text: The roadside was overgrown with the dewy green of spring. The woodlands were quiet except for the clicking pecks of Woodpeckers, and the hum of throttled engines. A two coach convoy of double-decker buses was making its way past the river-bend. The two were in good shape if not slightly dented, with holes peppered throughout. The leader of the pack was painted a rather good looking red, while the trailing coach was slightly more orange colored. Large quantities of good paints were hard to come by in the post-clyism world. If you could find something close enough, you were lucky. The two buses were associated with a larger fleet of coaches, that ran consistently down Route-24, in the leafy North West. This region was in much better affairs as compared to the tumultuous South-west with the ongoing Navajo wars. Though not without its trouble. Gas was still scarce. Perhaps even more so, as supply lines from the South West were constantly disrupted by Navajo. There were weeks at a time when only a couple odd buses could be ran though the region. The difficulty was compounded by gangs of bandits that roamed the area, so fuel was scarce. It was also likely to be stolen. This was one of those weeks. The convoy was leading down a slightly narrow feeder street, as the main route had flooded. What was once a road was now a few feet under water, and while the convoy could have just plowed through the river, it was likely that they would've stalled out and died. Stalling always leads to death. So, yes, flooding. Flooding was not convenient, but post-clyism life was often not convenient, rarely was it. And the coaches were especially privy to this. They knew the drill: find a detour, don't stop, keep cruising. Never stop cruising. And so the convoy continued through the woodland, undeterred by the obstructions posed to the main route. The cabin of the main bus was wildly noisy. These vessels were antique machines, and not in especially great condition. The captain sat behind the driver, intently peering over his shoulder. Something did not look right. Above the noise, the captain alerted the flagman to wave the "get ready to slow down" flag. A window on the starboard side slid down, and out it came a diagonally split yellow and red flag. The flag man waved this flag vigorously, until the trailing flagman waved back a white flag meaning OK. The trailing member began to slow, and soon the convoy was at a full stop. The pneumatic brakes seized and purged their remaining pressure. This was very uncommon. This was very bad. The captain of the leading bus and the first mate of the trailing stepped off onto the asphalt, and convened. At that moment, the problem became clear. The two men were expecting a bridge that no longer existed. Looking down into the river below, the captain could see the fragments of said bridge. It appeared to have fallen recently, as it's presence was used to great effect days before. It was no secret that the many bridges in the North West woodlands were prone to collapse. Most were more than a century old. However, the captain did not suspect mere ordinary collapse. From the side of the bridge, the captain got a look at the iron supports. They were horribly sheered and partial melted and in the grass, the first mate spotted what appeared to be blasting cable. This confirmed the captains theory. The bridge had been blown apart at the supports. Quickly, the captain grabbed the first mate, and the two scurried up the hillside, back towards the blacktop. The captain ran with the boy all the way to the trailing coach. The trailing captain was confused and worried, but the leading coach declared that they were going to have to turn around. The leading captain was sweating bullets as he sprinted back to his bus. He had turned white; for this was truly, an unprecedented terror. The leading captain alerted the flagman to signal with the "let's get moving" flag. The flagman waved the flag with a powerful yet fluid motion, indicative of its urgency. The OK signal was received, and the captain ordered the driver to begin a U-turn. This was to be a difficult maneuver. Slowly the craft inched forward, with unease, working its way back and forth, over and over, to make a U-turn. Minutes passed, with each growing more tense, more unsure. It was coming, that they knew. No one, but a backwards hick would blow a bridge without reason. It was a trap and they were going to try like hell to get out of it. After several more minutes of casually bumping into trees, pissing off birds, excessive shouting, and awkwardly avoiding one another, the two buses made their way back down the road, hoping to make it back to the main route. Hoping to make it back home. The gunnery was on high alert. They didn't know what was coming or where it was coming from, so they had to keep their eyes and ears open. Lest they be slain, which to each man seemed a less than stellar choice. On top of the coach, the gunnery could still feel the hum of the engine, as well as the cool morning air of spring. It was very refreshing, almost nippy. It would've been nice if they weren't about to die. And indeed it seemed they were, because as a gunnery, they were the first line of defense for their coach and also, perhaps, the most exposed. They got all the view they wanted, except for when they couldn't see the guy who shot first. With this in mind, the gunnery mounts were trained every which way. They swerved in an instant, at every stick cracking dear, and bird call in the surrounding woods. It never once occurred to them that it might be on the road, where most things are. And in fact it was. The captain gave a holler, noting the presence of a barricade. The gunnery swerved once again, finally training on a single target. Further down the road a triple-decker bus was turned starboard side out, in an attempt to create a make-shift barricade. Men stood in the road, and one made a gesture to the upper deck. The enemy gunnery took aim at the convoy. The one man began to wave his arms in a stopping gesture. He seemed confident this would work, but as seconds drew on, he became concerned. The convoy was not stopping. The leading captain ordered full speed ahead. There was no stopping for other motorists, no negotiations, they had this one chance to floor it and ram the motherfuckers. The captain ordered the flagman to prepare to signal the other coach to pull alongside. Not yet, but if the driver should've died, the other would have to pull ahead. This was near suicide, but stopping was not an option. The gunnery opened up. Firing on the man in the road, in hopes that he was the captain. And that he was, that is, until he was shot dead running for cover. The enemy gunnery began to fire, and many other small arms popped off from behind the starboard wall. Little pops and bangs lit up the windshield, and bits of metal whipped through the cabin. The trailing gunnery took aim at the enemy gun, with a distinct disadvantage: the enemy had the high ground. The gunnery knew that he wasn't likely to get a body shot, or a head shot, but he reckoned that he could shred the other guy's legs, and so the gunnery took the shot. Tearing through the thin metal walls of the third deck, tiny chunks of metal ripped through the gunnery's legs, severing many arteries. He was mortally wounded. As many others tried to shoot the driver and carry the mortal captain inside the bus, It seemed that failure was imminent. There was no leadership and the convoy was coming fast. About a hundred yards down the road, the convoy continued it's charge seemingly unphased. A man or two had been shot through the foot and the flagman caught flak through the shoulder, but he was alive, most of the crew was, and disregarding the myriad holes punched through the front of the bus, it seemed this would be a successful assault. About a dozen men bailed out of the triple-decker, some firing stray rounds as the dove to the ground. It was at this moment that the convoy blew straight through the tail end of the bus, breaking the blockade. The triple-decker bus caught fire from the resulting fuel leak, cooking any of the crew who survived the impact, and sadly wasting fuel. The double-decker convoy continued down the road, the leading bus, once a lovely red, now scratched and shot to hell. The two buses continued until finally they met with the main route. From there they returned back to the bus yard. The run was a bust, but the buses were intact, and the crew were mostly spared. The leading bus was painted orange, and mended the best that post-clyism tech could muster. As for the bridge, that posed a much larger issue, the resolution of which had much less to do with buses..