roads demand respect. Good to have sharp young eyes watching for trouble.”
Mr. Bhalla wrung his hands. “But the protocol says—”
“Protocol also says driver’s discretion for safety matters,” Mrs. Kapoor cut him off, though she didn’t look happy about it. “Fine. But any disruption and you’re back to your assigned seats.”
“Absolutely, ma’am,” Kabir said with that winning smile. “Just helping out.”
Within minutes, Aman and Vikram had claimed seats near Cherry, and somehow the bus stereo was playing a mix that alternated between English pop and Punjabi beats—exactly the compromise that kept everyone happy. Cherry hummed along to a Punjabi track, occasionally translating particularly funny lyrics for the boys.
“See?” Aman grinned back at the rest of the bus. “Democracy in action.”
Mr. Bhalla still looked uncertain about the whole arrangement, but Mrs. Kapoor had already moved on to checking seat belts with military precision. Cherry’s voice crackled over the intercom: “Leh, here we come! Hold onto your breakfast, kids. These roads don’t forgive weak stomachs.”
Cheers went up from the back. The music played on. Everything exactly as it should be for a normal school trip.
Except for the empty road stretching ahead.
Two hours out, Arjun noticed it first. No oncoming traffic. No supply trucks. No local buses packed with villagers. Nothing but empty asphalt and growing walls of stone.
He checked his phone. No signal.
“Hey.” He kept his voice low, not wanting to start a panic. “When’s the last time you saw another vehicle?”
Kabir frowned, thinking. “Not since we left the main highway. Why?”
“This is the primary route to Leh. Should be busy.”
Across the aisle, Sana looked up from her own phone, frowning. “No signal here either. That’s not normal for this stretch.”
Anjali tried to make light of it. “Digital detox time! We’ll actually have to talk to each other.” But her smile didn’t reach her eyes, and she kept trying to refresh her messages anyway.
“Maybe construction ahead,” Kabir suggested. “Detour route.”
Maybe. But the radio was silent too, and Cherry hadn’t mentioned road closures. Arjun pressed his face to cold glass, studying the landscape. Mountains rose around them like cathedral walls, beautiful and terrible and completely empty.
Movement caught his eye. High on a ridge, silhouetted against sky—a figure watching their convoy pass. Too distant for details, but something about the way it stood made his skin crawl. Motionless. Patient. Wrong.
“You see that?” He pointed, but when the others looked, it was gone.
“See what?” Kabir asked.
“Thought I saw someone on the ridge.”
“Probably a local,” Sana said, but doubt colored her voice. “Strange place to be standing, though.”
Meher’s pencil had stopped moving. She stared at the empty ridge, face pale. “It’s been following us for the last hour.”
“What’s been following us?” Anjali demanded, confidence cracking.
“I don’t know. But it’s watching.”
The words hung in recycled air like a curse. Arjun studied his friends’ faces, seeing his own unease reflected back. Kabir stayed calm, but something calculating flickered in his expression. Sana had gone very still, processing information. Anjali’s brightness dimmed, replaced by something sharper. And Meher...
Meher was drawing again, pencil moving frantically. When she held it up, Arjun’s blood chilled.
The ridge. But not empty—lined with figures standing in perfect silence, watching their convoy crawl past like ants under a microscope.
Waiting.
The bus climbed higher, engine straining. Behind them, four other yellow vehicles followed in convoy, their bulk incongruous against stark mountain landscape. Inside Bus 10, initial excitement had settled into travel rhythm, but now that rhythm felt forced. Conversations too bright. Laughter too loud.
Everyone could feel it—the wrongness building since morning. The sense they were driving toward something that had been expecting them.
Which was why, when the radio finally crackled with something other than static, every head turned toward the speakers.
“—emergency broadcast. All civilian traffic on the Leh highway should turn back immediately. Repeat: do not proceed to—”
Signal died.
Cherry’s knuckles went white on the wheel. Mrs. Kapoor stood, one hand braced against a seat back, face calm but alert. Mr. Bhalla fumbled with his radio, trying to find the frequency.
Nothing.
“What was that?” Anjali whispered, all confidence gone.
“Probably just—” Mrs. Kapoor began, but Cherry cut her off.
“Everyone stay calm. We’re pulling over to check the other buses.”
The convoy rolled to a stop at a road widening. Through windows, Arjun watched teachers from other buses gather in urgent conference, voices too low to hear. Cherry stood apart, scanning ridges with eyes that had learned to read these mountains like text.
Whatever he saw didn’t make him happy.
“Listen to me.” Kabir’s voice was quiet, meant for close friends only. “Remember what I said about staying ready?”
“Yeah.”
“I meant it. Whatever we find up there, whatever happens next—stay close to me. Keep the girls close too. Can you do that?”
The question hung heavy with implications Arjun didn’t want to examine. He looked at his friend—really looked—and saw something he’d missed. Kabir wasn’t just calm. He was prepared. Like he’d been expecting this.
Like he knew what was coming.
Across the aisle, Sana was watching them both with sharp intelligence. “What aren’t you telling us, Kabir?”
But before he could answer, Cherry climbed back aboard, face grim.
“Change of plans. We’re turning around.”
Protests erupted immediately. Seniors shouted about ruined vacations. Juniors whined about missing the mountains. Mrs. Kapoor raised her voice for order, but for once her authority wasn’t enough.
Only Kabir stayed silent, eyes fixed beyond windows on something only he could see.
Anjali grabbed Arjun’s arm. “This isn’t about road construction, is it?”
He shook his head, wishing he could lie. “No. I don’t think it is.”
Meher held up her latest sketch—their bus seen from above, surrounded by empty space that somehow felt full of threat. In her drawing, mountains pressed close like walls, and the road behind them had vanished entirely.
They were alone. Five yellow buses full of kids, cut off from the world by forces none of them understood.
And in that isolation, Arjun finally grasped what had been bothering him all morning. Not what they were driving toward.
What they were leaving behind.
The empty road stretched behind them like an open mouth. Somewhere in that mouth, something was stirring. Something that had waited for five buses full of children to venture just far enough from safety.
Just far enough to be alone.
But as Cherry threw the bus into reverse, as teachers shouted conflicting orders, as students pressed faces to windows trying to understand why their simple school trip had become something else entirely, Arjun caught one last glimpse of the ridge.
The figures Meher had drawn were there now. Really there. Dozens of them, standing in perfect silence against the sky.
And they were moving down toward the road.
The last normal morning was over. What came next would test everything they thought they knew about themselves, about courage, about what it meant to survive when the world stopped making sense.
Arjun reached across the aisle and took Sana’s hand. Not romantic—just human contact in the face of something inhuman approaching.
She squeezed back, understanding perfectly.
Behind them, the figures on the ridge began to run.
