Blackout

This story has been published in the 'Abandoned Towers' magazine. 




    "Bloody blackout," Mr.Smith muttered to himself. "Bloody Luftwaffe." This was the second time in two weeks that he'd got off at the wrong stop in the dark. His supper would be cold again, and Mrs.Smith would not be pleased. Sparks flew when Mrs. Smith was not pleased. She insisted on his being home every evening by seven o'clock at the latest, blackout or no blackout, and he knew there'd be hell to pay if he didn't make it by seven- fifteen. Hitler wasn't going to interrupt her schedule. Oh no. She'd give him what for, if he tried.

    This time, however, she would just have to lump it; he was going to be late tonight, and that was that. He had no idea at all of where he was, despite having travelled home from work by this same route for more than twenty years. He didn't even remember ringing the bell to get off, although he must have done so, because he was standing in the middle of the street. He decided not to mention this little lapse to his wife; she had enough ammunition to use against him already, and he wasn't about to give her any more. He would apologise abjectly for letting his supper get cold, and she would remind him of how she'd spent the entire afternoon slaving over a hot stove, how he never appreciated her, and how she could have married anyone...

    He suddenly realised there was an air-raid in progress. Sirens were howling, and he could hear the familiar drone of bombers overhead. Goering was coming to town. A little way down the street he saw a bus burning fiercely. The awful sight pushed his wife entirely from his mind. Poor sods, he thought; nobody got out of that one. The flames lit up the faces of people standing silently around him. He recognised some of them as fellow passengers. The driver and the conductor were there, as well. What were they doing here?

    He asked the man next to him if he knew where they were, but the man ignored him. He asked several other people, but they wouldn't answer him either. Then he noticed an air-raid warden standing in front of the bus, shielding his eyes from the heat. "Excuse me," Mr. Smith called, "Can you direct us to the nearest shelter?"  The warden started, and peered in their direction. "Is anybody there?" he shouted. "Over here," said Mr. Smith. Was the fool blind? The warden shrugged his shoulders, then shook his head wearily and turned back to the bus.

    "Well, I never," said Mr. Smith. "What is the matter with him? He must be drunk. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."

    "Why waste your time, mate?" said the bus driver.

    Mr. Smith marched up to the warden and tapped him sharply on the shoulder. "Now you listen to me..." he began, but got no further. The man took one look at him and gave a loud shriek.

    "No!" he yelled. "No, you're not real...you keep away," and ran off down the street.

    Mr. Smith stared after him in astonishment. "What on earth...?"

    The driver laughed. "You'd think the poor bloke had seen a ghost," he said.