The Last Bus and Other Stories

By David Kubicek

26 short stories by David Kubicek, author of In Human Form. Included in this collection are:

Games Machines Play—A computer holds a college student hostage until he complies with a peculiar request.
Spare Parts—On the day of his wedding, Mike Thayer learns a shocking truth about himself when something odd falls out of his ear.
Safety First—William Fawth’s car is programmed to help him develop safe driving skills, but its attitude grates on his nerves.
The Last Bus—For $15, Local businessman Wilson Brakhage will take you on a tour of the wreckage remaining from the worst tornado disaster in Nebraska’s history.
Blood—Is a cougar mutilating the cattle? Or is there a darker, supernatural force at work?
Keeper of the Shrine—A college student working the night shift in a photofinishing plant learns a life lesson from a dead spider.

With each story, the author gives his commentary on its background and how it came to be written.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Kubicek
• Release date: Sep 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215486139

David Kubicek

David Kubicek writes stories in the genres of--and on topics similar to--his writing mentors Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, and Rod Serling. He has published a novel, a short story collection, and two anthologies, including the critically acclaimed October Dreams: A Harvest of Horror [with Jeff Mason]. His story “Ball of Fire” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Book preview

THE LAST BUS AND OTHER STORIES

By David Kubicek

Moaning Rocks Press

Lincoln, Nebraska

Distributed by Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Photo 29092082 © Creativehearts | Dreamstime.com

© 2023 by David Kubicek

Cover photo 29092082 © Creativehearts | Dreamstime.com

Cover Design by David Kubicek

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Not A Neon Sign was originally published, in slightly different form, in The Single Life, © 1986 by David Kubicek.

Silent Night was originally published on the author’s blog, © 2012 by David Kubicek, and reprinted in Silent Night and Other Holiday Lore, © 2017 by David Kubicek.

The Hawk’s Head Tree, "A Bear Needs a Territory, and The Green Yarn" were originally published in Bedtime Stories, © 2018 by David Kubicek.

Unblinking Eyes was originally published in Theme of Absence, © 2019 by David Kubicek.

The Last Bus was originally published in Voices from the Plains, Volume III, © 2019 by NWG Publications.

It Gets Lonely on the Third Floor was originally published in Voices from the Plains, Volume IV, © 2020 by NWG Publications.

An Evening Stroll and Spare Parts were originally published in Flashes From the Plains, © 2021 by NWG Publications.

A Place of their Own was originally published in Stories from the Heartland, © 2021 by NWG Publications.

In memory of

Bob Bergstrom, who gave me feedback on many of these stories

and

John Kubicek, who collaborated with me on two of them and

inspired the ending to Keeper of the Shrine

CONTENTS

Introduction

SCIENCE FICTION AND FANTASY

It Gets Lonely on the Third Floor

The Wallflower

The Park

Games Machines Play [with John Kubicek]

Grennies

An Evening Stroll

Spare Parts

Garbage Disposal [with John Kubicek]

Safety First

Three Fables:

The Hawk's Head Tree

A Bear Needs a Territory

The Green Yarn

HORROR

The Last Bus

Unblinking Eyes

Blood

Another Guest for the Party

LITERARY/MAINSTREAM

In Whose Halls?

I Go Every Week to IGA

Obsession

Connecting

Waiting in October

A Place of Their Own

A Good Boy

Keeper of the Shrine

Not a Neon Sign

Silent Night

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

My goal in assembling these stories is to bring together a body of my short fiction spanning my career to this date. Although several of these stories have been published previously, most of them have not. Probably the main reasons they haven’t been published before is that a) I ran out of markets or b) Continuing to submit them would not be cost effective.

Today, most editors accept email submissions—in fact, many prefer them—so it doesn’t cost anything to submit a story. When I started writing, there was no internet, and personal computers were still several years away. I wrote my first stories with a typewriter, and used carbon copies to back up my work. Submitting a story cost a little money. I bought two manuscript size envelopes [one to send the story, and the other in case of a rejection so the editor could send it back]. I also had to buy postage for both envelopes.

In those days there weren’t very many good markets for short fiction, so after I ran through the paying markets—many of which didn’t pay much in the first place—I was left with the very low paying markets, or the markets that paid only in contributor’s copies. That’s where I was paying more to send out the stories than I could expect to recoup if they sold. So if the story didn’t sell after I ran short of paying markets, I pulled it from the marketplace.

I submitted my first story in 1971 when I was 19 years old. It was a dreadful story, but with novice writer enthusiasm and confidence [some might say cockiness] I fired it off to The New Yorker and waited for the big check I was sure would come. What actually came was my first form rejection slip.

I found that story—which shall remain nameless—a few years ago and thought it might be fun to read it. I was wrong. It was not fun. It the opposite of fun. In fact, I couldn’t read past the first page. I just couldn’t. There was a lot wrong with it, but the thing that stood out the most was that I ended every other paragraph with an exclamation mark.

I remember writing the stories in this collection, but I have not read most of them in years—decades in some cases—so when I dug through my box of stories, it was like reading them for the first time. The stories in this book are the ones I decided worthy of bringing into the daylight. There were many others that I decided were better left in the box. Deep in the box. Maybe with a dead mouse placed on top to discourage me from digging around in it again.

In the earlier stories, written before my craft had fully developed, I’ve done some revision, but the basic storylines remain intact. I’ve updated some of the stories a little. Others, I left alone because updating them would change the story too much. For instance, Keeper of the Shrine is set in a photofinishing plant at a time before digital photography, and I wrote Safety First in 1980, long before there were self-driving cars or artificial intelligence—at least to the level of AI displayed by my car of the future.

I’ve written commentary before and after the stories. Since the commentary after the stories contains spoilers, read the stories first—unless you don’t care about spoilers, in which case, go for it.

David Kubicek

Lincoln, Nebraska

August 14, 2023

SCIENCE FICTION AND FANTASY

IT GETS LONELY ON THE THIRD FLOOR

She heard him walking in the hall, heard his keys clinking, heard the wheels on his trash barrel rolling over the tiles. He stopped in her doorway. She was standing, facing the window, the bloody sunset washing over her pale skin and fiery hair parted down the center and pulled up on her head out of the way. A tall, slender woman with a preference for black dresses with long sleeves, long skirts, and high necklines. She stood, her back to him, arms crossed on her chest, while he waited in the doorway.

I thought everyone was gone, he said.

It was a strong, deep voice. She could sense his irritation at finding someone remaining in his quiet nightly domain.

I’m working late, she said.

Came to clean the office, he said, moving into the room.

He picked up the trash can and carried it out of the room. She heard him dump it into his barrel.

You’re a teacher? he said when he came back.

She turned then and stared at him with eyes that burned with blue fire. He stood transfixed with the empty trash can in one hand and a dust mop in the other.

Modern American Literature, she said. I’m Hannah Shayne.

Jack, he said. Jack Butkus.

He blinked, shook his head. Then he set the trash can down with a clunk on the cold tile floor.

It’s chilly in here, he said. Guess heat doesn’t travel to the top of these old buildings very well.

She didn’t answer, just stared at him. The clock clicked above the door. It was 5:49.

You don’t look like any literature teacher I ever saw, he said.

I’m sorry.

Hell, I thought everyone went home, he said.

Where’s Mr. Jenkins?

Who?

The janitor.

I don’t know, he said. I’ve got the third floor and part of the second.

Her eyebrows knitted together in a frown.

What’s wrong?

He didn’t even say good-by, she said. None of them ever say good-by. They just leave.

Who? The custodians?

She felt a bitter, choked-up taste in the back of her throat. She turned back to the window so he wouldn’t see the tears on her face. The blood had drained from the sky, and night was settling softly down.

I don’t know where he is, he said. I’m new.

He waited, but she said nothing. She watched a few students straggling across the twilight-shrouded campus. Then she threw open the window so the crisp October breeze swept into the room and over her face. She closed her eyes. She always felt lonely staring out this window.

Quietly, he dust-mopped the floor and went out the door. The wheels on his barrel made an empty rolling sound down the hall. Then the rolling stopped, and she could hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs. Then silence

***

She was working on a lesson plan at her desk. The sunlight spilled golden and warm through window.

The phone trilled. She stopped and looked at it.

It trilled again.

She laid down her pen and watched the phone. When it trilled a third time, she picked up the receiver and held it to her ear, listened.

Hello? the distant, tinny voice said in her ear.

Hello, she said.

Hello, is anyone there?

Yes, she said. Hello.

Nate, is that you?

There’s no Nate here, she said.

Hello. Can you hear me?

She held the receiver away from her and looked at it.

Hello, hello. Somebody say something.

I’m here, she said into the receiver.

A click on the other end of the line, then a steady buzzing in her ear. She eased the receiver into its cradle and returned to work.

She heard the rolling sound in the hall and looked up as Jack appeared in the doorway. He stood staring at her.

Several days had passed since they had last spoken. She had seen him often in the hall or from the top of the stairs. Sometimes as she came out of the library she had seen him emerging from her office and locking the door.

At these times, she had wanted to call out to him, had raised her hand in greeting, then the moment had passed, and he was gone away.

The telephone doesn’t work, she said. Do I report that to you?

I can leave maintenance a note, he said, and they can call the phone company.

Would you? I’ve been having trouble with it a lot. It’s not making a good connection.

He dumped her trash can while she continued to work, her pen making soft scratching sounds in the dying afternoon light.

You sure that guy who used to work here was named Jenkins? he asked when he came back with his dust mop and the empty trash can.

She paused in her writing.

Yes. Mr. Harley Jenkins.

He was a custodian?

Yes. He was a janitor. Why?

It’s just that Curly, the other guy in this building, doesn’t remember anyone named Jenkins. Curly’s been in this building for 26 years. He said the guy who worked here before me was named Davis.

She rubbed her eyes.

"Maybe it has been longer. It seems like everything runs together. Things that I think happened last month, it turns out they happened a year ago. Maybe Mr. Jenkins was a painter or carpenter. Maybe he wasn’t a janitor at all."

We prefer to be called custodians, he said, because the building is in our custody. We keep the building clean, safe, and secure.

She looked at him and said nothing.

Maybe you’ve been working too much, he said. My supper break’s in half an hour. Why don’t you let me take you out to grab something to eat?

She looked at the papers on her desk.

Oh, I couldn’t possibly, she said. My work—

Will wait.

Thank you, no. I couldn’t possibly leave the building.

You leave to go home, don’t you?

Yes, she said, although she’d been spending so much time at the office that she had only a vague memory of what home was like. But I have responsibilities.

Well, at least come down and eat with me. I always take lunch at the bottom of the stairs, just out there.

He motioned to the doorway.

I don’t know. . .

You need a break.

Perhaps, she said.

***

He sat eating a sandwich at the foot of the stairs. A brown paper bag and Thermos of coffee sat beside him on the step. She descended the stairs quietly as he raised his coffee cup to his lips.

Good evening, Mr. Butkus.

He jumped, sloshing coffee onto his pants. He put his cup down and brushed at his pants furiously.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.

I’m Jack, he said. Just Jack.

I hardly know you, Mr. Butkus, she said.

He moved his bag and his Thermos, and she sat down beside him.

Very well, Ms. Shayne. So you decided you could use a break after all?

He reached into his bag, which crackled in the stillness.

Sandwich? he asked, offering her the plastic-wrapped sandwich. Ham and cheese.

Thank you, no, she said. I’m not hungry.

He put the sandwich back into the bag.

The blood-red sunlight filtered through the ragged tree branches outside the windows at the end of the hall and cast restless patterns on the tile floor. The sunlight through the air-born dust made the hall seem to be filled with smoke.

How come your name isn’t on your office door? he asked.

Isn’t it?

The nameplate says Nathan R. Dickson.

I just moved into that office, she said. Maybe they haven’t gotten around to changing it yet.

Yeah, they’re pretty slow to do things around here.

She was only half listening. She stared at the bloody patterns of light on the floor and hugged herself, shivering.

Cold?

I can never get warm, it seems.

He reached for her hand, but she drew it away, her skirt rustling softly with the movement. She looked up the stairs toward her office. Then she looked at him.

I have to get back, she said

You just got here.

My work—

Please stay, he said. Just a little while longer.

The sunlight was fading from the hall. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed like a captive swarm of bees.

She shifted on the step, clasped her hands in her lap, but her hands wouldn’t remain still. Her fingers picked at the folds of her skirt with quick, jerky movements.

I want to get to know you better, he said.

And I you.

Do you mean that?

Yes. Yes, I do. But—

Agitated, she glanced up the stairs. He reached to touch her cheek and guide her gaze back to him, but she deftly moved her head.

But?

I’ve got to go, she said in a rush. There’s something I must do.

What’s so important that you can’t take a minute—

She stood up, and before he realized what was happening, she was gone up the stairs in a swirl of skirt and had disappeared from sight.

Lingering on the stairs was a scent of lilac, which was dispersing in the hall from which all the sunlight had gone.

***

He was sullen when he came to her office the next afternoon. She looked up from her writing as he took her trash can and dumped the contents roughly into his barrel.

I’m sorry, she said.

He grunted acknowledgement and slammed the trash can down on the floor. About to begin dust-mopping, he turned back to her suddenly.

What happened last night? he said. Are you too good for me because you’re a teacher, and I’m a custodian? I’m a student here. I’m working here while I go through school.

I didn’t mean it like that.

How did you mean it?

She rose from the desk but kept it as a barrier between them.

I wasn’t thinking how you’d feel. I was feeling closed in. I had to leave.

I’m sorry I invaded your space, he said with heavy sarcasm.

My what?

I’m sorry I rushed you.

Wringing her hands in front of her, she turned from him and went to the window.

I’ve never been around people much, she said. I don’t know how to act. I was raised in a big house, had no brothers or sisters, was educated at home. When I grew up, I had three choices: I could live with my parents for the rest of my life, I could get married and have a family, or I could get a job and support myself.

Her skin looked translucent, glowing, in the afternoon light. Her cheeks were wet, her gaze far away. He was quiet and very still.

Living with my parents didn’t appeal to me, and I never went anyplace where I could meet someone, and teaching is the only thing I was ever interested in.

You’ve met someone now, he said.

Yes, she said. But give me some time.

You’re burying yourself in your work. You need to let me take you out of here.

I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t.

She was wringing her hands furiously now.

It’s okay, he said. We’ll go slow.

It gets so lonely, she said. It’s so lonely working here at night when everyone is gone.

Is that why you screamed.

She turned to look at him.

Screamed?

Last night, not long after you dashed up the stairs. I was so mad at you I almost didn’t come up, but when I did, I couldn’t find you.

Did you check the library?

He shook his head.

When you weren’t in your office, I went back to work.

I want to try again, she said.

Lunch?

She nodded.

I’ve got a class tonight, so I’ll be leaving soon, he said. But we could try tomorrow night.

That would be fine, she said.

He began moving his dust-mop around the office, and she turned back to the window to watch the sun go down.

***

The next afternoon, Jack didn’t come to her office. She waited, but the trash can remained full, the floor not swept.

At 5:55 she approached the top of the stairs. The empty hall was restless with the shifting patterns of bloody sunlight. She descended the stairs until she stood on the step where he usually sat.

It’s early, she thought. He should be here shortly.

So she waited as daylight seeped out of the air. Inside her was building the same uneasiness she’d felt the other night.

She glanced up to her office door, standing open in the smoky air.

I’ll give him another minute, she thought. Then I’ll go back to work.

She fixed her gaze on the clock across the hall. A minute passed, and still he did not come.

She listened for a sound, any sound, that would tell her someone was near. But the building was as still and as silent and as cold as a tomb. She rubbed her upper arms and shivered.

One more minute, she thought, glancing up the stairs.

Maybe he had another class tonight, or an emergency. Maybe something came up, and he couldn’t be here. She knew he wanted to be here, but sometimes things happened.

The minute passed.

She stood radiant, glowing, on the stairs, like a phantom in a graveyard, the last rays of sunlight setting her hair on fire.

She was giddy, as if every molecule in her body were vibrating at supersonic speeds. She needed to move, could not seem to stand still.

She looked up the stairs, felt that open doorway drawing her to it. Without glancing back, she fled up to her sanctuary, leaving the deserted second floor hallway to repose in quiet behind her.

***

On her office door the next day she found a note that read: Custodian—please empty trash and sweep floor. The note wasn’t in her handwriting, and she wondered briefly who else might have written it. Probably Mr. Peters, the head of the department.

She did not touch the note. She was still angry with him for not meeting her as he’d promised. It would serve him right if he got into trouble.

He didn’t come to her that afternoon, either, and now she was worried.

***

The following day, the trash can had been emptied, the floor dust-mopped, and the note was gone from the door. The cleaning had been done while she was away from her desk, and somehow she knew he wasn’t coming back. She had driven him away as she had driven away Mr. Jenkins and the others.

***

He was