It was 10:05 on a Sunday night during the early part of October when the Greyhound bus pulled over to the side of Interstate 70 in Utah, near Exit 225, to pick up the man in black.
Chris Hanson was sitting four rows back from the front of the bus with his head resting against the window. His eyes were closed, and he was listening to the soothing hum of the tires rolling along the empty highway. He knew the bus had entered Utah several minutes before, so the unexpected stop caused him to open his eyes in mild surprise. A small paperback copy of The Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Musashi was lying on his lap. He stared down at the 17th Century journal of a man who was perhaps Japan’s greatest samurai and decided to put it away. His eyes were too tired for reading. Picking up the paperback, he slipped it into the inside pocket of his brown leather bomber jacket and then looked out the window to see why the bus had stopped. He saw a tall, thin man with dark shoulder-length hair and a goatee standing next to a road sign that declared Harley Dome (Ghost Town) only two miles north on Highway 6. The man was dressed entirely in black. Chris could see a cowboy hat on his head, a long, opened duster, black jeans, a black shirt with ivory-colored buttons down the front, and black cowboy boots. The man reminded him of an extra from a Clint Eastwood western. Since this wasn’t a scheduled stop, he could only wonder what the driver was up to and who the guy was.
The driver kept the engine running as he put the bus into park and opened the accordion door. Taking several steps forward, the cowboy stuck his head inside the interior of the bus and started talking quietly to the man behind the steering wheel. Chris could hear the cowboy’s deep, melodic voice, but couldn’t make out the specific words. Sitting up in his seat, he watched the bus driver and noticed a gradual change in his body language as the mysterious stranger continued talking. There was a hypnotizing quality to the man’s soft voice. Chris knew his own eyes were starting to grow heavy with sleep, and he had to force himself to remain awake. When the cowboy finished, the driver unsnapped his seat belt and stood up like a zombie in the movie, The Crazies. He disconnected the mike from the communication’s radio that was used for emergencies, and then walked down the steps of the bus like he was getting ready to take a bathroom break in the middle of nowhere. Staring out the window, Chris saw the cowboy place an arm casually around the driver’s shoulders like they were the best of friends, leading him several yards away from the bus and its headlights. The driver went with him without question, the elastic cord of the mike dangling from his left hand like a dead snake.
What the hell’s going on? Chris thought.
It was only because of the full moon that he could even make out the two men as they headed up a small incline off to the side of the highway. Once they found a private spot to their liking, the cowboy wrapped his arms around the driver in what appeared to be an affectionate hug and then buried his face into the cup of the man’s neck like a passionate lover.
Chris’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped open in shock, and he thought to himself: What the fuck?
When the cowboy pulled away from the driver with a strong jerking motion of his head and turned around, Chris saw a large chunk of bloody flesh hanging from between the dude’s teeth. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Then, he heard the driver’s scream as the pain of what was being done finally woke him up from the trance-like state. It was a sound filled with agony and unimaginable fear. Chris continued to sit there with an expression of horror etched on his young face, not knowing what the hell to do. It was the second blood-curdling scream that jarred him to his senses and caused him to jump up from his seat like a jack-in-the-box. He squeezed out into the narrow aisle and glanced frantically around for help.
“Wake up!” he shouted to the sleeping passengers. “Our driver’s being attacked by some kind of crazy-ass psycho!”
Opening the overhead compartment, Chris reached into the area beside his carry-on bag and grabbed the long silk sleeve holding the birthday gift from his martial arts’ teacher, Sensei Yoshido Nakamura. Pulling it out, he untied the cotton cord from around the top and carefully removed the forty-inch katana that had been forged by the great sword maker, Yasutsuna, during the Edo Period in Japan. He dropped the black sleeve on the seat and switched the sword to his left hand so he could draw the steel blade from its shiny black wooden scabbard with his right. Chris threw a glance toward the rear of the bus and saw a number of passengers waking up with confusion in their eyes. He also saw a young man with a buzz cut and military written all over his serious face moving toward him, dressed in a loose, short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt with the bottom hanging outside of his blue jeans.
“What’s up?” the man asked.
“Our driver needs help,” Chris said. “What’s your name?”
“Jake Hillcrest.”
“I’m Chris Hanson. Follow me.”
Instead of asking questions, Jake followed the young warrior as he hurried to the front of the bus and down the steps. Once they were outside, Chris pointed his finger in the direction of the incline and started running. He could see the bus driver lying on the ground with the cowboy huddled over him like a hungry vulture.
It didn’t look good.
They’d barely covered half the distance before the cowboy stood up and swirled around to face them with the driver’s decapitated head hanging from the long claws of his left hand. It was a scene right out of a graphic comic book, and the severed head stopped them cold in their tracks.
“Holy shit!” Jake shouted.
Chris could see the dead driver’s face from where he was standing, and it was contorted into a frozen grimace of excruciating pain. Lifting his eyes, he stared at the cowboy and saw that his facial features had changed into something not quite human. The transformation caused him to take a step back as he was enveloped within a wave of fear so overwhelming that he nearly wet his own jeans.
“Let’s get out of here,” Chris said.
“I’m right behind you, boss.”
Jake and Chris looked at each other, and then quickly turned around and ran back to the bus like two kids with their pants on fire. Chris didn’t think either one of them should be ashamed for their cowardly conduct. Seeing the severed head and the horror of the cowboy’s face had ripped away their false sense of bravado and left them with nothing but naked fear.
“Do you know how to drive a bus?’ Chris asked, reaching the steps first and taking them two at a time.
“No,” Jake said. “Do you?”
“I guess I’m about to learn.”
Chris handed the katana to his new partner and sat down in the driver’s seat. Buckling up the seat belt, he stared at the dashboard in an effort to figure out what all the buttons and bright lights meant.
“You’d better hurry,” Jake suggested.
“Give me a second.”
“We don’t have a second. The maniac’s only a few yards away, and he doesn’t look very happy.”
Chris closed the door to the bus as several of the passengers looked out the windows and screamed bloody murder. The cowboy was walking toward the vehicle, holding the driver’s head by its hair. The head was swinging back and forth like a half-empty can of paint.
Shifting the gears into drive, Chris gently pressed the accelerator to get a feel for it and watched as the bus moved slowly down the shoulder of the highway. He looked out the side windows on the right and saw the cowboy hurrying in their direction as it dawned on crazy fucker that the bus was getting away. Steering the bus out onto the highway, Chris floored the accelerator and felt the engine kick in. He kept watching the side mirror as the cowboy displayed his anger by shaking the decapitated head in the air like a petulant child.
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