Julian Vance dropped his metal thermos cup onto the coin tray and grabbed the nearest stanchion pole.
The rhythmic ticking from the center aisle cut through the engine rumble like a clockwork detonator.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Between Row 4 and Row 5, black canal water oozed from beneath the stroller’s rusted wire wheels. The water didn’t drain toward the scupper channels. It pooled in thick, gelatinous ripples across the ribbed rubber treads.
Beside the fare-box, a sharp mechanical groan sounded from the brass housing. It was a heavy, protesting sound of metal teeth binding against an internal pawl.
Clack-grind.
Julian snapped his head toward the Duncan Model 90 Fare-Box. The heavy brass machine stood four feet tall beside the driver’s platform, bolted to the floorboards with hardened steel studs. It was a mechanical relic from the mid-1970s, completely analog, operating without a single digital circuit.
Inside its armored housing, a cascade of bronze gears, counter-weights, and coin baffles calculated passenger headcounts with ruthless mechanical honesty. Behind the heavy glass inspection window, the brass passenger cyclometer was straining upward.
