End Of The Line 3

In place of her bed was a long, narrow cushion seat, enough to fit her 5'2 frame but a passenger of any size would find the edge too close for comfort. There was not one window, but almost ten, twice as many when you include the actual areas to let in the cool, autumn air. In her room she would find a desk, an office chair, and a pile of books on business ethics and social responsibility, while in front of her now were rows and rows of blue coloured seats.

Far more worryingly, where on earth were her clothes? Kristin had a case of the shivers in areas of her body that she remembered perfectly well being clad with one of her favourite red dresses, the one with flowery design by its sides and its silky material showing off plenty of thigh.

She sat up and embraced her own knees, dragging back her bare feet and feeling only skin on skin bar a bra and matching underwear. It was desperately cold up here, and extraordinary that any sleep was achieved at all. Luckily the pool of vomit was tucked away in the corner, but escaping its foul stench was an impossible task.

In fact the upper deck had not been cleaned at all; on one seat there were two empty cans of Heineken, directly across, a crisp packet that was neatly stuck in the steel part of another as if it were a form of compassionate littering. She did understand she could be guilty for any of it, it was not the first time she had overshot her limit by an inadvisable amount but it usually ended safely with a helping hand out of the taxi. Her head was dizzy, mouth dry in a premature hangover.

Whatever the hell the young woman did tonight, she didn't spontaneously strip to her bare essentials and ask for a ticket – this was an act of cruelty, one that no one deserves despite reckless behaviour on a night out. Above all she felt let down, by a chain of people, starting with one of her friends who probably ran off with her long time boyfriend, to anyone else on board that failed to wake her when the end of the line was approaching.

The bus creaked under her one hundred and fifteen pound weight, something you don't notice when surrounded by the urban din, but here, it was clear she was the only one making a sound in the building. She walked to the stairs, catching hold of the rail as spared dirt collected on her soles.

It was mostly dark but the steps were reasonably visible. The ticket waste had been opened; allowing bunches of paper, sweet wrappers and a plastic cup to make a rubbish ramp in the centre of the lower section.

It might sound strange, but she was only afraid of two things – if she was unfamiliar with the area and would be forced to walk a great distance with no shoes, and second, that she would be embarrassed by passersby. Worst case scenario in the immediate sense, she had answered the question of what happens if you not only miss your stop, but never get off at all?

It was one of the newer models, "AX", as could be told by its extra space, especially the luggage compartment with a roof of bars. When she looked out the windows, she could see herself in the reflection of another; it was parallel buses showing the exposed student making her way past the driver's cab.

Then, before she could step outside, she was startled by the sight of a pair of high heels, neatly parked like the vehicles as if they were waiting her for. They were hers, too. Black, patent leather, four inches and of course the trademark red "lipstick" underneath – she almost felt apologetic to Mr. Louboutin as his work was among the garbage of a nation.

Kristin dipped her feet into each shoe; sure they can be a pain to walk in, but it seemed a more attractive option than the oily ground below the final step. There was very little space between the sides to slip out, but when she managed it, there were only more obstacles.

There was about four-five feet between rows, all double deckers except for one a few lines down, the "WV." A faint hissing sound could be heard in addition to the click of her footwear, and she folded her arms to endure the cold of the garage. It was, at least, fully lit, as long as you weren't sandwiched between them.

It was a stretch to even imagine working here, especially the graveyard shift. A bus is large, noisy and messy, never mind a hundred of them, and even when static the maze was intimidating if you hadn't been inside it before. The plan went as follows – hide behind the corner of one of these monstrous transports, work her notoriously irresistible eyelashes and call over a nice mechanic for help. She'd rather scamper unnoticed, but perhaps they could provide her some clothes.

She held her hand on the curve of the front lights, now in the first row, roughly in the centre of the depot. One bus had special treatment, on its own between her position and the pits, or maybe there was no room anywhere else. There was a pool of water around its wheels and lengthy, soaked tire tracks from one end to the other.

They are "picked" of rubbish when they come in, brought onto the bay to be vacuumed, fuelled and oiled, and finally taking through the wash, but for whatever reason her '54' from town had not. That would explain why no one spotted her up on the back seat, and the driver must have been an unsympathetic soul at four in the morning.

"Hello...is someone here?" she asked.

The building merely answered back with an extended hiss, and the fuel pump in the distance hadn't been turned off. The crew had to be around; after all they had shunted her own bus into its place. She ran her hand through her soft brown hair, still feeling the effects of the booze. Maybe it will end up being a famous story with her best friends, but for now, her head hurt, she was freezing and just wanted to go home.

Careful on the slippery, concrete floor, she made her way toward the big shutters. Past the notice board was the wash on her right, and to left were some recently built offices. In the corner was a single door and surely the exit, so she pressed down the handle bar and began thinking what an impressive accomplishment it was to avoid wolf whistles from old men in their overalls.

The door didn't budge. The racket echoed about the silent garage, especially the frustrated second and third attempts. A horrid feeling washed over instantly, that she was in a fine mess and wasn't sure what to do. Her heart began beating so hard it threatened to leap out of her chest, and the worry transferred to her wobbly legs, as she walked over to the nearest office window.

Kristin peeked inside but the chair was empty, there was a red folder opened on the desk with a pen resting in the middle, and beside that was an open laptop with earphones plugged in. There was a very worn board behind the glass, which showed the assigned duties for each man on the roster. There were eight in total, while another few fell under the ill and holidays categories. On the opposite side, there was a small yellow bus parked inside the second wash closest to the back wall. The ticket bus sparked a memory from the evening, and she worked through the fog to recall a petty argument with Deirdre, which then led to their separation.

The canteen – that's where these guys are, and one of them will have a key. She returned to the centre of the garage, and it was a like a private catwalk to see the young woman in only her undergarments strut and stumble to an audience of parked cars. Her heels made their last step by the tire store, however, as an odd sound caught her attention.

It was a man speaking on a walkie talkie, followed by a sharp beep, and the process would repeat. It seemed close, but every time she felt she had chosen the correct one, she had to approach a different point. It came from the cab of a bus in the second line, a man from headquarters babbling from the speaker. The latest noise was a fallen tool; the clang filling the air from must what have been the far side of the depot.

"Hello?" she called again, "Could someone help me, please?"

She then stayed on course with the new strategy, walking over to some storage facilities where the path led to the toilets. Through that doorway, and on the right, was the kitchen and a locked door which prevented access to the changing rooms for those without the code. Kristin pushed open the first door to be greeted by five white tables, a fridge, sink and microwave.

Under the TV/DVD combo...was a man, slouched in his chair. Her mouth closed just as soon as it opened – draped over the chubby worker's shoulder was a red strap, a ladies' handbag clutched in his arms. Her lips pursed with the tension, but not only was the fellow's back turned, he had drifted off for a nap. She slowly reached for the handle, almost skidding on the tiled floor in her nervous escape.

It was obvious now it wasn't some hooligan passengers on the Nitelink that took her things, it was these shameful employees! The shutters are up day and night in this place,

every

bus goes through maintenance, none of this made sense. She turned the corner of the walkway once more, past some railings and an old table covered in filthy cloths and parts.

Suddenly, the grumble of an ignition could be heard as the engine of one of the two dozen park buses switched on. This of course trumped the hissing, the fuel pump and her anxious heartbeat combined, and the vibrations lured each of her senses to it, no matter what was waiting.

Walking along the back line, Kristin felt out the powered presence and went the opposite way. Adjacent were more store rooms, a stack of cushions and underneath those were three pallets. Another bus fired up, and she appeared to be right in the middle of the two. Her logic was limited in her condition, but she concluded that it was a game.

These automobiles weren't doing this themselves, and when she called for assistance only a moment ago, no one was interested. Out of the corner of her eye was another of the staff, and this one was carrying a black sack, dumping the contents in one of two skips available. She put herself out of sight, but the man went about his work like it was just another night.

That's when the third bus joined in, and this was no more than twenty feet from her location. The three rumbled in a symphony of pulsation, and one of them even revved the engine for extra effect. If there were indeed eight men on duty, she was now aware of about four or five. Two big feet lost the fight against gravity and jumped to the ground, his footsteps disappearing, but enough to alarm Kristin as she crouched by the emergency door of the WV.

She remained that way but progressed, under the windows and middle doors. More footsteps – more buses switched on. She covered her ears, the beasts may aswell be driving over her head given her state. It was not the time to be thinking about it, but it was foolish to leave her friends and try to make her own way home. It was stupid to get smashed beyond belief to celebrate a significant improvement in her grade point average.

She reluctantly went down to her knees, the heel of her feet popping from the shoes. The grimy floor welcomed her pale skin, and the two became fully acquainted when she made the decision to slide her entire body underneath the bus to her right, just behind the front wheel. She had lost count now, a good ten or twelve of them were working their monotone madness, but thankfully not the one directly above.

That possibility soon became a probability, however. Two black boots made their way over, laces so poorly tied that they hung over the sides. They stopped, turned for a moment, and didn't move again for an entire sixty seconds. Their owner spat carelessly by the wheel that Kristin had one hand resting on, while she swallowed a scream and held her nerve. The worker finally rounded the bus in the next row; it rocked slightly under his leap up the steps and the cab door slammed.

She winced as she felt her chest pressing into the repulsive filth, the dusty mechanics of the vehicle only inches above her shoulder length hair to boot. She heard a bus pulling away, and that seemed to be the signal for the one right next to hers to start up. Eventually, all three of them in that vertical row had left their parking spaces behind and her hiding place was now a vulnerable one. Her breasts and legs scraped the ground, and they now looked like they had been through a hard day's labour with one of the boys.

Kristin pushed herself up and ran by the employees' cars without looking back. There had to be an exit at every corner of the garage and so it proved, her heels clicking past the second skip and the pit on the far left. She pounded on the thick door but to no avail, the callous brutes had secured every emergency outlet. Some steps presented themselves, taking her to a mechanic's back yard. The grated steel caught one stiletto, and considering how much they had slowed her down anyway, she opted to peel off the shoes and carry them instead.

She journeyed through the lower levelled pits. There were seven openings in total, allowing the experts a clear view and access underneath the parked buses. Across from those were numerous presses, with countless wrenches, bolts and boxes of those light blue surgical gloves.

She noticed a yellow trash can, labelled "rags", while the other one said "Oily rags only." Lifting the lid, for a moment it looked as if her prayers were answered, tops and pants galore. On closer inspection, every one of them was cut into pieces and none could pass as an outfit, the idea being that they are small enough to fit in your hand.

She observed her scantily clad figure, humiliated at running around half naked with black marks in many places. Her high heel pumps dangling from two fingers, she approached the other staircase. Obviously, those three departing buses had nowhere to go, and they seemed to just be laying and waiting. She cautiously finished the last step and peeked down the side, finding two men, one inside a running bus, and the other with his arm resting against the windshield.

"What do you want!" she screamed, adding a second for good measure.

They wore navy overalls, usually a couple of buttons unfastened, hoods, and white dust masks revealing only their eyes. The barefoot student did work up enough courage to advance, passing some railings and the office window where these guys receive their pay packets. By the notice board, she came to a halt, as still these louts hadn't responded. She went to the shelf where employees punch in, removing a card from its place and checking for those who had clocked last night or later.

"What do you want, Darren Murphy? How about you Aaron Byrne? Fuck you...Brian O'Neill....fuck you and

fuck your masks!"

Kristin caught her breath, holding the rail in frustration and anger, and the two workers merely looked at one another, rather amused by the outburst. She had thrown the cards wildly on the ground in a feeble attempt at attack. These were not men of mystery, she thought, they were just men, with names and jobs, in a government owned company. They simply had to stop holding an innocent person against her will immediately – period.

Instead of pointing to the exit, the nearest fellow passed her his trusty black bag. Before she could explain how preposterous this was, she had been urged onto the AX by the persuasion of a gloved hand at her back. Out the front window provided some comfort, as the garage shutters were finally up, revealing a dark, early Saturday outdoors. Behind her, the standing man, without speaking, picked up a coffee mug from the floor and spared the rest of the rubbish, placing it in her new sack.

The message had been delivered; at least he felt it had before a rough push to the shoulder was required. Kristin glared back at him, his unflinching brown eyes showing that it was no joke. The bus jolted, shifting forward and eventually outside the large entrance, as the woman got to work.

Bottles, cans and papers were all tossed in, as she scoured between the seats, right up to the back window where someone had kindly discarded an apple. As she returned to present her findings, she met a finger pointing upstairs. She figured that if she played along, soon they would quit the pranks and she'd be curled up under warm blankets in no time.

The long bag rattled as she climbed the stairs, the bus just starting to accelerate, but within a couple of seconds the driver put on the breaks. Kristin, even while keeping hold of the rail, lost her footing and her left knee paid the price on the edge of one step. Sympathy from the other guy came in the form of the tapping of his watch under his sleeve.

Wincing in pain, she ascended to the top and began bending under seats to find hidden garbage. Again the bus gathered as great a speed as it could in the premises. Have you ever pressed the 'stop' button and stood up while on the upper deck, as your destination drew nearer, only to find yourself struggling to walk? Well, now imagine flexing and reaching in those conditions.

Most of the crap in this one was near the back, and that was two Heineken cans, a crisps wrapper, and, you guessed it, that lovely spot of sick in the corner. This was

her

bus. She held on tight as it turned and appeared to return inside the depot, past some lockers and a forklift. As she approached the stairs once again, she made sure to give the finger to that large, circular mirror, no doubt facilitating some spying down below.

Kristin made her way down and met up with her instructor, who calmly exited the front doors and expected the woman to follow. He strayed by some wheelie bins, so she took this as a sign to make the dump here. Then, she fetched her expensive heels that she had left by the cab, and headed towards the exit. Job done – lesson learned – don't litter, etc. etc.

'Byrne' had a firm grip on her slim wrist, however, and she hadn't even been successful in leaving the AX at all. She scowled at him, saying that they had had their fun, but she was quickly led away so that the bus could position itself. Her shoes dropped out of her hands near a shore and she continued to walk on the unforgiving ground, sometimes rising on her toes to avoid the gritty rasp against her delicate soles. Welcome to the bay. Where a near one hundred buses pass through each night, and where only one in the entire fleet remained without service on this night.

She was guided to one of two seats, the other stacked with newspapers and a half empty, two litre bottle of water. A pair of gloves were flung on her lap as she took in the area; two, long yellow hoses on the ground, tangling with each other. She comforted the developing bruise on her knee and shook her head, both at the madness of it all and the murkiness of her own brain at the time.

The 18 tonne monster entered her picture once more, there was actually very little space for it to maneuver the turn between the paths, so it grunted at the strain of the driver spinning the wheel as far is it would permit. 'Kavanagh' pressed the green button on the wall, and what followed was a deep thump inside the vacuum, eventually providing powerful suction in both tubes.

The bus lined itself nicely on the bay, the middle doors facing the seats, while the fuel and oil supply were on the far side. Three times she barked to be let go, and each time the men, now three of them including the shunter, blatantly ignored the plea. This had to be the coldest point of the building; it was near open shutters and the buses only provided heat once you were close to them.

She fixed a loose bra strap, rubbing her shoulders to combat the chill. Her decision to make a run for it was short lived, as one of those large figures pre-empted the idea. There was a WV behind the bay, so the only available space was through him - or through the wash. The same men drew nearer and offered her a vac, a once in a lifetime opportunity to be one of the boys.