The Last Stop
An Homage to The Twilight Zone
The Twilight Zone redefined storytelling, drawing audiences into the unimaginable. Now, 66 years later, top writers, artists, and musicians are stepping into its eerie glow with a fresh twist. Ready to see where they’ll take you?
Liz Zimmers | Edith Bow | Sean Archer | Bryan Pirolli | Andy Futuro | CB Mason | John Ward | NJ | Hanna Delaney | William Pauley III | Jason Thompson | Nolan Green | Shaina Read | J. Curtis | Honeygloom | Stephen Duffy | K.C. Knouse | Michele Bardsley | Bob Graham | Annie Hendrix | Clancy Steadwell | Jon T | Sean Thomas McDonnell | Miguel S. | A.P Murphy | Lisa Kuznak | Bridget Riley | EJ Trask | Shane Bzdok | Adam Rockwell | Will Boucher
3:28 AM, Lower Manhattan
Under the slanted glass roof of a bus shelter on the corner of 14th Street and Hudson, four inebriated young men dressed in patch-covered black denim cackle at their own crude jokes. An exhausted ER nurse is slumped on the bench, drifting in and out of sleep as she waits for the bus.
A few minutes later, bus 6117 comes lumbering up the road and slows to a squeaky halt in front of the shelter. The air brakes hiss as the door opens with a creaking yawn.
The roisterous men march up the steps and head straight to the back while the nurse collapses into the nearest seat. There are no other passengers on board. The door closes and they’re off, heading to the Lower East Side.
A howl from the back causes the driver to glance in the rearview. He catches a glimpse of a silver flask being passed between them. His eyes go to the nurse, who is already fast asleep, seemingly undisturbed by the rowdy revelry. Her tightly pinned hair frames a drooping face filled with troubled dreams.
“Hey! Keep it down back there, will ya?” the driver commands.
The men go silent and glare back at him. The largest of them, a stocky fellow with spikey orange hair, jumps up from his seat and stomps up the aisle in thick-soled combat boots. He wears a denim vest with a skull patch on the left breast pocket, black fishnet sleeves, and heavy heavy eyeliner. His neck is fully covered in black ink tattoos.
“Sit down, please,” the driver says sternly as he instinctively pulls over to the curb and brings the bus to a stop.
“Say, old man, how about you just drive? We ain’t causin’ no trouble. I mean, that is, unless you want some.” The man pulls a switchblade from his vest pocket and flicks it open. There is a gleam in his glassy eyes the driver has seen countless times in his three decades of overnight service.
The driver sets the parking brake, stands, and turns to face the punk. His 6’ 5” frame towers over the young man, who takes a few steps back.
“I’m asking you politely. Now, will you please sit down and keep quiet? Let the lady sleep, will ya?” he nods to the nurse.
The man looks at the nurse and then back at the driver. He winks, folds the blade, and returns it to the inside of his vest.
“Screw you, boomer. We’re outta here. Open the door,” He says, motioning to his friends to join him.
“I don’t ever want to see you on this bus again,” says the driver as he hits the switch. The men pile out, hollering profanities and flipping fingers as they exit. One of them kicks the side of the bus, and then they all disappear down a nearby subway entrance.
Dirtbags, thinks the driver. He stares at them in disgust, rubbing his temples and returning to his seat.
The door closes and soon, the operator and his only passenger are flying down the dark streets of lower Manhattan. The nurse remains asleep, completely unaware of all that has transpired.
Mr. Joseph B. Bosemann, age 52, veteran bus driver for the Metro Area Transit Authority. Due to an incurable affliction of insomnia, Joe favors the overnight route, where traffic and ridership are thin. He has never missed a day, obsesses over timeliness, and is the most recent of only seven drivers to have received the Mercury Award; an honor bestowed to drivers maintaining a near-perfect on-time average.
Mr. Bosemann’s dedication and punctuality have attracted the attention of MATA’s Special Board of Directors, who are considering him for a promotion. It will mean more money and a new assignment, a special route for select passengers whose last stop is, the Twilight Zone.
7:13 AM, The Barlow
The sun rises on the Barlow, a dilapidated, 40-unit rent-controlled apartment building in the Lower East Side where Joe lives and works a second job as the building’s daytime maintenance man.
He wiggles a key in the rusty lock on his door, but before he can get it to open, the woman from unit 39 steps into the hallway. She is dressed in blue and yellow Sammy’s Subs work attire and makes a beeline for Joe.
“I’m glad I caught you. My toilet is clogged again, Joe. And don’t you be thinkin’ it’s me. Somethin’s wrong with the pipes. Can you fix it? Like, fix it for good this time?”
“Morning, Ms. Charlotte. Yes yes, of course, I’ll take care of it as soon as possible. I just need to eat first, maybe rest a bit, and then I’ll see to it directly.”
“How’s it you’re the maintenance guy ‘round here but you can’t seem to fix nothin’? And when you gonna finish the tile in my shower? I’m startin’ to see mold on the wall, Joe. Mold! I can’t be havin’ no funk in my shower, Joe.”
“I do my best, Ms. Charlotte. I’ll get your toilet fixed, promise, and I’ll see if I can make more progress on that tile.”
The young woman issues an exasperated sigh as she wrangles a loose curl, then storms past Joe to the elevator.
He watches her round the corner before turning his attention back to the lock. “Oh, I’ll fix your toilet, Ms. Charlotte, and then I’ll fix you. I’ll flush you down that old pipe with the rest of the crud.”
He works the key again, turns the knob, and shoves his shoulder into the door, popping it open with a loud crack. He slams it shut behind him, throws his bag on an old ochre-colored fabric recliner, and pulls the shade down on the only window in the apartment. He makes a vain attempt to hold his rage at bay and delay the oncoming migraine by rubbing his temples with his thumbs.
You can go to hell, Ms Charlotte. You can go straight to hell.
The buzzing in his head has somehow migrated to his pocket. It’s such a rare event that it takes a second for Joe to realize someone is calling his phone.
“Hello? Yeah, this is he. Oh? The main office? Umm, sure, okay, I can make it there by that time. Thank you.”
What do they want now?
Joe has visited the main office only twice in his 30 years of working for the MATA. The first time was for his interview, and the second was for a handshake when he received his award.
3:00 PM, MATA offices
“Hello, Joe. Thank you for making the trip on such short notice, but I believe we’re not too far from where you live. Please, take a seat,” bids Mr. Brim, motioning to the small padded blue plastic chair tucked between the front of his gray desk and the door to the impossibly small office.
As far as Joe can remember, the sparsely decorated space hasn’t changed much. There is the aluminum-rimmed wall clock with the bright red second hand. A wilted plant sits in the opposite corner, afforded much more space than office visitors. Mr. Brim seems the same, too. Same glasses, same mustache, the only things new are a few more wrinkles around the eyes. If Joe’s memory serves him well, he’d swear the man is even wearing the same brown tweed suit he wore the last time Joe sat in this chair to receive his award. Yes, there it is, the same round cigarette burn on the left cuff, like a period at the end of the sentence describing the rank smell of the room.
Joe slides into the chair ungracefully. The gap is so tight that the front edge of the desk presses against the top of his belly.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Brim?” asks Joe.
His supervisor does not respond as he studies the single sheet of paper in his hand. A tarnished brass and faux-wood ceiling fan spins slowly above them, its rhythmic complaint from the old motor threatens to resurface the migraine exorcised only twenty minutes ago.
Finally, Mr. Brim looks up from the paper. “Everything is fine, Joe. In fact, it appears the Directors have taken a shine to you. They have selected you for a promotion. It’ll be more money and a new route.”
“A promotion? Gee, Mr. Brim, that sounds great. I could really use the money, especially with the holidays comin’ n’ all. But, I gotta say, I’d prefer to keep the route I drive now. I’ve driven 14D for over 20 years. Besides, nobody else wants the overnights, am I right?”
“Well, Joe, these offers are bound together. To accept the money is to accept the new route, which also happens to be an overnight service, so there is that. But honestly, Joe, once you see the offer, I think it will be hard to say no.
There are other benefits, too. The Directors are being very generous, Joe. But, I must also call attention to the terms and conditions; very specific instructions that will need to be followed to the letter,” he says as he places the paper on his desk, spins it around, and slides it toward Joe.
“Can I think about it?”
“No, Joe, you will need to decide today. Before you leave, in fact. They’ve given you the hour. A little less now,” says Mr. Brim. Without looking up, he points his index toward the clock on the wall behind him. “The countdown started the minute you walked into this office.”
“What? That doesn’t seem right, Mr. Brim. Why, is that even legal?”
“Don’t blame me, Joe, I’m just the messenger. Take it up with the Directors. That is if you really intend to fight that fight.”
Joe stares incredulously at Mr. Brim and then shifts his attention to the paper on the desk in front of him.
“Say, Mr. Brim, is this for real? A typo maybe? This is more than double what I make now. You’re not shakin’ my leg here, are ya?” Joe asks wide-eyed as he rakes his fingers through his thin, gray hair.
“No, Joe, the number is correct. You’re an absolute treasure. The Directors want you to get what you deserve; it’s as simple as that.”
“I don’t know what to say. With this much dough, why, I could quit my second job, maybe get into a nicer place. And while I’m guessing that last one is kind of a joke, what I wouldn’t give to get a good night’s sleep. I don’t sleep so well, Mr. Brim. No, I don’t get much sleep at all.”
“It might sound like the Directors are having a little fun there, Joe, but I think if you accept this promotion, you’ll see just how much better life can be. It’s easy to sleep when you’ve got no worries. Now, be sure to read the rest closely. It’s very important you understand the terms.”
“Wait a sec. M13? There ain’t no M13, Mr. Brim.”
“There is, Joe, but it’s not something we don’t publicize openly. The M13 is a consolidation of older routes, some of which have been around since well before your time. Now, please continue. The clock is ticking, as they say.”
Joe studies the red hand on the clock as it ticks away, running to stay in lockstep with a transient present, leaving history in its wake in 6º increments.
“Say, Mr. Brim, these terms, they seem pretty specific, and, well, don’t you think they’re a little…odd?”
“Those are the rules, Joe, and they must be followed, to—the—letter,” Mr. Brim emphasizes each word with a sharp tap of his finger on the desk. “If you’re not willing to accept the responsibilities of this new position, then maybe this offer should wait. What do you think? Can we count on you, Joseph?”
Joe rests his elbows on the desk and cradles his head in his hands. He stares at the paper for a long time, reading the strange terms again and again until his eyes drift back to the dollars.
No more tile. No more toilets. No more Ms. Charlotte.
“Thank you, Mr. Brim. I accept.”
The mustache arches over a wide smile. “You’ve made an excellent decision, Joe. Congratulations,” says Mr. Brim, his hand going to his inside jacket pocket. “All that is left is to sign the paper. Just add your John Hancock and today’s date to the lines there at the bottom,” directs Mr. Brim and hands Joe a teal Bic pen with a white MATA logo printed on the barrel.
Joe signs on the line, flicking a quick scribble. He feels elated. His mind races at the new possibilities of his increased means.
“So, when do I start the new route?”
“Your new pay rate and route assignment are effective immediately. You’ll drive the new route tonight, Joe,” states Mr. Brim, pulling a small digital tablet from the top drawer of his desk and handing it to Joe. “Take this. You’ll need it to navigate the route. It will also be your direct line of communication and instruction along the way. Keep it charged, and be sure not to lose it, of course.
The route will take some getting used to, but I’m sure you’ll do fine. And remember, be on time and do not, for any reason, deviate from your course. Stay on the road. No unplanned stops or side streets, do you understand?”
“Um, sure, yeah, I guess so,” says Joe and adjusts his flat cap.
“Follow the rules, drive the route, and you’ll sleep like a baby, I’m sure of it.”
“You can count on me, Mr. Brim.”
“Well okay, then. Unless there are any other questions, I think we are done here. Now, you should celebrate. You’ve earned it.”
5:11 PM, The Barlow
Joe hunches over the tiny round table situated next to the window in his apartment. He uses a spoon to carve out a large bite from a tall slice of store-bought cherry pie and shoves it into his mouth. Outside the window, gathering clouds drift above the rooftops as he daydreams about things he’ll do with his extra money.
A new television to be sure, and I’ll get the frozen dinners with the extra meat. And a new hat, he thinks as he studies the ragged wool flat cap sitting next to the pie.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. A shrill voice outside his door yells, “Mr. Bosemann! You in there? My toilet is still clogged, Joe! Hello?” BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.
Joe feels a surge of anxiety threatening to drop a migraine on him like a nuclear bomb, but then he remembers the words of Mr. Brim, “…once you accept this promotion, you’ll see how much better life can be.”
Joe’s shoulders relax.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.
He watches the puffy clouds crawl across the hazy blue sky.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. “Joe! Mr. Bosemann! Come outta there right now, ya hear? You don’t wanna ignore me, Joe, I’m tellin’ ya. Now, come on out!”
Joe scoops another giant bite of the cherry pie. He chews the gelatinous cherries slowly, relishing their sweet flavor.
10:30 PM, The Barlow
Joe paces the apartment, re-reading the terms of his new route. It’s a route he didn’t even know existed until today. He’ll head to the depot soon. It wouldn’t look good to be late on his very first day.
*Ding*
The tablet. It’s been charging on the table. There is a message from Mr. Brim.
Joe lays the tablet on the table and mashes the digital keyboard, using both of his meaty index fingers.
“Ok thank you mr brim - joe”
He quickly deletes his name and hits send. Time to go. Joe unplugs the tablet, dons his flat cap, and pulls on his MATA windbreaker.
He opens the door as quietly as he can and steps out into the hall, holding his breath as he fixes his gaze on unit 39. He grips the painted brass knob with his large hand and pulls slowly, bracing the door with his other hand. It sticks a bit on the frame and finally closes with a loud clap. Joe freezes, but the door to 39 never opens.
11:23 PM, MATA Bus Depot
When Joe arrives at the depot, he passes through security and walks straight to the garage, eager to see his bus. Normally, there are drivers and mechanics milling about, but tonight, he sees no one.
After ten minutes of walking a maze of buses waiting to be refueled or repaired, he finally spots 7734 in the shadows of the far back corner. The engine is running and he’s surprised when the interior lights come on as he approaches the door.
Huh, look at that. Must be one of the upgraded buses. This really is the good life, Mr. Brim.
Joe steps onto the bus and places the tablet on the console before taking his seat. He slides his fingers along the wheel and then grips it tightly. He’s driven a bus like this countless times, yet tonight, it feels different. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. Observed. Evaluated.
Joe peers through the large front windows of the bus, but there is no sign of his supervisor. There is still no sign of anyone at all.
Joe adjusts his seat and mirrors, and then he walks the bus for a quick inspection. The Interior is spotless. In fact, the seats look as though they’ve never held a passenger. No stains, no scuffs, nothing. Surely they’ve been replaced recently. A small screen mounted to the back of the cabin wall is playing some kind of children’s show. A little girl sings, “The wheels on the bus go round and round…”
As Joe heads back to his seat, he notices the only sign of excessive wear to be found on the bus, something he hadn’t seen when he first boarded. The handrail posts near the door are warped and bent in places.
*Ding*
No message, just a link that pulls up a map of lower Manhattan with the current time displayed in large numerals in the top left corner. A thick blue line represents the route with two red pins marking his only stops—one at the start, the other at the end. Joe raises an eyebrow as he studies the peculiar path comprised of a series of turns tightening in on themselves toward the final stop, like a boxy spiral of sorts.
What in the world?
Joe grabs the tablet, opens the messaging app, and jabs at the letters.
Okay, right then. Here we go.
Joe secures the tablet, adjusts his cap, and puts the bus in gear. He maneuvers the large vehicle through the garage and exits onto the city streets.
The bus hums along the pavement, flying through a gathering fog under misty yellow blooms of city streetlights. Joe checks the screen and confirms that the small blue dot marking his location is inching in the right direction toward the first stop’s red pin.
As the bus rolls north along the avenue, the light fog thickens; a heavy blanket that shrouds a city succumbing to the call of sleep at the end of another frantic day.
He looks at the screen. 11:58:23…24…25. The stop is a block away.
*Ding*
He doesn’t need to look at the screen. I’m hurrying, Mr. Brim, I’m hurrying.
He shoves his foot on the accelerator and speeds toward the next intersection. The light turns yellow, but there are no cars waiting on the cross street so he keeps the pressure on the accelerator. He looks left, then right, and flies through the intersection. The light changes to red as he passes under it. Joe checks his mirror to see the bright red light dissolve into an abstract glow as distance multiplies the atmosphere between them.
On the tablet, the blue dot edges onto the red pin. He is arriving. The clock displays 12:00:43. The fog thickens and a flash of lightning suggests the potential for more severe weather. Joe flips on the high beams. Several yards up, a few shadowy figures are seated on one of two wooden, pew-style benches.
I guess this is it.
*Ding*
Inside?
The benches are positioned in front of an alley. The dark void is flanked by eroded brick walls of shuttered retail buildings. Another flash of lightning silhouettes a narrow, pitched-roof structure tucked far back in the alley. A red neon sign suddenly flickers on and illuminates the shabby entrance of a bar, the glass tube letters read, “One for the Road.”
Joe pounds out another message to Mr. Brim.
Joe pulls the bus forward to stop directly in line with the benches. When he opens the door, the riders don’t move. If anything, they seem to withdraw from the bus.
The volume on the TV behind the cabin flares up. He hears the twinkling of a music box melody along with the voice of the little girl singing children’s songs, “Baa baa black sheep, have you any souls? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full…”
Another bright flash of lightning illuminates two men and a woman on the bench, all looking a bit shaken. A cracking peel of thunder rips through the electrically charged air and a split-second later, a deluge of rain crashes down around them.
“Come on! Get in here now, will ya? Get inside,” Joe waves frantically, yelling as loud as he can in the deafening cacophony of the roaring storm.
The three riders stand, yet even exposed to the intensity of the tempest, they hesitate to approach the entrance of the bus. The woman is the first to take a trepidatious step up the stairs, pausing before fully entering. She’s wearing a beige-colored trench coat cinched tightly at the waist. Her black hair is a tangled mess, and the thick lenses on her wirerimmed glasses exaggerate her wide eyes. She casts an anxious glance behind her.
Sensing she might turn and leave, Joe tries to comfort her, “It’s okay, miss, you’ll be safe in here. Now, um, just place the token in the box and find a seat. You have a token, don’t you?” Joe urges.
Looking confused, the woman pulls a clenched hand from her rain-soaked coat. She opens her trembling fingers and is shocked to find a single brass bus fare lying in her open palm. She looks confused but finally ascends the last couple of steps where she slips the token into the slot on the fare box.
“Hurry, please. Take a seat.”
As the woman shuffles toward the back of the bus with her head bowed, the sound on the TV screen flares up again. It’s the familiar music box tune, but as if it’s playing underwater. The little girl’s voice sings, “M is for Mommy, A is for Asphyxiate, let’s make it Rrright with R for Razorblade…”
What was that?
But before Joe can make sense of what he’s just heard, one of the men steps up into the bus. His oversized navy blue suit and pink tie cover a body that nearly occupies the entire entrance. He is rubbing his bald head and mumbling to himself.
“…where in the hell…what is this place…I don’t understand…”
“Sir.”
“…Anatoly, you doublecrossin’ piece of…”
“Sir! Your token, please.”
The man looks at Joe as if he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Token? What the hell do I need a token for?”
“To pay the fare to ride this bus. Otherwise, I’ve been instructed to have you wait inside.”
The man looks back at the neon sign. When he turns back at Joe, there is terror in his eyes.
“Sure. Sure, okay, a token,” he rubs his head. “So, where do I get one of those?” he asks, the pitch of his voice rising.
Joe takes a guess, “Check your pockets?”
The man nods and runs his hands frantically across his suit, feeling for the coin. One hand stops on his chest; he reaches in and pulls the token from his breast pocket, studying it closely before finally inserting it into the slot.
*Ding*
“Please find your seat, sir. Immediately.”
The large man huffs, straightens his tie, and then heads to the middle of the bus. As he hobbles past the TV, the music box melody blares and the girl sings, “…this little piggy sold people, this little piggy had fun, this little piggy went wee wee wee while on his knees in front of a gun…”
The words of the song cause the man to pause. His chubby fingers inspect the back of his head. Finding nothing, he huffs again and stuffs himself into a seat where he resumes his mumbling.
The last man still stands outside the bus.
“You?” comes a voice that cuts through the thrashing rain.
Joe peers into the darkness, “Come on, get on, we don’t have…” but before Joe can finish, a flash of lightning reveals the man in full. Black fishnet sleeves. The neck tattoo. Beady eyes stare at him from darkened sockets, black eyeliner streaks down freckled cheeks.
“You,” says Joe with a snarl.
“Name’s Denny.”
“Mr. Bosemann.”
Neither of the men moves until a rumble of thunder rattles the bus. Joe takes a step back and ushers Denny in, “Come on, son, get on the bus.”
“I ain’t your son, boomer,” he declares as he grabs the handrail and pulls himself in. “And I’m pretty sure I don’t have much choice in the matter.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure I do, neither,” says Joe, resting his hand on the fare box. “I’ll need a token.”
After a second of mild confusion, Denny reaches his hand into his vest. He pauses and gives Joe a mischievous smirk. But when he takes his hand out, there is no knife, just a brass fare token pinched between his index and middle fingertips.
“I don’t know where this came from, or how I knew where to find it, but here you go, old man. Don’t spend it all in one place,” he says, dropping the token in the slot.
“Take a seat. We need to get moving.”
Denny shakes his head like a dog, water flies from his spikey orange hair. Then he stomps off to the back of the bus.
The music box melody plays in a distorted rhythm. The little girl on the screen is telling jokes.
“Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.”
A young woman answers in a hollow, frightened voice, “Who..who’s there?”
“Stab,” replies the little girl.
“Stab? Sss…stab…who?”
“Stab you, silly!“ The little girl giggles along with a scratchy, canned laugh track.
That voice. I know that woman’s voice, thinks Joe.
*Ding*
Keep it together, Joe. Remember, a big screen TV, double meat, and no more toilets. No more Ms. Charlotte.
Then it strikes him. The voice on the TV, with the little girl. It sounded a lot like Ms. Charlotte. But it can’t be. No, no, that can’t be.
Joe takes his seat behind the wheel and closes the door. The woman stares vacantly out the window, while the bald man rubs his head and mumbles to himself. Denny is slouched in his seat, his dark eyes fixed on Joe.
Outside, “One for the Road” flickers a few times before going dark. The patch of black that was once the bar appears as nothing more than a dark alley.
Time to go.
Joe steps on the accelerator, sending the bus in motion. He turns the wipers on their highest speed, but the rain comes down in buckets. Joe can barely see anything beyond the strained reach of the bus’s headlamps. Only when lightning flashes does he get a more complete view of his surroundings.
The going is slow. Joe constantly checks the screen, making sure the tiny blue dot is staying on course. Traffic is non-existent, not that Joe is surprised. People should be afraid to come out in a storm like this.
After several blocks, the map sends him on a left turn, and that’s when the rain turns to sleet. Or at least he thought it was sleet. The dark slurry pelting the bus looks to be more black rock than white ice.
Then, a blinding light and crack of thunder sends the entire world into darkness. Another sky-spanning arc of Teslavan lightning backdrops the tall, dark towers looming over the street, giving them the appearance of colossal, brutalist gods.
This is crazy.
Joe stops the bus in the middle of the street. A howl of wind drowns out the hum of the engine and shakes the entire bus. The clatter of the preternatural precipitation runs across the roof in oscillating waves.
“Sir? Mr. Bosemann, that is your name, yes?” asks the woman. “What’s going on? Why have we…” she screams as a large rock ricochets off the window next to her, sending a spiderweb of cracks fanning outward from the point of impact.
Joe grabs the tablet.
But how can I follow…
The stoplight at the intersection ahead begins flashing red. Then, another muted red glow the next block up, barely visible through the lashings of the rain. Flashing red beacons, lighting his path. Joe stares in disbelief.
Is that you, Mr. Brim?
“Try to remain calm, folks. I’ll get you to your stop. We just need to keep moving,” says Joe, doing his best to ease the passengers’ fears. He stares at his shaking hands resting on the wheel.
“Remain calm? You want us to remain calm? Look, boomer, I’m not even sure why I’m on this bus. I sure as hell ain’t gonna stay on this bus. Open the door. Now.” Demands Denny as he trudges up the aisle.
Joe activates the parking brake and stands to face Denny; the face-off feels all too familiar. “I can’t let you do that, Denny. Look, I don’t understand much of this neither, but what I do know is that I need to get you to the last stop. Besides, do you really want to be dumped off here, in this storm?” Joe points out the window just as a jagged streak of lightning crawls across the sky.
The flash illuminates an otherworldly scene outside the bus. Joe gasps at the site; a pack of animals surrounds the bus.
“What in the hell was that?”
“Dogs. Gotta be a pack of wild dogs.” Says Joe without much conviction and straining his eyes to get a better look.
“Dogs? I ain’t never seen dogs that big before. They looked like goddamn wolves, Bosemann. Wolves!”
Joe reaches over and turns the interior lights off. Outside, the wind screams, sending the sleet sideways. A few seconds later, another flash reveals dozens of the beasts circling the bus.
“I don’t think you should go out there, Denny.”
Denny only nods, unable to look away. The stoplight casts red light on a sea of vicious beasts circling like sharks around a sinking ship.
“Drive. Please, Mr. Bosemann, drive,” begs the woman.
“I would take the lady’s suggestion, Bosemann,” says Denny. “There are more of them now. And I think I saw something else near the rear. Something bigger. Much bigger.”
A heavy thud hits the side of the bus, rocking the entire vehicle.
“Drive, goddamn you, drive!” yells the bald man.
Joe dives into the driver’s seat and releases the brake. He slams the gas pedal to the floor and they take off. Several of the dark beasts scatter through the cones of light at the front of the bus.
As they distance themselves from the animals, Joe checks his mirror and sees the pack gathered under the flashing stoplight, their heads raised to the sky. An unsettling chorus of eerie howls joins the tempestuous orchestra of the storm.
*Ding*
Back to the map, the blue dot nudges along the route. Somehow, Joe knows he doesn’t need the map anymore. The red lights will guide him, he’s sure of it.
A few more blocks, and then a left turn. Then another. And another, as the route constricts on itself, getting tighter and tighter as it draws nearer to the last stop.
The heavy sleet gradually lessens, only to be replaced by a light snowfall—except the snow is gray. The passengers gaze out the windows at a city covered in ash and shadow.
The little girl sings on the TV screen, “…the sound of the bus goes vroom vroom vroom, all the way-ay down…”
Joe feels nauseous. This wasn’t part of the deal. Sure, Mr. Brim, you said there would be some rough parts, but what is going on?
*Ding*
Joe doesn’t respond.
Just push forward, Joe. No turning back now. Gotta get these folks to their stop. Everything will be okay once I make it to that stop.
Joe checks the map. Mr. Brim is right, there are only a few more blocks to go. The clock reads 2:52:38.
The bus zooms through empty intersections, following the trail of flashing red lights. The buildings on each side of the street stand dark and dead. Many doors and windows are shuttered with graffiti-covered plywood. The ashen snow falls.
Another block. Just ahead, Joe spots two wooden benches. A stone wall runs the length of the block and is only interrupted by a wrought iron gate positioned directly behind the benches. A small figure stands on the curb waving.
Is that a child?
As they approach the stop, the bald man wipes sweat from his brow. The woman has her hands over her face, weeping. Denny sits like a statue in his seat, his face blank and devoid of emotion.
At precisely 2:59:56 AM, bus 7734 arrives at its final stop on route M13. Joe sets the parking brake and opens the door. Standing there to greet them is a little girl in a fluffy pink and white dress. Behind her, the two halves of the arched iron gate swing outward, seemingly of their own volition. The opening in the wall looks unreal, like a black hole cut from the surrounding night.
“Hello, Mr. Joe. We’ve been expecting you,” the little girl says in a sing-song voice. “You’re a little early, but Mr. Brim says that’s okay, just this once. I’ll still give you a sticker for doing such a good job!”
The girl hops onto the bus, her big curls bouncing with each stair. At the top, she places a glittery gold star sticker on the side of the fare box.
“It’s been a long while since a bus driver got a gold star,” she says with a smile. Then she points at the passengers. “They don’t get gold stars, Mr. Joe.”
“Why is that?” Joe asks.
“Because they’ve been bad, silly,” explains the girl. Then, she addresses the doomed passengers. “But you’re here now, where you should be. And now you have to play with me. Our first game will be hide n’ seek because it’s the most fun. I’ll hide in the tunnel, and you try to find me. The first one to catch me gets a prize.”
Tunnel? Joe looks out the door into the impenetrable darkness between the gates. He can’t see anything, but then, suddenly, he can feel it. A heaviness, an oppressive weight, bears down on his chest and takes his breath away. It threatens to splinter his skull and feels as heavy as all the sins of the world.
As Joe struggles to take a breath, something emerges from the depths of the void. Something enormous in size and unspeakably evil.
The creature appears as black as the shadow it crawled from. Red-stained moonlight glistens on its wet, featureless flesh. Joe tries to scream, but he’s completely paralyzed, sitting rigid in his seat like a dead body in a casket.
The passengers are not restrained, however, and they are all screaming.
“Don’t worry Mr. Joe, nothing’s gonna happen to you. We’re gonna be best friends,” reassures the little girl.
The monstrosity draws closer, heaving its massive body forward with a sickening squelch at the end of each spasm. As it nears the bus, its bulbous head falls back, exposing the slit of a wide mouth. The mouth opens and quickly expands to an impossibly wide diameter. Joe stares in horror as the aperture reveals to him infinite depths of nightmare. The creature shudders and then discharges the terrified screams of a million tortured souls. A foul air wreaking of rotted death floods the bus. The bald man vomits on himself.
The creature suddenly strikes and locks onto the entrance of the bus with its wide mouth, completely encompassing the doorway. It expands wider and wider, staking claim to more and more of the bus. Joe is forced to stare into the unfathomable opening, unable to close his eyes. His heart pounds in his ears as raw fear digs its sharpened claws into his brain, threatening to plunge his mind into madness.
“It’s time to play. Come and find me, if you can,” the little girl giggles as she bounces down the stairs and leaps into the mouth. Once inside, she jumps up and down in a thick puddle of sludge, giggles in delight, and then runs down the throat of the creature, quickly disappearing into pitch black darkness.
*Ding*
Joe slumps in his seat and draws in a deep breath, nearly vomiting from the putrid air. He grips the wheel and tries to regain even the smallest foothold on reality.
Pull yourself together, Joe.
The songs on the TV. Those weren’t just a glitch. These are some really bad people who have done truly horrible things.
Joe stands and faces the passengers, “Alright, let’s go. Off the bus. All of ya’.”
At first, no one moves. Then, the woman is the first to stand. She straightens her coat and walks toward the front of the bus, measuring every step. “I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to take their lives; take their everything. It’s just that…my babies…they were too much. Too much,” she says between shaking sobs. “I thought I fixed things. Made things right. Thought I…” the woman trails off while she inspects her wrists.
She wipes tears from her eyes, drops her arms to her sides, and holds her head high. “Thank you, Mr. Bosemann,” she says and then walks down the stairs and into the oriface. She takes one last look at Joe and then walks into the darkness without further hesitation.
“You, you’re next. Let’s go,” says Joe to the bald man who takes out his handkerchief and runs it across his sweating head.
“I don’t think so, mister. I ain’t steppin’ a foot off this bus. You’re crazy if you think I’m walkin’ into that thing.” He points with the handkerchief dangling from his hand.
Joe walks down the aisle and stops at the row in front of the bald man.
“Look, mister, we both know you gotta get off this bus. There is no way back. This is the last stop, buddy. Now get off before I have to throw you off myself.”
The bald man rises from his seat; he’s almost as tall as Joe and easily a hundred pounds heavier. “I’m curious to know how you think you’re going to achieve such a thing, friend,” he says, emphasizing his message with the cracking of knuckles.
Joe grabs the man’s jacket but takes a right hook to the jaw, sending him flailing backward. He trips and flies into the TV screen, cracking it with his head. The image of the little girl on the screen slides into a glitchy repeating pattern of diagonals. The girl sings in broken pieces, “Pat-a-cake….pat-a…. baker’s ma…”
The bald man yanks his tie loose and charges up the aisle bearing clenched fists. His anger is on full display in the warped folds of fatty skin on his creased forehead.
“I’ll get us out of here. It don’t take a genius to drive a bus,” the man spits.
As he nears the driver’s seat, Joe lunges for his leg. The bald man growls and attempts to kick his way out of Joe’s grasp.
The glitchy, garbled voice of the girl blares from the TV’s speaker, “Pat it…prick it and mark it wi…”
The two men struggle until the bald man drives his knee into Joe’s chest, sending him into the side wall of the bus. As the bald man squares up for another attack, Joe sees the slender tip of a slimy black tendril rise in the air behind the man’s shoulder. The strange appendage is soon joined by six others.
“Behind you!” yells Joe.
The man turns and shrieks as one of the tendrils punctures his stomach. Then another, and in rapid succession, he is perforated like a puffy blue pin cushion.
The little girl’s song plays out, “…put it in the oven for baby and me.” She giggles with delight.
As the wide-eyed man gurgles on his own blood, Two larger tentacles, as thick as the man’s legs, enter the bus. They wind themselves around his wide body and wrap their greasy, wet tissue around his head, covering his face completely. The tentacles constrict, squeezing him so hard Joe hears bones crack. The man’s chubby fingers on his exposed hands fan out in spasms amid muffled screams. Then, in one rapid movement, the tentacles withdraw from the bus, extracting the large body and pulling it into the void without ever touching the ground.
Joe shoves himself up against the corner of the cabin wall.
Dear God in Heaven, protect me.
Above his head, the TV speaker blares, “Today’s letter is E for Encouragement. The bald man just needed a little encouragement. There is one passenger left, Joe. What’s taking so long? Do you need some encouragement?”
Joe scrambles to his feet.
“Let’s go, Denny. It’s your turn, son. I’m not sure what you did to be here, but I ain’t too surprised, I suppose.”
Denny stands from his seat and speaks more to himself than to Joe. “Stupid girl, bangin’ on doors all night. I shoulda never moved into that crappy armpit of an apartment. She just wouldn’t stop all that bangin’. I don’t know how anyone could stand all that racket. Hell, I did everyone in that place a favor that night. Woulda gotten away with it, too, had her big dumb boyfriend not shown up at the wrong time.”
Joe stares at Denny in disbelief.
“Out of my way, boomer. I’ve gotta find that little girl and give ‘er somethin’ she ain’t expectin’,” he says and pulls the switchblade from his vest. He pushes his way past Joe and stomps into the darkness.
*Ding*
Joe exhales and heads to the front of the bus and slides into the driver’s seat.
The creature releases the bus and retreats to the shadows behind the wall. The gates close, leaving the bus idling in front of the empty benches on the lifeless street.
The little girl’s voice crackles on the broken TV, “Goodnight, Mr. Joe. Pretty please, will you bring more friends next time?”
8:08 AM, The Barlow
The shade is pulled down in Joe’s apartment. He is fast asleep in his bed, dreaming of wolves who eat the meat from his frozen dinner while he watches episodes of Dancing with the Stars on a 65-inch 4K LCD flatscreen television.
Joseph Bosemann is a bus diver, whose job is rather simple—to take people from one place to another. He’s a man with a strong moral compass yet no real destination of his own. Even his small apartment is merely a way station, a simple space to pause and enjoy a slice of cherry pie.
Mr. Bosemann has been promoted to a new title with a rather extraordinary route; one consisting of a series of left turns in an infinite loop of journey. HIs job remains relatively the same—to transport lost souls from one world to another, more sinister dimension.
To the delight of Mr. Brim and the Directors, Joe performed his job with the reliability of a Swiss clock, much like the station clock hanging on the wall in Mr. Brim’s office. A clock that measures humanity’s time on earth, ticking away the minutes in a windowless office of a nondescript building located at the intersection of space and time; in a peculiar part of town known as, the Twilight Zone.
Author’s Notes
Special Thanks
I want to start by thanking
and for making all of this happen, for inviting me, and for bringing to light what is possible when a group of inspired fiction writers comes together here on Substack. Who knows what this will lead to next, but I’m pretty excited about the possibilities.Celebrating 66 years of The Twilight Zone
My father was only six years old when The Twilight Zone first aired on CBS. Four years later, at age 10, he watched Nightmare at 20,000 Feet. Recounting the experience, he confessed, “I’ll never forget the gremlin’s face in the airplane window. I couldn’t sleep for days after seeing that. That creepy face haunted me for years.”
I don’t remember the first time I watched The Twilight Zone, but I do remember watching re-runs of the early episodes with my dad when I was a kid. The strange and oftentimes dark stories introduced to viewers by Rod Serling’s signature monologues and the show’s iconic audio, all left an indelible impression on my young brain and undoubtedly played some part in my life-long addiction to sci-fi and horror.
Admittedly, it had been decades since I had last watched an episode of TZ, but when I was approached by Sean Thomas McDonnell and J. Curtis to participate in this project, I nearly fell out of my seat with excitement.
Simply reading the words “Twilight Zone” instantly flooded my brain with vivid memories of the show, followed by Serling’s voice in my head, monologuing in the way only Serling can:
“Shane Bzdok, age 51, graphic designer and aspiring author. Today was going to be a day like any other day, until the message arrived. It was an invitation to a rare opportunity, one that came with a countdown—eight weeks to craft a story that will need to bend reality while paying proper homage to a legend. It will be written during the early morning hours, in the confines of a small home office and, at times, in a quaint coffee shop serving a select dark roast that can only be found in…the Twilight Zone.”
🎶🎶 noo-nee-nee-noo, noo-nee-nee-noo.
Inspiration
Before writing a single word, I naturally spent some time watching many of the 36 episodes from Season 1, which originally aired from 1959-1960. The stories have none of the high-dollar production and techno-magic special effects we take for granted today, but it doesn’t need it. The strength of storytelling is simply unmatched. The episodes are provocative, terrifying, thought-provoking, and can even be surprisingly dark.
There are three key things that inspired The Last Stop:
The first is the episode, A Stop at Willoughby (S1 E30), which is about a man who is transported to another time and place when he falls asleep on his train ride home from his office. I was really drawn to the idea of a journey from one world to another but wanted to put more focus on describing the journey itself, not just the destination.
I was also inspired by a recurring theological theme you can find in several Season 1 episodes (e.g. Escape Clause, S1 E6), which suggests the existence of a Heaven and Hell. This theme is often represented by a visitation from the Devil who would appear as a man dressed in a fitted suit, looking to make a deal. In The Last Stop, the Devil is somewhat represented by Mr. Brim, who entices Joe to sign the offer letter (i.e. the contract). And the last stop on Route M13? You guessed it—Hell.
Lastly, in Greek Mythology, Charon is the name of a ferryman who transported the souls of the dead across the River Styx to deliver them to the underworld. Charon demanded a coin from each soul to pay the toll required to cross the river. In The Last Stop, Joe embodies the ferryman, transporting the passengers to the underworld, but in this case, he steers a bus rather than a boat. Much like Caron’s toll, the passengers in The Last Stop are required to place a bus token in the fare box.
I originally located the last stop on the other side of the Hudson River to suggest a crossing of the River Styx, but ultimately decided to contain the entire route and story “within” Manhattan.
I hope you enjoyed my -very dark- take on The Twilight Zone. Be sure to check out all of the other great stories in this Substack Community collection.
Illustrating The Last Stop
The images in this story are 99.9% human-made*
The photo illustrations and graphics used in this story were created by me using Adobe Photoshop to composite, retouch, and manipulate license-free photos available from Unsplash (see details below).
I worked in Adobe Illustrator to create the title text, logos, and badges. The text messaging screens were designed in Figma.
*I used Adobe’s Generative AI tool, Firefly, to generate the face of the bus driver used in my main cover illustration (see details below).
Compositing the cover image for The Last Stop
I had a blast creating the photo illustrations for this story. My goal was to evoke the same look and feel as the original series, in static format. I thought you might be interested to see the breakout of the individual elements used to create the cover image for The Last Stop:
Really enjoyed this Shane! It's clear you put a lot of work into it, and it paid off 👏🏻
Wow, SUPER! I loved the creativity of your story and the use of graphics/texts. Great.