Genesis. Volume 2

October 3, 1986. Bus Brookfield – Detroit. Morning. The bus pulled out at seven. Inside, it smelled of gasoline, worn-out seats, and other people's sweat—a smell that had seeped into the upholstery so deeply it wouldn't air out for years. The windows fogged up immediately. Arthur sat by the aisle, Lisa by the window, her temple pressed against the cold glass. Across the row—Max and Jenny. Emma had settled at the back, her legs propped up on the neighboring seat. "Nine hours," Arthur glanced at his watch. "We'll get there by evening." "If we don't break down." Max gripped the armrests. At every bump, the bus lurched like a drunkard. "Are you afraid of buses?" Jenny asked. "No. I just don't like the shaking." Emma snorted from the back row. "He's lying. He's scared." "Buzz off." Lisa opened her sketchbook and began to draw. The bus pulled onto the highway. The residential neighborhoods fell away, then fields, then woods, and beyond the woods—endless gray fields dotted with rare farmhouses. "Call Marcus," Lisa said without looking up from her drawing. Arthur pulled the scrap of paper with the phone number from his backpack. There was no payphone on the bus, but an hour later, at the first stop, they pulled into a gas station. He stepped out into the icy wind, slipped a coin into the slot. The receiver was cold, unfamiliar. Rings. "Hello?" A hoarse voice, with a cough, as if the person had just woken up—or hadn't slept at all. "Marcus? It's Arthur. From Brookfield. We're on our way to you." A pause. He was silent for so long that Arthur was sure he'd hung up. "Are you alone?" "There are five of us." "Come over. We'll meet at the factory." He gave an address, curtly, without a single extra word. "Just no cops. And no adults." "We understand." A click, then a dial tone. Arthur got back on the bus. The gas station smelled of burnt coffee and cheap tobacco. Emma had bought a pack of cookies and handed them around. "Is he strange?" Max asked, breaking a cookie in half. "Tired," Arthur said. "Very tired." The bus drove on. Lisa drew. An hour later, she dozed off, her head dropping onto her backpack. She dreamed of the mansion. She stood at the gate, staring at the windows. On the second floor, a gray light burned—not yellow, not white, but exactly gray, like an overcast day. In the window stood Jack. He wasn't looking at her—he was looking at the glass. Then he raised a finger and began to draw on the fogged surface. A line. Another line. A face emerged. Not the clown's. A man with deep wrinkles, with tired eyes. He was looking straight at her. Lisa woke up. The bus was passing an old bus stop. On a crooked pole hung a red thread, tied in a bow—exactly like theirs. It fluttered in the wind. Lisa glanced at her wrist—the thread was still there. She wanted to tell Arthur, but changed her mind. She clutched her sketchbook. The stop disappeared around the bend. "You okay?" Arthur noticed her flinch. "Nothing. Just a dream." She picked up her pencil, sharpened to almost a needle point, and drew a face. It came out clearly, only the eyes on the paper looked empty. "Who's that?" "I don't know. But he was in the mansion. In the window." Arthur took the drawing, looked at it, and handed it back. He tucked it into the sketchbook. Jenny woke up an hour later. She'd slept badly—she kept seeing a staircase descending into darkness. And a woman's hand with a ring on her finger—a black stone, the letter "B" on the signet. Thin, pale, with long nails. A voice whispered something she couldn't make out. Only one word: "key." Jenny opened her eyes. The bus was shaking; outside, it was already getting dark. Her fingers trembled. She picked up a pen and mechanically traced the outline of a ring in the margins of her notebook—a black circle, a letter inside. "What's that?" Arthur asked, looking over her shoulder. "I don't know. It just came out." "Did you dream of something?" Emma leaned across the aisle. "Nothing." "Don't lie." Emma narrowed her eyes. "I can see you've gone pale." Jenny looked at her hands. Her fingers were still trembling. "I dreamed someone was saying, 'blood is the key.' And a ring. With the letter 'B.' I don't know what it means." Emma frowned. "Maybe Elias? He likes riddles." "Doesn't sound like him. The voice was female." They fell silent. Jenny clenched her hands into fists, felt her pulse in her fingers. She ran her nail across her palm—it left a red line. Not painful. Emma turned to the window. Beyond the glass stretched fields, scattered houses, power-line towers. Somewhere ahead lay Detroit. Max wasn't sleeping. He stared at his reflection in the dark window and counted the minutes. Arthur fell asleep toward evening, his head dropping onto Lisa's shoulder. He dreamed of a gray wall. He stood before it and couldn't take a step. The bus rolled into Detroit at half past six. The city greeted them with empty streets, burned-out buildings, and the smell of factories—thick, acidic, it crept down their throats and settled on their tongues. "Like Brookfield, only bigger," said Max. "At least Brookfield doesn't stink," Emma shot back. They got off at the bus station. Lisa unfolded a map and traced the route to the factory with her finger. "Tomorrow morning. For now, let's find a motel." They found a cheap one, right behind the station. Two rooms, dirty sheets, the smell of cigarettes soaked into the curtains. The girls in one, the boys in the other. "I won't sleep," Max said, flopping onto the bed. "You will." Arthur tugged off his boots. "You're exhausted." He turned off the light. In the darkness—breathing, distant car horns. Max didn't sleep. He lay there, staring at the ceiling. Jenny didn't sleep either. She sat on the bed, listening to Emma breathe. Then she pulled a folding knife from her pocket—small, with a worn handle—and made a cut on her palm. Blood beaded up. There was no pain. No fear, either. Only a strange warmth. She pressed a handkerchief to her hand and lay down. In the morning, when they stepped out of the motel, a red balloon hung on the doorstep. Arthur reached out—the balloon burst on its own, with a loud pop. A handful of gray ash spilled out from inside. It smelled of burnt wood and sweetish rot. Arthur touched the ash with his finger—cold. Then suddenly a blue spark flared, the ash scattered, leaving a thin streak of soot on his skin. He wiped his hand on his jeans. He said nothing to the others.