A large coastal bus rumbled down a desolate road , it's tires rolling over uneven asphalt as the vehicle made its way toward a distant city.
The world outside was eerily quiet – no other cars in sight, no signs of life beyond the occasional flicker of distant streetlights.
Inside the dimly lit interior, most of the seats were occupied by figures draped in dark hoods, their faces obscured by thick fabric.
They sat unnervingly still, their heads slightly bowed, their silence oppressive.
The driver, an older man with thinning gray hair, kept his hands firmly on the wheel, his grip a little too tight.
He had been in this job for decades, transporting passengers across different routes, but something about this group set his nerves on edge.
He had driven religious groups before–pilgrims, worshippers on their way to temples or ceremonies–but this... this was different.
There was something wrong about them.
The way they moves in unison. The way they breathed, almost as if following the same rhythm. The way not a single one of them had spoken a word since the trip started.
He wasn't going to ask questions. He was going to just drop them off and leave. That was the plan.
Drop them off and leave.
But then, without warning, one of them stood up.
A tall figure, his posture exuding an eerie sense of purpose, slowly made his way toward the front of the bus.
His hood was slightly larger than the others, his fabric embroidered with silver threads forming intricate, spiraling symbols. His presence alone seemed to demand attention.
The other hooded figures began shifting, their heads lifting ever so slightly as if drawn by an invisible force.
Then, the man spoke.
"Brothers and sisters," he said, his voice low yet commanding. "The time is upon us. The Great One has returned."
A murmur rippled through the bus, a mixture of excitement and reverence.
"For years, we have waited. For decades, we have whispered his name in secret. But now..."
His voice rose, filled with fervor. "He walks among us once more! His rebirth is upon this world, and we–his most faithful –shall celebrate his return!"
The hooded figures cheered, their hands clapping, their voices overlapping in a discordant chorus of praise.
Among the passengers who were not wearing hoods, confusion turned to discomfort.
Some looked at each other uneasily, their expressions a mix of worry and growing fear.
One man, a middle-aged worker dressed in a button up shirt, shifted nervously in his seat before standing. "I... I think I'll get off at the nest stop," he muttered.
Another woman nodded quickly. "Yeah, me too."
The tension in the bus thickened.
Then –
A wet, sickening thud.
And a severed head rolled down the aisle.
For a moment, no one reacted. No one screamed. No one moved.
The man who had been about to step off the bus froze, his entire body stiff with shock as his eyes slowly followed the rolling head.
It came to a stop near his feet.
The eyes were still open. The mouth twitched slightly, as if trying to form words.
Then —
Thud.
Another head hit the floor.
And another.
And another.
The hooded figures had started moving, their hands slicing through flesh like butcher's knives.
Silent. Efficient. Unstoppable.
Blood splattered against the seats, pooling down the aisle, staining the floorboards as bodies slumped over, lifeless.
A woman let out a strangled gasp, but before she could even take a step, a hooded figure appeared behind her, a glint of steel flashing through the dim interior.
Her body collapsed, her head tumbling forward onto the blood-soaked floor.
The driver, now pale as a ghost, trembled as he reached for the door's emergency release. He had to run. He had to get out of here.
But before his fingers could even touch the lever —
SHING
A cold sensation trickled down his neck.
He froze.
His shaking hand touched his throat, his fingers brushing against something wet.
He pulled his hand back.
Red.
His vision blurred.
His head felt... light.
And then —
His world tilted.
His head slid clean off his shoulders.
His body remained upright for a few seconds before slumping forward, crashing against the wheel with a dull thump.
The bus swerved slightly before steadying itself, continuing down the road as if nothing had happened.
Silence returned.
The hooded figures, now splattered in crimson, calmly took their seats once more, unfazed by the massacre they had just committed.
The leader, his hands still dripping with warm blood, licked his lips before turning back to his followers.
"Our work begins now," he declared, his voice brimming with dark ecstasy.
He turned his gaze toward the front of the bus, his eyes gleaming with unholy light.
"Next stop..."
A twisted grin spread across his lips.
"Began Hills."