It only takes a second of unsettling silence, before my fears rise to the surface of reality, where a loud warped force sends the bus flying into the air.

Before I can make sense from the chaos that's engulfed us, I feel Imogen reach out for me and pull me away from the shattering window glass. The bus screeches to a halt and then I feel her weight no longer towering above me.

I force my eyes open as ripples of terror surge through my body. The air feels thick with the scent of metal and the sound of horrified screams.

A ringing pain resonates in my ear, muffling up the sounds and when I raise my bruised arms to my face, a  painful cough escapes my chest and through my mouth, a blood splatter stains the white lace of my bridal gown.

"Everybody calm down-" The soldier slurs, waking up from her seat at the front end of the bus, a deep gash dripping blood onto her face.

"Is everybody okay?" She asks, bringing me back to my senses. I look around, finding myself seated at the middle seat, with the redhead passed out beside me and broken shards of glass littering the empty, bloodied, window seat.

"Imo?" I call out, scooting over to the edge of the seat. I look out through the window, my eyes adjusting to the fading glow of the evening sun for a minute before I spot a figure on the trench, by the side of the tarmacked road, wearing a pastel pink gown.

My arms rise to my mouth a little too late before a shrill scream pierces into the air, sounding an alarm. My mind races with thoughts as I try to figure out a plan of action.

Standing up, I come face to face with our soldier who, at the opposite end of the bus, collapses onto the floor, seconds after a loud shooting sound is heard.

Screams follow, with the girls at the front, evacuating to the back in a rushed, dangerous stampede. More loud shooting sounds follow and I take one quick look at the road below, before crawling out through the window, to get to Imogen. 

I land on my feet, twisting my ankle and breaking the stiletto heel of my left foot that I'd purposely worn for the pairing ceremony. They were meant to be taken off, soon after, but I never got the chance to change into evening wear.

The pain in my heel doesn't register as quickly as my throbbing headache did, so I take advantage of my current form to dash into the trench, where Imogen's still body lies, now covered in mud and dirt.

"Imo? Imo!" I call out to her as I flip her onto her back to examine her. She moans against my touch, which is good news to me at the very least, but she is very much hurt.

Her left arm, neck and cheeks are embedded with a couple of small, broken glass shards and a large cut over her eyebrow crease, where a gentle stream of blood flows.

She moans when I lift her up into a sitting position and that's when I notice her shoulder sticking out in an odd direction. The sight of it makes my stomach turn, but I fight the urge to throw up or faint, by taking in deep breaths.

She moans again, her eyes fluttering open and a small smile teases the corner of her lips when she sees me.

"Imo, you idiot!" I curse reaching out for the train in my dress. "You could've died."

"You're welcome," she jokes in a weak, frail voice.

 I tear the edge of the train and hug her gently while pulling her up to weave the cloth underneath her. She squeals softly, letting out a sharp breath when I release her.

"What are you doing?" She mutters, her voice breaking softly.

"You've dislocated your shoulder," I tell her as I examine the direction in which I plan on popping it into. "I have to put it back."

A couple more gunshots fill the air, this time sounding more clearer, over the chorus of buses filled with screaming girls.

"What is that?" Imogen asks as she sits up, her eyes suddenly turning towards the growing commotion.

"Nothing. Just focus on me and try not to scream in three, two-" I pull her arm out by her wrist, hearing the popping sound. Imogen screams but her voice is luckily muffled over the loud noises coming from within the buses.

"There, there," I hum, using my lace train as a sling to rest her arm into.

"Fuck, it hurts," she whispers hoarsely, her eyes filling up with tears.

"The pain will subside in a couple of hours," I tell her while adjusting the tightness of the sling around her shoulder. We'll need to get that expertly checked just to make sure that everything's okay.

"No...not that," she slurs, her eyes rolling back in pain. With her right arm, she grabs my palm and places it over the side of her belly where a large bloodstain begins to bleed into the fabric.

"It's my stoma. I think it tore," she says before her eyes roll back and she goes limp.

"Imogen? Imo? No, no, no, no. Wake up. Wake up," I say while shaking her and softly slapping the uninjured side of her face, to get her to wake up. She can't sleep. She might have a concussion on top of the bleeding wound on her belly.

"Imo wake up! What do you mean, stoma?" I ask, as my eyes dart over to the growing bloodstain. I see no external injuries from what may be a stab wound and when I stretch the fabric of her dress, I find no tears to collaborate that theory. So whatever's tore through her skin must be hidden underneath the dress.

"I'm sorry. I have to see," I say as I lift the edge of her dress. Luckily, the dress has an empire waistline, just right below her bust to allow more room for me to see what's going on underneath.

However, what I find makes the hair at the back of my neck stand. It's unlike anything I've ever seen. On the pale flesh of her stomach lies an incision through which an interconnected mass of tubes has wound themselves around a large translucent plastic pouch filled with black liquid matter.

I gag at the smell that filters into the air; a heavy smell of rotten eggs and decaying matter.

This, I can't fix, I tell myself. I wouldn't even know where to start.

Slowly and surely, without knowing it, I find myself standing to my feet. I turn, suddenly noticing the eerie silence that fills the air, before my eyes settle on the clouds of smoke filling up the buses and seeping out from underneath the wheels to cover the entire stretch of tarmac.

I can spot no movement coming from inside the buses. No signs of any life stirring around.

No screams, no gunshots and no chaos.

Just stillness for an unsettling amount of time, before I catch sight of a pair of black leather boots, strutting towards the last bus, from the other end of the tarmacked road. 

So, with bated breath, I wait to uncover the identity of the mysterious figure, through the gap between the two buses. I clench my fists, the bloody taste in my mouth intensifying as my hypersensitive body stills, waiting to spring into fight or flight mode.

I hear the sound of every single step it takes; the grating of industrial leather against the loosely tarmacked gravel. 
Then for a second, underneath the faint afterglow of the evening sun, I see it.

The Caecum.

A/N
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