Part III. of III. The blood comes in dribbles at first. As the bus moves, the blood is inclined to trail through the air on a parabolic trajectory which spatters his feet, torso, and occasionally his face. Before long, there is a thud, dropped like an extra-large workboot onto the roof of the bus. Angry starlings career through the emergency exit and into the cabin of the bus, he feels their sharp beaks and oily, beating wings on his face. He smells their feverish animalism. They are after the larvae which have appeared, he knows not where from, on the bus floor. What little light now enters the bus has become by turns decayed greens, burning reds. The thudding object is rolling in some imperfect manner from the front of the bus toward the overhead exit. Some exit, he thinks. And he knows the world is purging itself. And how quaint, he thinks, that a municipal transit authority would install such a strange metaphysical apparatus and call it by the mundane name of "emergency exit."
This has been "The Transit Authority Has a Sick Sense of Humor," by Tum Cruz. Look for his other works in the romance aisle of a Krim Kram's Bargain Mart near you!