The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City

Василиса Чмелева

The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City

Prologue

I’m an artist. Some would call me talentless, others—a genius. But truth be told, I drowned whatever talent I had long ago in liquor and dull conversations with strangers.

Until one day, I met a girl. I can’t even remember her name now, but I remember vividly that irresistible urge to read her story, to preserve it on canvas—a memento of the bright emotions she gave me in such a short time.

In those moments, it felt like we had an eternity ahead of us, just the two of us. But clocks tick too fast: blink, and another life has slipped away.

I sought solace in her, but instead, I awakened my deepest fears. And here’s the catch: if a fear has come alive in my mind, then I’m the one who created it. And if you look closer… we’re old friends.

Chapter 1

I surfaced from the cool water and grabbed the edge of the wooden footbridge with four fingers. Caught my breath. I don’t remember ever being a bad swimmer—usually, the water obeyed me. Or so I thought. And for some reason, I couldn’t recall how I’d ended up in the river, let alone twice.

"You gonna splash around there all day?"

I raised my eyes and squinted against the summer sun, peering through barely open lids at a boy of about seven. The kid, with neatly combed chestnut hair swept back, held out a terrycloth towel and grinned, revealing a prominent gap between his front teeth.

Lowering my watering eyes, I noticed his bright yellow rubber boots.

"Afraid of getting your feet wet?"

"Don’t wanna get muddy," the boy snorted, plopping down on the edge of the footbridge.

I hauled myself up with my arms, grateful my workouts hadn’t been for nothing, and sat beside him, dabbing my wet hair with the towel. A couple of strands stubbornly clung to my face, and I flicked them away with an irritated jerk.

Dangling my bare feet in the river’s cool current, I glanced around. It felt like morning, and somewhere in the distance, the cheerful chirping of birds greeted us. My heart felt so light that I had no desire at all to remember why I was here.

The body of water was massive, an elongated oval fringed with reeds and wild grass. On the far shore, gnarled, towering trees stood skeletal and bare. Even now, I’d swear they looked eerie—like twisted, gaunt silhouettes that’d only grow more sinister by evening.

The thought made me uneasy, and I ran the towel over my hair again, trying to distract myself.

For as long as I could remember, anxiety had always gnawed at me. It shifted in intensity and shape—sometimes wrapping around me like a blanket, other times tightening around my temples like barbed wire. But it was always there. Unlike her. "Wait… who is 'her'?"

"You do know fish don’t just catch themselves, right?"

The kid’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He pointed a stubby finger at a fishing rod lying beside me—one I hadn’t even noticed.

"Who are you?" I finally asked.

"You tell me," the boy laughed and tossed a pebble into the river.

I stared at the ripples fanning out across the still water and thought, What a little brat. I’m not telling him anything.

"Alright, if you’re done muttering to yourself like an old man, let’s go to the house. You need to get dressed," the kid ordered, marching toward a small wooden cabin nestled near the lake, half-hidden behind dry bushes and the same twisted trees that lined the opposite shore.

"What were you doing on the footbridge?" I crossed my arms.

"On the fishing platform," the boy corrected.

"What?"

"What I was doing on the fishing platform," the kid stressed pedantically. "It’s called a platform, not just a footbridge."

"What’s the damn difference?"

"Grandpa said fishing platforms are built for catching fish, but a footbridge just gets you to the other side. Can you cross this? No. So it’s a platform." The boy tapped his temple, either highlighting his own precocious wisdom or my glaring ignorance. "If it were a proper bridge, you could’ve crossed to the other side. But you can’t, can you?"

I didn’t argue. Silently, I trudged after him, trying to avoid sharp pebbles digging into my bare feet—no easy feat, since the path to the cabin was paved with jagged gravel.

As we approached the house, I heard a strange grating noise, like the sound of rusted scrap metal. Looking up, I saw a section of blue slate roofing that seemed determined to take flight with every gust of wind, only to grudgingly settle back into place – until the next attempt a minute later, when it would resume its loud, rhythmic knocking.

"Should've been fixed ages ago," the kid followed my gaze. "But Grandpa never has time."

"You live with your grandpa?" I asked, still staring at the weather-beaten roof.

"Yeah, but he's always traveling, so don't worry. By the time he gets back, you'll actually look human again."

"And I'll finally understand the difference between fishing platforms and footbridges," I couldn't resist sneering as I followed him inside. "So what's wrong with me now?"

"Take a look at yourself – you're the spitting image of a zombie."

The kid led me to a narrow, frameless mirror hanging crookedly on a nail in the hallway. I flinched, not immediately recognizing the face staring back at me.

A gaunt young man with deep shadows under his eyes gazed back. If I hadn't felt completely unlike my reflection, I'd have thought I was seriously ill with only days left. Looking at my pale hands, I gave another nod to the haggard guy in the mirror with his yellowish sclera and emotionless expression.

"Holy shit," I muttered, still not believing what I saw. "How long was I in the water?"

"Must've been a while, given how pale you are. Just don't eat my brains," the kid giggled and kicked an ancient trunk by the door. "Grandpa's stuff. Not new, but he won't need it anytime soon, so pick something and finally get dressed."

After rummaging through the trunk of stretched-out sweaters and worn jeans, I found a black T-shirt and sweatpants. Not much choice, but they fit—good enough.

"Over there," the kid nodded to the corner where hunting boots and sneakers were neatly lined up, "grab some shoes."

Once I'd pulled on the black sneakers, I moved deeper into the house. The next room was a sparsely furnished kitchen: a counter with a cutting board by a small gas stove, a fridge in the corner sporting a noticeable cobweb stretching from the ceiling molding, a rectangular wooden table in the middle, and two stools placed in opposite corners.

"No food in the house," the kid said, dashing my hopes. "But you can cook whatever you find."

I peeked into the refrigerator and grimaced at a block of cheese staring back at me, its surface marbled with greenish mold.

"Got anything less… exotic?" I asked.

The kid just shrugged.

"Whatever," I muttered, slamming the fridge door shut. It let out a menacing creak and wobbled dangerously. "Jesus, is there a single thing in this house that's not broken?"

"Oh yeah? If you're so smart, why don't you fix it yourself!" the kid snapped.

"Like I've got nothing better to do," I shot back, feeling a wave of irritation rising. "And don't get your panties in a twist—it's not like I'm thrilled to be here either."

"Then get lost already! Who's stopping you?" the kid yelled before stomping off loudly into what I assumed was the bedroom.

Muffled curses and childish grumbling drifted out. I think he called me a "dumbass."

Rubbing my sore eyes, I stormed out of the house, shoving what little conscience I had left deep down my throat.

* * *

I was dead set on leaving that wretched little house and the godforsaken lake I’d somehow ended up in.

That insufferable brat. I didn’t sign up to be a babysitter, and I’ve never liked kids anyway.

My goal was to find a bus stop—hopefully one serviced by some rickety local route that could get me out of here. I paused, scanning the surroundings. My gaze lingered on a hill rising in the distance. It wasn’t exactly close; by my estimate, a thirty-minute trek. I wondered what lay beyond it. My mind immediately began painting possibilities. When you don’t know the truth, imagination fills the void with increasingly wild backdrops: maybe a silk factory, or a secluded village, or vast sheep pastures. Or maybe—a bigger lake.

It reminded me of my talisman painting, the one I’d bought with my last savings as a nineteen-year-old dreamer backpacking through Asia, searching for some sacred sign that my chosen path was the right one. I’d tried odd jobs that promised prestige and societal respect, but they only left me with a crushing, perpetual boredom—an urge to flee. Two years (maybe more) of that, and I’d started to think something was wrong with me. Friends and family advised dialing down the "fiery passion" and facing reality: Be like everyone else.

And so, driven half-mad by such advice, I embarked on my first solo journey with what little money I'd scraped together. I remember passing a street artist selling batik paintings. Among the vibrant array of works, one caught my eye—an orange sunset with a single boat moored near a shore where a lone palm tree stood (as solitary as the empty vessel itself). I stood transfixed, drinking in the riot of orange hues and the philosophy of tropical evenings. Without hesitation, I bought it.

From that moment on, I never again doubted what I wanted to do. I had always wanted to paint. And when I returned home, not a single day passed when I abandoned that dream. I became a fanatic of my own craft.

The painting hung in my room, later moving with me to my studio. It became my "safe island"—a touchstone to return to for peace and a reminder of why I did this. On particularly hard days, when sales of my work slumped, I would step closer to it, inhale the scent of paint and fabric, close my eyes, and imagine the sun-weathered artist, his dry hand sketching that boat as if, upon finishing, he could board it and sail into the unknown.

It didn’t matter if it was winter or autumn outside, if rain poured or snow fell. Near that painting, it was always summer. My own little world, carefully built from sensations and emotions. Turns out, orange is the hit of any season.

I shook off the wandering thoughts and returned to searching for a bus stop.

Turning off the highway onto a two-lane speedway, I scanned the area. The midday heat was oppressive, and the lifeless steppes had taken on orange-beige tones. It was strange to think the lake was so close yet there wasn’t a hint of green here.

Across the road, running parallel to the highway, stretched a double wire fence—flimsy as if it could ever stop a speeding car.

Speaking of cars, there were none in sight. Not surprising.

Who’d even come out to this backwater? Maybe picnickers or lost tourists, if that.

A small, gray metal plaque was welded to the side of the bus stop, its surface worn and dusty with age, displaying the faded schedule of routes.

Perfect. At least buses do come here. That means all I have to do is wait for one. Doesn’t matter where it’s headed—just need to get out of here first. And preferably before dark…

I sat on the flimsy bench beneath the shelter’s overhang and strained my ears, hoping to pick out the familiar rattle of an engine amid the sounds of nature. But only the wind hummed along the deserted highway. Nearby, a crumpled, empty soda can rolled by—bright red, the only splash of color in this bleached-out landscape, something for tired eyes to latch onto.

I had no belongings with me. When I’d stormed out of the house (while the kid was still hurling curses from his room), I’d only managed to grab a gray flannel shirt from the trunk to throw over my shoulders—protection against sunburn, if nothing else.

Right then, I wished I had my headphones. Some music would’ve been good—something to drown out the tension of waiting.

I closed my eyes and started humming hoarsely, trying to recall a favorite song:

"I’m hundreds of miles away… And there’s no place I’d rather be…"

I got so lost in my imaginary concert that I didn’t notice the arrival of company.

"Did you always hate waiting, or is that an age thing?"

I startled, instinctively scooting away as I shot the kid a glare. There he was, perched beside me, adjusting a small hiking backpack on his shoulders and flashing that familiar gap-toothed grin.

"And are you always this annoying, like a mosquito?"

"Brought you water," he said, shrugging. "But if you don’t want it…" He stood up and began walking off.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. Since you’re clearly fine here alone."

A pang of guilt hit me. With still no sign of any bus in the distance, I sighed and called after him. "Kid—" I waved him back. "Just… hold up a second."

I grabbed the hem of his brown overalls, tugging lightly.

"What?" he grumbled.

"Sit down. Since you’re already here."

The boy grinned and hopped nimbly onto the bench, dropping his black backpack onto his lap.

"So what’s in there?" I asked, nodding at it.

"Some snacks. Buses only come once an hour here, so we might as well kill time…" The boy rummaged in his backpack and pulled out sandwiches. "With these, for example."

I took one from him and bit off a sizable chunk. Only then did I realize how hungry I'd been as the flavors hit me—thin slices of meat, fresh tomatoes, and crisp lettuce with what tasted like cheese sauce, all neatly stacked between two soft bread slices.

"Chicken. Just how I like it."

"Thought so," the kid nodded, taking a massive bite of his own.

His mouth was so full he could barely chew, cheeks bulging comically. I laughed and handed him a napkin sticking out from the backpack's side pocket.

"You eat like a wild animal, kid. Slow down before you choke."

"I bite exactly as much as I can handle," he mumbled through the food, wiping sauce from his chin with the napkin.

"I'll take your word for it."

Turns out waiting with this little pest is way less boring.

"What's your name, kid?" I asked, realizing I'd never bothered to find out earlier.

"Karl," he answered matter-of-factly, still chewing like a starved raccoon.

"Seriously?" I snorted.

"Well, if you really were a zombie, I'd definitely be Karl," he burst out laughing—then immediately started coughing.

"There we go! Told you you'd choke!" I scolded, thumping the wheezing brat on the back.

When the kid finally stopped making those disgusting choking sounds, he sighed and lightly punched me in the chest. I gave him a suspicious look, checking if he'd wiped his slobbery hand on me after coughing.

Well, can you blame me?

"My name's Oscar," the brat finally introduced himself.

"Then I'll call you Ozzy—like an itch in my crotch," I nodded.

"Hey!" he yelped and punched me again, this time harder, right in the shoulder. "Not funny."

"I think it's hilarious," I grinned, then pointed at his feet. "Hey, do you always wear those rubber boots?"

"Mostly when I go out," he said, finishing the last of his sandwich.

"Aren't you hot in them?"

"Nope. Why?"

"Just saying, kids your age usually prefer something more comfortable. Sneakers, for example."

"Since when are sneakers 'comfortable'?" Oscar scoffed. "Your feet sweat even faster in those. But in my boots? No puddle stands a chance. Watch!"

He ran over to a small stagnant puddle by the roadside and jumped into it with full force. Water splashed everywhere—some of it splattering onto the road, where it immediately began evaporating in the heat, the rest soaking into his brown overalls. The kid just shrugged, as if that had been the plan all along.

"Yeah, yeah," I rolled my eyes. "Point taken."

I glanced around again and noticed a crow. It was flying frantically toward us before landing on the road, one wing held awkwardly close to its body.

Stepping to the edge of the highway, I stood next to the kid to get a better look.

"Poor thing," he murmured. "Must’ve hurt itself mid-flight, or maybe some jerks took a shot at it."

"People are weak and stupid," I said bitterly. "When they can’t be better versions of themselves, all they can do is hurt others—especially those weaker than them."

"Flaws get mistaken for weakness too," the kid shrugged. "When a crow’s wing is hurt, it leaves the flock. Flies alone awkwardly so it doesn’t show vulnerability."

"Hard to live when you’re not like everyone else. When you’re… broken," I said, rubbing the scar running along my wrist.

"Everyone’s got their own idea of what’s broken," Oscar replied. "What happened to your arm?"

"When I was around your age, I played basketball," I said, still watching the crow, its beady blue eyes glinting as if listening. "I was good at it—team player, coach’s favorite. Naturally, not everyone liked that. One day after practice, walking home along a road like this, three guys from the team caught up to me. We fought, and in the scuffle, one of them pulled out a pocketknife. Sliced right through the muscle here."

"Yikes," Oscar grimaced.

"Took forever to heal. Couldn’t play for months. By then, they’d replaced me, and one by one, the team forgot I ever existed," I sighed.

"Didn’t you try to go back to basketball after you healed?" the kid asked.

"No." I shook my head. "I was too angry at everyone back then. Didn’t want anything to do with them. Basketball was over for me—and so was any desire to stand out."

"But you became an artist," the boy pointed out. "That makes you stand out too."

"By then I’d learned not to let anyone smother what I wanted," I said. "That’s the whole point of living, isn’t it?"

The crow let out a loud caw and took off. Its wing seemed fine now as it flew away confidently, still cawing in the distance.

"Guess it wanted to thank you," the kid smiled, watching it go.

"For what?"

"Maybe it just needed someone to believe in it."

"You and your weird theories, kid," I laughed. "It’s just a bird."

"If you say so." He pointed behind me at the bus stop’s covered section. "What do you think was posted there before?"

I glanced at the torn remnants of paper still clinging to the metal frame, fluttering slightly in the breeze.

"No idea. Apartment listings, probably. The usual stuff."

"Zero imagination," Oscar clicked his tongue. "And you call yourself a creative."

"Who cares?" I sat back down on the bench, which creaked ominously under my weight.

"Come on," he persisted. "I always look at those when waiting for the bus. Sometimes there’s something cool."

"Like what?"

"Like… selling vintage dolls or buying up old jewelry," he said.

"And what's so interesting about that?" I crossed my arms.

"Aren't you curious why someone would sell a doll their great-grandmother played with? Or some old ring? There's gotta be a story behind it."

"Kid, you're seriously bored," I shook my head.

We'd been sitting at that stop for over an hour. Nothing had changed—no cars passed, no birds landed. The scenery burned itself into my memory like a dried-up tumbleweed. Leaning back against the sunbaked metal, I picked at a stubborn scrap of paper from some long-gone notice. Then the kid's earlier words echoed in my head:

"And you call yourself a creative."

"How'd you know I'm an artist?" I asked.

"It's pretty obvious you're into art," the kid mused after a pause. "You look at the world like you're sizing it up. Stare at trees forever while most people wouldn't even notice a weird branch. Only two kinds of people do that—clueless dreamers or real-deal artists."

"You're too sharp for your age, kid," I smirked.

Memories flashed through my mind—my early days as an artist. That fall when I first dared show my paintings to the world. Broke as I was, I'd painted mini-versions on flyers and plastered them around the neighborhood, scribbling my address so curious folks could see the real pieces.

People came. Not just the next day, but for weeks after—all sorts. Some just wanted to gawk, others to meet "the artist," a few even bought my work (which, hell, felt good). Later, I had to fork over half those earnings to pay fines for illegal postering. The city called it "aesthetic pollution"—never mind that ugly billboards and overflowing trash bins ruined the view way worse than my art ever could. But who was I to argue with the system?

"What're you thinking about?" The kid snapped me out of it, handing me a water bottle.

"Nothing important," I said, taking a swig. "That bus isn't coming today, is it?"

"It'll come. Definitely," Oscar said, weirdly earnest. "Just gotta be patient."

"Patient…" The word tasted bitter. "Always fucking waiting."

"Yeah, well—that's life. What can you do?" He knocked his rubber boots together with a dull thud.

Suppressing a surge of irritation, I started examining all the torn flyers, searching for at least one intact one. After about ten minutes, I found it.

"PORCELAIN FIGURINES. CUSTOM ORDERS," read a small rectangular card, with neatly handwritten phone number strips dangling below.

"Weird," I muttered.

"What is it?" the kid asked.

"The handwriting… it seems familiar."

"Maybe one of your friends makes figurines? I'd totally go to an exhibit like that."

Yeah, right… Out here in the middle of nowhere, you'd take any exhibit you could get.

I strained to recall if I’d seen that number before, but something else caught my eye—another ad I hadn’t noticed earlier.

"MOTORCYCLE FOR SALE. GOOD CONDITION."

"I remember buying my bike thanks to an ad just like this," I smiled, suddenly picturing my old steel companion. "Never regretted it for a second."

"Your parents must've worried about you," Oscar said. "My grandpa always says bikes are dangerous. That you get addicted to speed without even noticing. Not that I'd know—I've only got a bicycle, but he keeps warning me anyway."

"My grandfather was the same," I replied. "Always cautious when it came to family, but a total daredevil himself."

"When I grow up, I'm getting a motorcycle too," the kid declared proudly. "Then I won’t have to sit at this bus stop forever."

"You know what?" I slapped my knees and stood up. "You're right. Enough waiting around."

"Wait, where are you going?" Oscar scrambled to his feet.

"Back to the house. I'm done with this."

I tore off the phone number and headed toward the cabin, grabbing the kid's backpack on the way.

"Tomorrow I’ll call about the ad and see if the owner can bring the bike here."

"Wait—you actually have money to buy it?" Oscar asked skeptically.

"I’ll figure that out later," I said, scratching my sunburnt forehead. "At the very least, I’ll ask for a taxi number so one can actually come out here. Since this godforsaken place has no internet… Christ, it’s boiling."

"Hey," Oscar bristled, "don’t call my home ‘godforsaken.’"

"Sorry, you know what I mean," I muttered, embarrassed. "What’ve you got in this backpack, bricks?"

"Just the essentials!" he declared.

I smirked at the way he scrunched his nose indignantly, then glanced back one last time at the bus stop—now just a sliver of its roof visible through the reeds.

"Weird," I mused after a moment. "Why so many torn-off ads if this place is so remote? Barely anyone comes through here."

"Who knows?" The kid shrugged. "Maybe this stop was a starting point more often than you’d think."

Chapter 2

The night was restless. I tossed and turned, futilely trying to get comfortable on the stiff mattress I’d dragged out from the storage room—with the kid’s permission, of course. Meanwhile, he slept soundly in his single bed, snoring softly and occasionally smacking his lips. Once or twice, he even muttered something in his sleep, though I couldn’t make out the words.

Probably still eating that sandwich in his dreams, I thought, flipping onto my side for the hundredth time.

Finally admitting defeat, I got up and tiptoed out of the house, trying to stay quiet despite the floorboards creaking their protests.