The yellow vinyl stop-request cord ran the entire length of the coach’s ceiling.
It was suspended from small brass eyelets every eighteen inches, its frayed tail anchored to an emergency bell-switch above the rear exit door. In an ordinary bus, pulling the cord triggered a chime on the driver’s console.
On Coach 404, the wire had been severed thirty years ago. The brass switch at the back was rusted shut, choked with cobwebs, road grime, and dry lead paint.
Yet right before Julian’s eyes, the cord jerked downward.
Twitch. Twitch.
It didn’t ring the bell. It vibrated with a sickening, rhythmic pulse that sent small flakes of yellow vinyl fluttering down into the empty aisle like dead autumn leaves.
“Mac,” Julian said, his voice dropping low. “The stop cord is moving.”
“Don’t look at it with your bare eyes, Kid,” Mac answered, his knuckles white against the black steering wheel. “I told you.
