52stories

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Immersed in complete darkness, Mark felt like he was sliding down a long pipe, slipping and sliding to the left and right, sometimes on his back, sometimes facing impossibly down. He was going faster and faster, and started feeling sick to his …

Suddenly, he was in the light. Sitting at a picnic table, watching two men play chess. Or checkers. Or maybe even cards. Neither of them had moved, and all the games were there in front of them. It looked like they were concentrating on the chess game, but Mark was having a hard time keeping his thoughts straight. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was …

The bus. He had been driving the bus this morning, his normal early route. Forty-three children on their way to another happy day in elementary school. Then forty-three children in the ditch, the last thing he saw. Someone driving on the wrong side of the road, weaving in and out of traffic, on and off the road. Right toward him, toward the …

The man next to him moved his rook, taking a pawn from his opponent. As a prize, he reached to the checkers board, jumped a piece, and rather than just removing the offender from the board, he ate it.

There was no joy in his play. He chewed without pleasure, like he was chewing cardboard. No pleasure at all. He did not look happy to be winning, at either game. When he wasn’t making a move, he sat leaning on the table with his arms crossed. Waiting.

The bus was doomed, Mark thought. The car was moving way too fast, and there was no way to get out of his way; he was moving all over, and Mark had no way to guess his next turn or move. His only chance was to try getting the bus far enough off the road so that the children …

The man across made his move. He just moved a pawn forward. No capture. No turn on the checkers board. For some reason, Mark felt relieved. He counted the pieces on the checkers board — twenty-four left.

Had all the children been safe? He struggled to maintain control of the bus, pulling it off the right side of the road, but realizing too late that he was almost to the bridge. If he went too far, the whole bus would end up in the creek; not far enough and he’d hit the edge of the bridge, probably splitting the bus in two. He was thinking very clearly, and knew he had to try his best to save the kids. He aimed slightly to the right of the bridge posts, hoping it would be far enough to keep himself safe as well. But the bus hit the bridge at full speed, crushing Mark instantly, and flipping the rest of the bus, and its still screaming occupants, into the creek.

Wait, where am I then? I was on the bus. What is this place?

“You’re in the waiting room,” said the man on the seat next to him. He had not looked up, staring intently into the chess game as if trying to move things by thought alone.

“What are we waiting for?” Mark asked. This was no room, it was an open park. Grass and trees, clouds and birds, sun and blue, blue sky. Endless blue sky. What could they be waiting for on such a wonderful day?

“Do you see that girl?” the man said, motioning to Mark’s right. A little girl sat at a picnic table with her mother. Or it seemed that way, without knowing who the people were. The girl was very happy, excited to be with her mother. But the mother looked sad.

“Yeah, sure. The little girl and her mom, right? Mom doesn’t look so happy.”

“She’s not, Mark. The little girl died on your bus this morning, and her mother is here to pick her up.”

“Then why is she so sad?”

“Because her little girl will never get the chance to grow up. Mom is very excited that her daughter is able to join her, but saddened by the circumstances.”

Mark looked down. Kids had died in his bus. He had tried to save them. He thought he’d done the best he could.

“Why?”

“Do you see the man I’m playing?”

“Yes,” Mark answered. The other man was in his thirties, clean, with definite foreign background. He looked Japanese, Mark thought.

“That’s right,” said Mark’s companion, reading his thoughts. “He is Japanese. He is, in fact, the man who was driving the car that ran into your bus.”

Mark felt flush. He stood to … well, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. But the man was going to pay. His kids had been hurt. One had even died.

But the man placed his hand on Mark’s arm, and Mark slowly sat down.

“He is already paying for it.”

“By playing chess?”

“In a manner of speaking. Each piece that he wins is a child that will die. The children that are still in poor condition are represented by the checkers. Each time one of us wins a piece in chess, we get a move in checkers. If I win a piece, the child lives. If he wins a piece, the child will be joining us here.”

“How is that a punishment?”

“He will be responsible for all the children that die. He will care for them, feed them, teach them, raise them, as a parent, until their family is able to join them. That is the reason that the mother over there is so sad. Not only was her child taken from life too early, now she has to spend time with this man…”

“How is that fair to the children?”

“They are children, Mark. They are happy. They will not be shown the dark side of this. They will continue in a happy progression, until it is their time to move on. He will know the truth, and live with what he has done, for a very long time.”

“Can you win?”

“I always do.”

Mark watched as the game continued. A few more children joined them over the next few hours, but the man kept his word and won.

When the game was over, Mark turned to thank the man, but he was already gone. As was the other man, the games, the tables, the children. Mark found himself in a clearing …