Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

"We just need to keep moving," I say.

"No point in running." The voice startles me, coming from behind. It's all rather too pleased with itself. I jerk my head around.

There's a dead guy sitting on the rear seat. He looks at me, and then at Lissa. When he sees her the wind comes out of him. "Sorry, darl," he says, "they got me too, just out of Tenterfield."

That's it. I'm dead. I don't see how I stand a chance.

The guy with us is Eric "Flatty" Tremaine, state manager of the Melbourne office, which puts him almost as far up the ladder as Morrigan. He's a friend of Derek's-maybe his only friend-and another paid-up member of the Steven de Selby Hate Club.

I notice the way he's looking at Lissa, and the way that she's looking back. There's definitely a history there. I catch myself; I'm not going to survive this if all I'm really thinking about is Lissa and her previous relationships. But it does no good. Jealousy, wearing Eric Tremaine's smarmy face, has brought matches and it's lighting them up inside of me.

"So what's going on, Flatty?" I ask, and for the first time Eric seems truly aware of me, even though my presence must have drawn him here. He gives me a wide, almost manic grin, and slaps his knee.

"Steven de Selby. Wonderful, so you've managed to stay alive. I wouldn't have put money on it. You never really struck me as the sharpest knife in the drawer."

"Enough of that," Lissa says. "Play nice."

"Who's behind this?" I demand. I don't have time for point scoring, even if I am still hunting for some sort of witty comeback.

Eric shrugs. "I don't know. All I can say for sure is that they're very good at their jobs, and they know a lot about ours." He glances significantly at Lissa. "Why the fuck are you hanging with this loser?"

"You tried to call Mr. D?" I ask, ignoring the insult. After all, he has just died.

"Of course I have." Eric nodded. "Line was busy, which makes sense for a couple of reasons."

"Yeah, everybody would be trying to call," I say. Though, to be honest, I really hadn't thought of it. Thinking about Mom and Dad had been occupying my mind more-that, and the running. Besides, Mr. D is… difficult. I take a deep breath. "Maybe I should try him. Can't be too many Pomps left."

Tremaine makes an ineffectual grab at my arm-his hand passes through my flesh and he's nearly dragged through me with it. His face strains as he struggles to stay in this world, and part of me can't help laughing at such a basic mistake. I have to respect his strength of will, though, because he pushes against the pomp, his form solidifying.

"No! You don't want to do that!" he says, once he's managed to stabilize his soul. "I tried to call him just out of Tenterfield. The buggers got me there on the New England Highway. They're obviously using the phones to find us. Please don't tell me you've got yours on."

"Oh." The blood's draining from my face. I switch off my phone, and then slide it into my pocket.

Eric gives Lissa an "I told you so" look. His gaze, when it returns to me, is condescension stirred with pity. He doesn't expect me to live much longer, either.

"You're going to have to talk to Mr. D, but not now," he says. "I suspect he's out of the loop somewhat. He has to be, I can't believe that he'd let this happen."

"Someone has," Lissa says.

"Yes, and I have my theories, but they're just theories. Steve, you're going to have to talk to him face to face. Draw him out of wherever he's hiding, or being held."

"You think he's being held?"

"He's hardly on a fishing trip now, is he?" Tremaine says archly. "He's too intimately connected to all of us. Every death must be filling him with pain and anger. For something like this to succeed you'd need to remove the RM as quickly as possible, before you start trying to kill Pomps. You know how Mr. D is. He knows when one of us dies, and he's always there. Let me tell you, he wasn't there for me. This has to be an inside job."

He lets that sink in.

"Then how am I going to be able to talk to him?"

"There are ways that can't be stopped. If you know what you're doing." He looks at me.

I take a deep breath. Maybe I should just pomp the prick. I'm a little threatened by the thought of one-on-one time with Mr. D. I've only ever met him a few times, and they were with my dad.

"Mr. D's not that bad, really," Lissa says, and I realize that she is almost touching my hand with her own. At the closest point her form is wavering. It must be uncomfortable for her, but she holds the position. I'm the one who pulls away in the end. Tremaine gives her a look, and I smile like the cat who got the cream.

"If you say so. I've just never had much to do with him."

"Regardless, you're going to-and soon," Tremaine says with all the nonchalance that a recently dead person can muster. "Maybe too soon." He points out the rear window.

There's my dad's body, driving his red Toyota Echo, not too well, but well enough to be gaining on the bus. But this is the least of my worries because Mom's body is on the passenger side, and she's scowling in a most un-Mom like way and pointing a rifle at me.

"Shit!" I drop to the floor behind the seat as the rear window explodes.

There is a carpet of gleaming glass before me. I'm sure I'm breathing the smaller fragments of it into my lungs. It doesn't help that I'm almost hyperventilating. Another shot blasts a hole in the back seat next to my head. I'm feeling like a cartoon character. I know the double-take I give that burning hole, stuffing everywhere, must look almost comical. I'm surprised I haven't shat myself, but of course there's still plenty of time for that…

The bus driver brakes: all that commutery tonnage comes crashing to a halt and we've got a whole domino effect, of which I'm painfully a part, passengers tumbling and screaming. Then the red Echo slams into the back of the bus. I'm thrown forward onto the broken glass from the window. It's safety glass, but those little beads still hurt when you fall on them.

Metal screams and I'm yelping as the back seat deforms inward. The rear side windows shatter. There's glass and seat stuffing everywhere.

The Echo's horn is droning in an endless cycle like a wounded beast, and there's the sharp, stinging odor of fuel. I shake my head. I try to slow my crashing breaths. I want to rub my eyes, but there's no telling what I'd be grinding into them.

I reckon I've got about thirty seconds, maybe a minute, before they're out of that car. It's going to take much more than a collision with a bus to stop them. There's bits of glass in my hands but no deep cuts; it hurts like a bastard, though, which is actually a good thing since it distracts me from the headache regrouping in my skull.

"Are you all right?" Lissa asks.

"Can anyone in that bland suit be all right?" Tremaine says.

I'd be better if he shut up. I've never been a fan of Tremaine, but then again, he's never been much of a fan of me or my family, either. He sees us Queensland Pomps as a bunch of slackers and, sure, I may have gotten drunk at a couple of training sessions, but the guy's about as boring as they come.

"You and your taste." Lissa shakes her head.

Tremaine gives her a smug smile. "Darling, it was yours for a while."

"We all have to regret something, Eric."

I glance at these two-Lissa scowling and Eric giving her the sleaziest, most self-satisfied smile I've seen outside of a porno. Bastard. Oh God, Lissa and Flatty Tremaine!

I'm jealous: bloody burning with it. But there's no time for this. I scan the bus; people are slowly recovering from the shock of the collision. I was the only one who had a moment's warning, and I'm still as shaky as all hell. There's a few nosebleeds, but that seems to be the worst of it. I have to get out of here fast, or someone is going to die. It may not be me, but it's sure as hell going to be my fault. I run for the front door of the bus.