"The Hatch Above Us":
I was 10 years old, sitting near the back of the yellow school bus, my backpack wedged between my knees, stuffed with books, a crumpled lunch bag, and a notebook filled with doodles. It was July 15, 1976, in Chowchilla, California. We’d spent the day at a summer program, splashing in the community pool and eating hot dogs at the fairgrounds. The bus was alive with noise—kids laughing, shouting, some singing off-key songs about summer. I was staring out the window, watching fields blur by, thinking about my dog, Rusty, waiting for me at home. Emily, my best friend, was next to me, braiding a friendship bracelet with bright pink thread.
The bus slowed down, the engine’s hum softening. I glanced up, curious. “Why’re we stopping?” Emily whispered, her fingers pausing on the bracelet. I shrugged, leaning forward to see. A white van was parked sideways across the narrow road, blocking our path. Mr. Ray, our driver, a kind man with graying hair and a soft voice, leaned over the steering wheel, squinting. “Stay seated, kids,” he said, but his words sounded tight, like he was holding his breath.
Three men stepped out of the van. My stomach dropped. Their faces were covered with nylon stockings, stretched so tight their eyes looked like dark, hollow pits. One held a rifle, its long barrel catching the light. The other two had shotguns, gripped tightly in their gloved hands. My heart started pounding, a loud thump in my ears. This wasn’t a game. This was real.
“Everyone, stay calm,” Mr. Ray said, his hands trembling as he raised them slightly. His voice shook, and I could see sweat beading on his forehead. The man with the rifle climbed onto the bus, his boots thudding on the steps. “Get up! Move! Now!” he shouted, waving the gun toward the door. The other two stood behind him, silent but menacing, their weapons trained on us. I grabbed Emily’s hand, her palm cold and sweaty. She was shaking, her eyes wide with fear.
We stumbled off the bus, all 26 of us kids, ages 5 to 14, tripping over backpacks and each other. A little girl in pigtails was crying, clutching a stuffed rabbit. “I want my mom,” she whimpered. “Quiet!” one of the men snapped, shoving her forward. I wanted to comfort her, but my own legs felt like they might give out.
They herded us into two vans parked nearby. The windows were painted black, and the insides were lined with thick, gray paneling that smelled like glue and dust. It was like stepping into a box with no light, no air. They split us up, pushing me, Emily, and about a dozen others into one van. Mr. Ray was shoved in with us. The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked, loud and final. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, the air already heavy with panic.
“Where are they taking us?” Emily whispered, her voice barely audible over the van’s engine. I shook my head, my throat too tight to answer. A boy across from me, maybe 7, was hugging his knees, rocking back and forth. “I don’t wanna die,” he mumbled. Mr. Ray reached over, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’re gonna be okay,” he said, but his eyes didn’t match his words. They were wide, darting around the dark van.
The ride felt like forever. I tried to keep track of the turns—left, right, left again—but the twists and bumps made it impossible. The van was hot, the air stale. Someone was sniffling. Another kid was praying under their breath. I pressed my face against the painted window, hoping to see something, anything, but it was just black. My mind raced with horrible thoughts. Were they going to hurt us? Would we ever see our families again?
After what felt like hours, the van stopped. The door slid open, and one of the men grabbed my arm, yanking me out. We were in a rocky, dusty place, surrounded by low hills. A large hole gaped in the ground, and next to it was a buried truck trailer, its top barely visible above the dirt. A ladder led down into it. “Get in!” one of the men shouted, pushing us toward the hole. My legs shook as I climbed down, the metal rungs cold under my hands. Emily was right behind me, her breath hitching.
Inside, the trailer was dark and damp, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and rust. Old mattresses were scattered across the floor, some torn and stained. A few cans of peaches and a jug of water sat in a corner, next to a bucket that made my stomach churn when I realized what it was for. The walls were metal, scratched and dented, closing in around us. There were 26 of us kids, plus Mr. Ray, crammed into this tiny space, barely 8 feet by 16 feet.
The men climbed up the ladder and slammed a heavy hatch shut above us. I heard loud thumps—something heavy being piled on top. “Batteries,” Jodi, a 14-year-old boy with messy brown hair, whispered. He was one of the older kids, always quiet but smart. “They’re weighing it down so we can’t get out.”
Darkness swallowed us. The only sounds were kids crying and the faint creak of the trailer. My chest felt tight, like the walls were pressing in. I sat on a mattress, pulling my knees up, trying to stay calm. Emily was next to me, her head on my shoulder. “What if they leave us here forever?” she whispered. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
“Mr. Ray, what’s gonna happen?” a girl asked, her voice small. She was holding the stuffed rabbit girl, trying to keep her calm.
“We’ll find a way,” Mr. Ray said, kneeling beside them. “We just need to stay strong, okay?” But his hands were clenched into fists, and I could tell he was as scared as we were.
Hours passed. Maybe it was minutes, but it felt like forever. The air grew thicker, harder to breathe. Some kids fell asleep, their heads resting on the lumpy mattresses. Others sat silently, staring into the dark. My fingers traced the rough edge of the mattress, trying to focus on something, anything, to keep the panic away. But every sound—a creak, a rustle—made my heart jump. Were the men coming back? Were they watching us?
Then Jodi spoke, his voice low but steady. “We can’t wait for them to decide what happens. We have to get out.” He stood up, feeling along the walls, testing the hatch above us. “It’s heavy, but we can do this. We have to.”
Mr. Ray nodded. “He’s right. Let’s try.” He started moving mattresses, stacking them under the hatch to make a platform. Jodi climbed up, pushing against the hatch with his shoulder. It didn’t budge. “It’s those batteries,” he said, his voice tense. “They’re too heavy.”
I crawled over, my hands shaking, and started digging at the dirt around the hatch’s edges. The ground was hard, packed tight, and my nails tore as I clawed at it. Emily joined me, her fingers scraping alongside mine. “Keep going,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. My hands were raw, blood mixing with the dirt, but I didn’t stop. None of us did.
Other kids helped, passing chunks of dirt back, clearing a path. A little boy handed me a broken piece of wood from the trailer’s floor, and I used it to dig faster. Every minute felt like an hour. My arms burned, and my lungs stung from the dust. “What if they hear us?” a girl whispered, her eyes darting to the hatch.
“They won’t,” Jodi said, but he didn’t sound sure. He was pushing harder now, grunting with effort. Mr. Ray climbed up beside him, adding his weight. The hatch creaked, just a little. My heart leapt. “It’s moving!” I said, my voice louder than I meant.
“Shh!” Jodi hissed, glancing around like the men might appear out of the dark. We worked faster, digging, pushing, praying. The dirt piled up around us, sticking to our sweaty faces. My fingers were numb, but I kept going, fueled by fear and hope.
Then, a rush of cool air hit my face. The hatch lifted, just an inch at first, then wider. Jodi and Mr. Ray shoved with everything they had, and it opened enough for a small kid to slip through. “Go, go!” Mr. Ray whispered, lifting the youngest kids up. I helped push them, my hands slippery with sweat and blood.
One by one, we climbed out, scrambling into the open. The quarry was quiet, the ground rough under my sneakers. I looked around, half-expecting the men to be waiting, guns raised. But there was nothing—just rocks and shadows. We ran, all of us, toward a small building in the distance, a guard shack glowing faintly with light.
My legs felt like they might collapse, but I kept going, Emily’s hand in mine. Mr. Ray was at the back, making sure no one was left behind. The guard inside the shack jumped when we burst in, his coffee spilling. “Help us!” Mr. Ray shouted. “Call the police!”
The guard fumbled for his phone, his eyes wide as he took in our dirty faces, torn clothes, and bloody hands. “What happened to you kids?” he asked, already dialing.
Soon, police cars screeched up, their lights cutting through the dark. Paramedics wrapped us in blankets, checking our cuts and bruises. My parents found me, their arms squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe. I cried then, the fear finally spilling out.
We were safe, but the terror of that trailer stayed with me. For years, I’d wake up gasping, feeling like I was back in that dark, damp hole, the walls closing in. I’d check my windows at night, afraid of seeing a face behind a stocking mask. We survived, but the fear clung to us, a shadow we couldn’t outrun.
"The Long Ride Home":
I was 14, sprawled across a worn seat on the church bus, my sneakers scuffing the floor, still buzzing from a day at King’s Island. The amusement park’s roller coasters, bright lights, and cotton candy sweetness felt like a dream now. My best friend Tom slouched beside me, his head pressed against the window, eyelids drooping. The bus was packed with 66 of us—kids from our youth group, a few adults, all tired but content. The air smelled of old vinyl seats and the faint tang of sweat. Kids in the back were giggling, swapping stories about the rides, while others dozed, heads bobbing with the hum of the engine.
“Jake, you think the Beast was scarier than the Vortex?” Tom asked, his voice sleepy, one eye cracking open.
I grinned, nudging him. “Vortex had us spinning like tops. You screamed so loud I thought you’d wake the dead.”
“Did not,” he shot back, shoving my shoulder. His laugh was warm, familiar, like we’d done this a hundred times. We had—best friends since we were six, always together. I leaned back, the seat creaking under me, and watched the highway lights flicker past outside. The bus was cozy, safe, like a cocoon carrying us home.
Mrs. Carter, our chaperone, walked the aisle, her sneakers squeaking on the floor. She was in her 40s, with a kind smile and a clipboard she always carried. “Get some rest, boys,” she said, pausing by us. “It’s a long ride back to Radcliff.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, giving her a mock salute. Tom chuckled, and she shook her head, moving on to check on the younger kids. A girl across the aisle was braiding her friend’s hair, whispering about some crush. In the back, a group started singing a hymn, soft and off-key. I closed my eyes, letting the rhythm of the bus lull me. I was almost asleep when it happened.
A deafening bang—like a bomb going off—ripped through the air. The bus lurched violently, throwing me hard against the seat in front. My forehead smacked the metal bar, and pain shot through my skull. Screams exploded around me, high and panicked. The bus tilted, tires screeching, and I grabbed Tom’s arm, my fingers digging into his sleeve.
“What was that?” I gasped, my voice shaking. My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Tom’s eyes were wide, his face pale in the dim light. “We hit something! Or something hit us!”
The bus skidded, metal grinding against metal, and came to a jarring stop. The floor was slanted, like we were on a hill. I smelled it first—gasoline, sharp and sour, stinging my nose. Then smoke. Thick, black smoke poured in from the front, curling like fingers through the air. My eyes burned, and I coughed, my throat tightening.
“Everyone, stay calm!” Mrs. Carter’s voice cut through the chaos. “Get to the back door, now!”
I scrambled to my feet, my legs wobbly. The smoke was so thick I could barely see Tom’s face, just inches away. Kids were screaming, coughing, stumbling over seats. Then I saw it—orange flickers at the front, growing brighter. Fire. It was spreading fast, licking up the seats, eating the curtains. The heat hit me like a wave, prickling my skin.
“Tom, move!” I grabbed his hand, pulling him into the aisle. People were already rushing toward the back, tripping over bags and each other. The air was hot, heavy, like breathing in an oven. My chest ached with every breath, and the smoke stung my eyes until tears streamed down my face.
“Jake, my leg!” Tom’s voice cracked, desperate. I looked down. His right leg was trapped, wedged under the seat where it had crumpled in the crash. The metal was bent, pinning him like a trap. He yanked at it, his hands shaking, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Hold on!” I dropped to my knees, my fingers fumbling at the jagged metal. It was sharp, cutting into my palms, but I didn’t care. The fire was louder now, a low roar, and the flames were closer, crawling up the walls. The heat pressed against my back, and sweat dripped into my eyes. Screams filled the air—kids calling for help, for their parents, their voices raw with fear.
“Jake, it’s stuck!” Tom said, his face twisted in pain. “You gotta go!”
“No!” I shouted, pulling harder. My hands were slick with blood, and the metal wouldn’t move. The smoke was thicker, a gray wall that hid everything beyond a few feet. I could hear Mrs. Carter at the back, her voice hoarse, yelling, “One at a time! Don’t push!” But the panic was too strong. People were shoving, climbing over each other to reach the rear door.
I glanced back. The door was open, but it was chaos—a bottleneck of bodies, arms flailing, kids crying. Something blocked the exit, maybe a bag or a broken seat, making the gap too small. The flames were halfway down the bus now, the heat so intense my skin felt like it was blistering. The hymn-singers had stopped. All I heard were screams and the crackle of fire.
“Tom, I’ll get you out!” I said, my voice breaking. I yanked at the seat again, my muscles burning, but it was no use. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead. He grabbed my arm, his grip weak.
“Jake, go,” he whispered. “Please. I’ll be okay.”
I shook my head, tears mixing with the sweat on my face. “I’m not leaving you!” But the fire was closer, the smoke so thick I could barely breathe. My lungs felt like they were collapsing. A girl nearby screamed, her voice cut off by a cough. I looked at Tom, his eyes pleading, and I hated myself for what I was about to do.
“I’ll get help,” I choked out, stumbling to my feet. My heart felt like it was being ripped apart. I pushed through the aisle, the floor slick with spilled soda and who-knows-what. The crowd at the door was a wall, people shoving, some falling. I couldn’t get through. My eyes darted around, desperate. Then I saw it—a window to my left, cracked, the glass spiderwebbed from the crash. The firelight glinted off the shards.
I climbed onto a seat, my sneakers slipping on the vinyl. With all my strength, I slammed my elbow against the window. It shattered, glass cutting into my hands and arms. Blood ran down my wrists, warm and sticky, but I didn’t stop. I punched out the remaining shards, making a hole just big enough. The air outside hit my face—cool, clean, a shock after the smoke. I crawled through, the glass scraping my stomach and legs, and fell onto the grass outside.
I hit the ground hard, my hands stinging, blood dripping into the dirt. I turned back, and my breath caught. The bus was a monster, engulfed in flames, the windows glowing orange. Smoke poured out, black and thick, curling into the sky. The screams from inside were louder, sharper—kids trapped, banging on the windows, their faces blurred by smoke and fire. My stomach twisted, and I screamed, “Tom!” My voice was lost in the roar of the flames.
I ran toward the back door, my legs shaking. I could see people still trying to get out, but the fire was too fast. Hands grabbed me—strong, rough hands. A man in a trucker hat, his face grim, pulled me back. “Stay away, kid! It’s too dangerous!”
“I have to get Tom!” I yelled, fighting against him. My arms were weak, my hands slick with blood. Another man joined him, holding me as I kicked and screamed. The bus was an inferno now, the heat so intense it burned my face even from yards away. The screams inside were fading, replaced by the crackle of fire and the groan of melting metal. My knees gave out, and I sank to the ground, staring as the flames swallowed everything.
Sirens wailed, growing closer. Red and blue lights flashed, cutting through the dark. Firefighters and paramedics appeared, shouting orders, pulling people away. I saw a few kids stumble out, coughing, their faces black with soot. But not enough. Not nearly enough. The trucker held my shoulder, his voice low. “You did what you could, son. You got out.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t do enough. I left Tom. My best friend, who’d laughed with me hours ago, who’d shared his fries at the park. I left him in that fire.
They took me to the hospital, the ambulance ride a blur of flashing lights and beeping machines. The smell of antiseptic stung my nose as a nurse cleaned the cuts on my hands and arms, stitching up the deepest ones. My skin was raw, covered in bandages, but the pain didn’t compare to the ache in my chest. The hospital was chaos—crying parents, doctors rushing, kids with burns and broken bones. The nurse, a woman with gray streaks in her hair, sat by my bed.
“You’re lucky,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You made it out alive.”
“Lucky?” I whispered, my voice hoarse from smoke. The word felt like a lie. I saw Tom’s face every time I closed my eyes—his wide eyes, his hand reaching for me. I heard the screams, smelled the gasoline, felt the heat. Twenty-seven people didn’t make it that night. Kids I’d known for years, adults who’d planned our trip, Mrs. Carter with her kind smile. Tom was one of them. They told me later a drunk driver caused it—a man who’d had too much to drink, driving the wrong way, not caring who he hurt.
I stayed in the hospital for days, my hands wrapped in gauze, my dreams filled with fire and screams. When I got out, I went to the memorial, standing in silence as names were read. Tom’s name hit me like a punch. I saw his mom, her eyes red, clutching a photo of him. I wanted to tell her I tried, that I didn’t want to leave him, but the words wouldn’t come.
Now, years later, I still wake up at night, my heart racing, my hands reaching for someone who’s not there. The scars on my arms are faint, but the ones inside are deep, raw, like wounds that never heal. I speak at schools, telling kids about that night—the crash, the fire, the screams. I tell them about Tom, how he was brave, how he told me to go. I tell them about drunk driving, how one person’s choice can destroy so many lives. It’s the only way I can keep going, the only way I can make sense of the horror. I carry Tom with me, every day, hoping my words might stop another bus from burning, another friend from being left behind.
"Bus 17":
I was 12, a seventh-grader, trudging through the school parking lot to the yellow bus parked at the curb. The seats were sticky, the kind of vinyl that squeaked when you slid in, and the air smelled like old lunch bags and pencil shavings. I plopped into my usual spot, third row from the front, window side, where I could watch the world blur by. My friend Jake flopped down next to me, already fiddling with his Game Boy, the tinny music barely audible over the chatter of the other kids. There were 13 of us on the bus, from little second-graders to a couple of eighth-graders, all piling in after a long day of math tests and gym class. Mr. Nuss, our driver, sat up front, adjusting his faded baseball cap. He was older, maybe 60, with a quiet way about him, always staring straight ahead. Today, though, his hands seemed to grip the steering wheel a little too hard, his knuckles pale. I didn’t think much of it at first. Just another ride home.
The engine growled as we pulled out of the lot. Kids were loud—yelling about a dodgeball game, tossing crumpled paper, giggling over some joke. I pressed my forehead against the cool window, watching familiar houses roll by, their porches cluttered with bikes and flowerpots. But after a few minutes, something felt wrong. We passed the corner store, the one with the neon ice cream sign where we always turned left toward my neighborhood. Mr. Nuss kept going straight. The road stretched into a two-lane highway, lined with scraggly trees and not much else. My stomach gave a little lurch. I nudged Jake. “He missed the turn.”
Jake glanced up, his Game Boy screen glowing green. “Huh? Maybe it’s a detour or something.”
But the houses were gone now. No more stop signs, no more kids on scooters. Just the hum of the tires and the endless road. I raised my hand, like I was in class, my voice shaky. “Mr. Nuss? Where are we going? You passed my street.”
He didn’t turn around. His voice came out flat, too calm, like he was reading a script. “Special field trip today. You kids are gonna see something important.”
Field trip? My heart thudded. We didn’t have field trips on random Thursday afternoons. No permission slips, no announcements. Jake leaned forward, his voice louder. “Mr. Nuss, my mom’s waiting for me. She’ll be mad if I’m late. Can you take us back?”
“Sit down, son,” Mr. Nuss snapped, sharper than I’d ever heard him. “We’re going somewhere you need to see.”
Whispers rippled through the bus. Little Emma, a second-grader with pigtails, sat in the front row, clutching her backpack. Her eyes were wide, and she started sniffling. Her brother, Tim, a fifth-grader across the aisle, leaned over to shush her, but his face was pale, his hands fidgeting. Rachel, an eighth-grader who always acted tough, stood up in the back. “This isn’t funny, Mr. Nuss. You can’t just drive us somewhere without telling our parents.”
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his eyes narrow. “Sit down, young lady. You’ll thank me later.”
I looked around, hoping someone would know what to do. The younger kids were quiet now, their laughter gone. My eyes caught something on the dashboard—a stack of maps, unfolded, with red pen scribbled over them, circling places I couldn’t read from my seat. Next to the maps was a jacket, lumpy, draped over something long and narrow. My breath hitched. The shape was unmistakable. A rifle. My hands went cold, like I’d plunged them into ice water.
“Jake,” I whispered, my voice barely a sound. I pointed at the dashboard. “Do you see that?”
He followed my gaze, and his Game Boy slipped from his hands, clattering onto the seat. “Is that… a gun?” he mouthed, his eyes huge.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I wanted to yell, to run, but we were trapped in this moving box, the doors locked, the windows too high to jump from. The bus radio crackled, the dispatcher’s voice faint. “Bus 17, report your location.” Mr. Nuss didn’t touch it. He just kept driving, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the road. A sign flashed by: “Maryland 50 miles.” Maryland? We lived in Pennsylvania. My house was 10 minutes from school, not another state. My stomach churned, and I felt like I might throw up.
“Mr. Nuss!” Rachel tried again, standing despite his warning. “This is kidnapping! You have to take us home!”
He didn’t answer at first. Then, in that same creepy, calm voice, he said, “I’m showing you the truth. About what happened last year. The towers. You kids need to understand.”
The towers? 9/11? My mind spun. That was months ago, planes crashing, people dying. What did that have to do with us? Was he angry? Crazy? I glanced at the rifle again, the jacket slipping slightly, showing more of the black barrel. Was it loaded? Would he use it if we tried to stop him? My legs felt like jelly, and my hands were shaking so bad I shoved them under my thighs.
Tim leaned across the aisle, his voice low. “We gotta do something. Emma’s freaking out. She’s only seven.”
“What can we do?” I whispered back. “He’s driving. He’s got a gun.”
Jake’s voice was trembling. “Maybe the radio? We could call for help.”
I looked at the radio, mounted just above the dashboard. It crackled again. “Bus 17, this is dispatch. Where are you?” Mr. Nuss reached over and turned it off, his fingers twitching. My heart sank. Even if we got to it, he’d see us. And that rifle was right there.
Hours dragged on. The bus hummed along unfamiliar highways, the signs counting down to Maryland. Emma’s sniffles turned into soft sobs, and Tim hugged her, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” but his voice shook. Rachel kept pacing in the back, muttering to the older kids, but no one had a plan. I kept staring at the rifle, imagining it in his hands, pointed at us. What did he want? To hurt us? To keep us forever? My throat was so dry I could barely swallow.
Finally, the bus slowed, pulling into a gas station. Mr. Nuss turned to us, his eyes scanning every face. “Stay in your seats. I’m getting food. Don’t try anything.” He grabbed the keys and stepped out, locking the door behind him. The rifle stayed on the dashboard, taunting us.
Rachel rushed to the front, banging on the door. “Help! Somebody!” But the parking lot was nearly empty, just a couple of trucks and a guy pumping gas who didn’t look our way. Tim grabbed a pencil from his bag and scribbled “911” backwards on the foggy window, his hands shaking so bad the numbers were wobbly. “Maybe someone’ll see it,” he said, but his voice was hopeless.
Emma was crying harder now. “I want my mom,” she kept saying, her voice breaking my heart. I wanted my mom too, wanted to be in my kitchen, eating cereal, not stuck here, wondering if I’d ever get home. The fear was like a heavy blanket, suffocating me.
Mr. Nuss came back with paper bags of burgers and fries, tossing them onto the seats. “Eat,” he said, like we were on a picnic. “You’ll need it for the trip.” His smile was wrong, too wide, like he was trying to be nice but didn’t know how. The smell of the food made my stomach turn. I couldn’t eat, not with that rifle staring at me, not with his words about “the truth” echoing in my head.
“Where are you taking us?” I asked, my voice so quiet I wasn’t sure he’d hear.
“Washington,” he said, starting the engine. “To see what they don’t want you to know.”
Washington, D.C.? That was hours away, a place I’d only seen on TV. My mind filled with awful pictures—us lost in some dark place, no one knowing where we were. Jake grabbed my arm. “He’s nuts,” he whispered. “What if he never lets us go?”
“Don’t say that,” I hissed, but the thought was already in my head, growing bigger every second. The bus rolled on, the road signs a blur. Maryland now, the signs said. No one was coming. No one knew.
At another stop, a small diner with flickering lights, Mr. Nuss let us out to use the bathroom. “Stay close,” he said, his hand resting on his coat pocket. I wondered if he had another gun there, something smaller. Inside, the diner smelled like coffee and grease. I tried to catch the waitress’s eye, a tired-looking woman wiping tables. I wanted to scream, “He’s kidnapping us!” but Mr. Nuss was right behind me, his shadow looming. I washed my hands, my heart pounding, and whispered to Jake, “We have to tell someone.”
“How?” he said. “He’s watching us like a hawk.”
Back on the bus, the younger kids were silent now, their faces pale, their eyes red. Rachel whispered to us, “If we all rush him, maybe we can grab the keys.”
“With a rifle?” Tim snapped, his voice low. “He’d shoot us before we got close.”
I felt like I was drowning, like the air was too thick to breathe. The radio crackled again, louder. “Bus 17, this is an emergency. Report your location now!” Mr. Nuss slammed it off, his face twitching. Was he scared? Angry? I couldn’t tell, and that made it worse.
More hours passed, the bus a prison on wheels. My legs cramped, my back ached, but the fear was worse than any pain. I kept imagining my parents, wondering where I was, calling the school, the police. Would they find us? Or would we disappear, like in those stories you hear on the news?
Finally, the bus slowed. Flashing lights appeared ahead—red and blue, cutting through the dark. Police cars, three of them, blocking the road. My heart leapt, hope and fear crashing together. Mr. Nuss pulled over, his hands tight on the wheel. “Stay seated,” he said, his voice flat. He stepped out, hands raised, talking to an officer. We watched, barely breathing. The rifle was still there, under the jacket. What if he ran back for it?
But he didn’t. More officers surrounded the bus, their voices sharp but calm. “Kids, you’re safe now,” one called through the door. They pried it open, and we stumbled out, legs wobbly, air cold on our faces. Emma ran to a cop, sobbing into his jacket. Tim followed, hugging her. I looked back at Mr. Nuss, his hands cuffed, his face blank, like he didn’t even see us anymore.
Later, at the police station, they told us he’d turned himself in, said he wanted to “show us the truth” about 9/11, something about the government and the towers. He was sick, they said, off his medicine, not thinking right. He had a loaded rifle, 93 bullets, but he hadn’t hurt us. We were lucky, they kept saying.
We got home that night, my mom hugging me so tight I could barely breathe. But I didn’t sleep. I kept seeing that rifle, hearing his voice, feeling the bus moving farther from home. Even now, I check the driver’s face every time I get on a bus, just to be sure it’s not him. I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again.