On the Bus to St. Louis

Tranquility and reality still remained on the quaint country road, embraced by the hospitable darkness. What a shame, that something so rare nowadays would be disturbed like this, thought Faber.

The neon flashlight approached. Its blinding lights impaled the blackness like razor-sharp spears. The way the wheels grinded the pebbles on the lonely road, thought Faber, quite resembles the Salamander and the residences it decimated. Hundreds of TV screens lined its walls, displaying the chase between the Hound and Montag. Although the passengers simply treated the chase like a soccer match, Faber watched tensely, hoping that Montag would not show up on the next corner.

            In his seat, Faber could not stop thinking about the safety of Montag. But my mere thoughts, reflected Faber, cannot help Montag in any way. I am alive now, and I shall not be hindered by such thoughts.

            The Hound reached the river and halted on the screens. It trotted back and forth bewilderedly beside the dancing lights refracted by the stream. Then, out of all expectations, it returned to the city unmoved, with the camera following it several seconds later.

            An oppressive silence ensued on the shaking vehicle. The previously inaudible sounds of the bumping bus wheels, the fleeing flocks and the stirrings in nearby bushes could suddenly be heard. Then, a wild commotion stirred in the bus, turning the interior into a heating oven.

            “Why did the Hound turn back?”. “Where did the criminal go off to?”. “It can’t be! The Hound is perfect and has never failed once!”. “Did it malfunction?”. Countless heated discussions infiltrated the bus, louder than any advertisement that ever ran.

              Faber, meanwhile, broke free from his tense posture and let out a long sigh of relief.

            A passenger nearby who jumped up and down like a cricket noticed him and approached. He wore ragged, unkempt clothing, a stitched hat, a dusty pair of shoes and had hair resembling entangled wires.

            “You! Old man!” the passenger pointed at Faber and yelled, “You’re pleased that the criminal Montag escaped?” watching Faber’s uneasy stance, the man ensued: “There’s no doubt! You must be Guy Montag’s conspirator!”

            The spectators about them roiled like soup in a pot. Some surprised, some concerned, some agitated, but most were indifferent and turning to mind their own business. His mind turning like gears, Faber found an excuse: “N-n-no, no…this is all a misunderstanding. I sighed simply because the Hound could not catch Montag.”

            The poorly mannered man, either due to becoming disengaged in the matter or due to failing to find more reasons to accuse Faber, said a simple yet grumpy “Hmph” and left the scene without looking back. The entourage disbanded itself faster than it had formed.

            People these days, amongst all the screens, entertainment and censorship oppress the “anti-social”, thought Faber as he glared at the hurrying man; yet they themselves no longer remember how to act responsibly and respectfully in society. Entertainment is censoring the past now, and at this rate of book destruction, society will censor its future. Determined, Faber dictated to himself firmly: I will do what I can to change the current state of society; I will find the printer in St. Louis.