Post by auntym on May 13, 2011 19:10:00 GMT -6
www.ufodigest.com/article/ghost-bus-highway-93
The Ghost Bus of Highway 93
Submitted by Hugh Mungus on Fri, 05/13/2011 - 14:10
Joe mentally massaged the waning motor of the massive monolith.
"C'mon. C'mon!" the frazzled bus driver pleaded beneath breath wreaking of black coffee and Winchell's finest.
Through a veil of sweat, the coach operator fixed his gaze on the pinnacle of Union Pass two hundred yards in the distance. The bus' air conditioning had committed suicide just outside of Wickenburg. Joe felt like the pie portion of a TV dinner, bubbling and sizzling inside this metal coffin baked by the Arizona Sun. Less than a quarter of a mile, now. The remainder of the way was a breezy, downhill slope into Laughlin. Blue smoke billowed from the rear of Number 777, obliterating the highway behind the "Bus from Hell."
"You can do it, baby. You can do it!" Joe coaxed.
Snake eyes. Detroit steel groaned, emitting its death knell. Joe muscled the vanquished beast to the shoulder of the turnpike. Drenched in perspiration, the driver's trembling palms never got a firm grip on the wheel. Even before applying the emergency brake, Joe caught sight of the irate passenger marching toward him from the back of the vehicle. Squinting into the rear-view mirror, the motor coach operator noticed a change in the commuter's appearance. The once-elderly, feeble tourist now seemed a hulking beast, no longer human.
Joe gazed back just in time to see the hoard of passengers, an entire bus worth, descend upon him like a lynch mob. Docile Sun City geriatrics now sported hideous features only the mother of a demon could love.
The driver gasped in terror, as his world went black.
TO CONTINUE READING CLICK ON ABOVE LINK
The Ghost Bus of Highway 93
Submitted by Hugh Mungus on Fri, 05/13/2011 - 14:10
Joe mentally massaged the waning motor of the massive monolith.
"C'mon. C'mon!" the frazzled bus driver pleaded beneath breath wreaking of black coffee and Winchell's finest.
Through a veil of sweat, the coach operator fixed his gaze on the pinnacle of Union Pass two hundred yards in the distance. The bus' air conditioning had committed suicide just outside of Wickenburg. Joe felt like the pie portion of a TV dinner, bubbling and sizzling inside this metal coffin baked by the Arizona Sun. Less than a quarter of a mile, now. The remainder of the way was a breezy, downhill slope into Laughlin. Blue smoke billowed from the rear of Number 777, obliterating the highway behind the "Bus from Hell."
"You can do it, baby. You can do it!" Joe coaxed.
Snake eyes. Detroit steel groaned, emitting its death knell. Joe muscled the vanquished beast to the shoulder of the turnpike. Drenched in perspiration, the driver's trembling palms never got a firm grip on the wheel. Even before applying the emergency brake, Joe caught sight of the irate passenger marching toward him from the back of the vehicle. Squinting into the rear-view mirror, the motor coach operator noticed a change in the commuter's appearance. The once-elderly, feeble tourist now seemed a hulking beast, no longer human.
Joe gazed back just in time to see the hoard of passengers, an entire bus worth, descend upon him like a lynch mob. Docile Sun City geriatrics now sported hideous features only the mother of a demon could love.
The driver gasped in terror, as his world went black.
TO CONTINUE READING CLICK ON ABOVE LINK