Coach #404 rolled fifty feet down the condemned freight ramp.
The four dual rear tires hummed over slick red pavers laid in 1996. Water dripped from the weeping limestone walls, splashing against the bus’s green-and-white transit skirts.
“How steep is this grade, Mac?” Julian Vance asked, steadying himself against the fare-box stanchion.
“Fifteen-degree decline,” Mac Cole answered, keeping both boots hovering over the pedals. “The pavers are coated in black river slime. If I lock the treadles, forty tons will slide down this ramp like a toboggan.”
“Can you hold her at five miles an hour?” Elena Rostova called from the wheelchair bay.
“I’ve got the driveline retarder engaged,” Mac said. “Engine compression is holding us back. But listen to that ringing!”
Through the windshield, the sound of the underground telephone traveled up the incline with crystal clarity.
Brrring... pause... brrring...
