One Somewhere in Texas
The bird watched the bus.
The bird was joined by dozens more of its kind, and they all watched the bus.
The birds circled and swooped overhead.
The birds cast shadows against the sun.
The birds watched the bus.
It didn’t make much of a sound. Just a gentle scrape of the tires. Just a light squeak of the brakes.
The Greyhound bus trundled along on the highway road, its iron roof winking in the searing Texas sun. Behind the bus there was nothing but road stretching on for mile after mile; up ahead the story was quite similar. A hazy shimmer of heat. Desert and highway. Cacti and sand as far as the eye could see. In one direction lay Mexico, in the other… The bus was making its lonesome journey in the proverbial middle of nowhere.
Not a sound emanated from that glimmering metal structure. The engine was still running.
Not a single figure appeared to be stirring. A few of the birds started to land on the roof, absentmindedly pecking at the scalding surface, hopping and prancing backwards and forwards.
Peck peck peck.
Steam sighed out of the engine. The birds shuffled along, squawking and flapping and arguing with one another. The sun was high overhead. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen in the crystal blue sky, where more and more birds circled, dancers. They floated down and landed. They budged and nudged along the roof towards the front of the bus. One of the birds hopped down on the hood. One of the birds landed on the steps of the vehicle and peered up, head cocked to one side. The bird on the hood tapped at the partially red windshield with its beak. It was impossible to see inside. Birds flapped in front of the windows, as the vehicle continued the gentle roll down the road. The tires were starting to grate and groan against the bubbling asphalt; they bumped over a rock, dragged to the left, and took the bus with them.
The birds stayed with it.
They pecked at the doors.
Peck peck peck.
There was a crack. One bird tried to squeeze inside, but only its yellow beak would fit. It removed its head and squawked, a low, unhappy sound. Its beak was now stained with a deep red. It stepped back onto the step. Its tiny claws patted into more of the crimson moisture, as it
drip drip dripped
down from the step to the road below. More birds swooped down. They circled the bus. They wanted to get inside so badly. A few of them landed on the road. They hopped and bounced against the scalding surface. They clucked and squawked in each other’s faces. They bounced along the road a few yards, their small, shiny, marble-like eyes curious and afraid.
There was more of the same red stuff on the road. It
drip drip dripped
down from the bus step onto the road, and it carried on. It carried on down the road, step after step after step after step. The birds looked from the bus to the red stains on the road. They hopped between the two. They dipped their beaks into the red stuff and tasted it. They backed away. They red trail went on for mile. It was heading up the road.
A sign lay ahead. The only shred of sense. Green and looming, filled with writing and information. The red-stained birds flapped up and landed on the sign. They looked down on the bus, as it crawled onto the desert floor like a blind tortoise, bumping and bumbling its way through the shrubs and dirt, before finally colliding with a rock that was simply too large to overcome, and coming to a stop a few metres away from the road.
The engine hissed and steamed. The birds bounced along the roof. The birds on the sign watched everything. They looked back towards Mexico. They looked forward. The sign was pointing in that direction. The sun was pointing in the other direction. The sun lay in Mexico; it didn’t seem to exist further up the road.
No bird went further than the sign. Their journey ended there. They flew from the sky to the bus, from the bus to the red-stained earth, and from the ground to the sign. Their beaks and claws were covered in the red stuff. They had pecked and pranced in it like revellers in a fountain. Now they sat atop the sign. Now the red stuff was up there too. Hundreds of tiny red footprints littered the top. The substance began to creep from the edge of their razor sharp claws and run. It ran over the edge and began to slide down the sign. The red stuff
drip drip dripped
down the face of the sign.
The green became red.
The writing was buried beneath.
As the bus hissed in the desert.
As more birds circled overhead.
As the red trail made its way gradually up the road and into the distance.
And the birds watched the bus.
