The bus is crammed; people jostle in the aisle, swinging hither and thither at the driver’s sudden brakes and swerves. A baby howls, an old lady flaps her fan against her flushed face.
Then the bus stops. It takes a while. An armed soldier gets off to inspect the road. Pitch dark. A roar is heard, a gunshot. The second soldier follows suit. He never comes back. The passengers stare out the window and at each other alert. Somebody knocks on the front door. The driver opens and a man, face distorted, reddish saliva dripping down his bloodied teeth – a zombie – bursts in, lunges at whomever he comes across, bites them hard on the neck. Screams and moans fill the bus. The ones that have been bitten become infected and maul the ones sitting next to them until everyone, except for the driver, runs amok, becomes a zombie.
I glimpse at my teenage son, who’s sitting on the sofa, legs crossed in front of him, mouth wide open, moist eyes glued onto the TV screen, which is filled with blooded, maniacal bodies devouring each other.
‘How can you possibly enjoy this, Son?’ I say.
‘It’s awesome, Mum. Can’t you see?’
‘Where’s the good guy to save them all from this hell?’
‘It’s Kevin Costner, didn’t you see? He just escaped the bus from the window.’
I wait till the end of the film, which finds Costner a zombie himself, his beautiful green eyes turned into a pair of dead coals.
‘I thought the good guy always wins,’ I sigh.
‘Well, not always. Grow up, Mum. That’s life,’ he says.
We watch the last scene where the same driver collects his fare as another group of passengers board the bus, ready for a ride. Then the end credits roll up and all I can see on the black screen is the reflection of my son, riffling through the TV guide, searching for another film to take him on another awesome ride.