The bus dips down sinking through traffic and into the white tile walls of the tunnel named for Lincoln.
You feel the water above and around. The intense pressure. You see the walls imploding. Water rushing in. Rushing to the bus. Rushing to you. White capped and fast. Shock swallowing despair. The bus is caught up in it rising up touching the ceiling of the tunnel. You are thrown from your seat. Water begins to fill the bus. To your ankles, knees, waist, chest, You are floating fluttering like mad to keep your head above pressed against the roof of the bus. Until the water overcomes you and you struggle for thirty maybe forty seconds more.
Midway through the tunnel you even see how it will happen. Looking deliberately for the bomber you find him sitting ahead, black satchel on his lap hand rooting for something deep inside. He has dark hair, an olive complexion, a look of prison about him, life gone wrong, anger. You feel the blast as a white hot explosion surrounding you like a punch, like a strike to your entire body.
If it is going to happen this is the way you would want it to, fast, surprising, the knowledge of the death coming after the death itself.
You close your eyes and will it not to happen.
When they open again you are looking at a brick wall draped with ivy and decorated with a metal sign, which reads , Seeking information on a hit run. Please contact the NYPD.” it says.
You have been here before you know the trip is over. Within moments the hulking structure of the Port Authority building will be in view. Then the steep climb to whichever gate this Greyhound will stop at and you will be at the mercy of the city herself.
Your heart is pumping, your lungs are expanding, your legs are ready for the abuse you will put upon them. You are ready. The bus screams to a stop and the black man driving jumps out and everyone stands to disembark. You wait you are not in a hurry, it is eight in the morning and you have two errands that you need to do. Drop money in the bank and get a slice of pizza.
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