A bus with a 'Dead Only' sign over its door roared away from the terminal. I saw a collection of dead faces looking out through the flyspecked windows. The air was thick with exhaust fumes, the smell of oil, and people. The great roofed-in departure area was sour with the scents of travel. I had no idea where a bus full of dead people would be going, but they still managed to conjure up the hopeful, worried, anxious expressions of travelers. Probably going down the coast to Vicetown: gambling, roller coasters and prostitutes. A huge carnival for the kids when there were kids.
A wheezing transit bus pulled up and disgorged its passengers onto the dirty cement ramp that ran around the terminal. A collection of bodies living and dead moved in a pulsing mass to the stairs and down toward the subway. The practical considerations of mass transit negated notions like prejudice and intolerance at least until everybody got home. I mused over the idea of a vacation as I walked into the main terminal. Heavy glass doors just managed to keep the air inside breathable. I headed toward a long bank of lockers, big and small. My key said A21. I found the group of lockers in the 'A' section. They were an enameled orange.
I rattled the doors with my fingertip as I walked along underlining the numbers: 18, 19, 20, and 21. The door was just like all the others. There was no X marked on it in red paint. The key fit perfectly. It was a little sticky but turned eventually. I paused, resisted the temptation to draw a hopeful breath then opened the door.
A musty scent. On the locker's one shelf was a book. A thin leather-backed journal. I snatched it up, shut the door and walked quickly back to the car. Elmo's eyes were hopeful.
"Back to Grey's office," I said, hugging the tome with all the answers to my chest.