13 views
The Last Passenger
Iqbal swerved his vehicle around the corner of the street and drove through the dingy lane. The wheels dove in and out of the water-logged potholes, creating muddy splashes on the eroded bituminous concrete around them. Iqbal slowed down and hit the brakes.
He peered through the routine of the rainwater dotting the windshield and the rhythmic left-right of the wipers clearing them out. The GPS had stopped at the location where his car stood. He looked around.
A little down the lane, Iqbal could make out the silhouette of a house. Its windows were dark. The flickering yellow streetlights cast an ominous hue on its steps, and dimly reflected off the metallic nameplate on its door. It was the only house on the lane which seemed to bear any shred of life; the remaining dilapidated structures only bearing long-lost memories of what they once were apart from wild leaves and roots. As far as the map was concerned, he was in the right spot to pick up his last passenger for the day.
Normally, he would wait for a few seconds before making the call to a passenger. Not all of them appreciated being hounded by their cabbie. But it was late and Iqbal wanted to make the trip and go home to his wife and little girl. A little impatient, he unplugged his phone from its holder and dialled the number which booked the ride.
"The number you are calling is currently switched off," said an automated voice. Iqbal cross-checked the number and dialled again. "The number you are calling is currently switched off," the voice repeated.
Iqbal furrowed his brows and peered out once again. There has to be some sort of mistake. He tried the number again, and again, and again. But, all he heard was the same voice repeating the same words.
Unbelievable, though Iqbal. Why did they book the ride on a number they would switch off? He checked his phone for the booking details of the passenger. There was a name, Sambhavi.
He paused for a minute and stepped out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. It was an unusually cold night. The drizzle did not help. Iqbal jogged to the house ahead and climbed up its steps. The nameplate read 'Miss. S....
He peered through the routine of the rainwater dotting the windshield and the rhythmic left-right of the wipers clearing them out. The GPS had stopped at the location where his car stood. He looked around.
A little down the lane, Iqbal could make out the silhouette of a house. Its windows were dark. The flickering yellow streetlights cast an ominous hue on its steps, and dimly reflected off the metallic nameplate on its door. It was the only house on the lane which seemed to bear any shred of life; the remaining dilapidated structures only bearing long-lost memories of what they once were apart from wild leaves and roots. As far as the map was concerned, he was in the right spot to pick up his last passenger for the day.
Normally, he would wait for a few seconds before making the call to a passenger. Not all of them appreciated being hounded by their cabbie. But it was late and Iqbal wanted to make the trip and go home to his wife and little girl. A little impatient, he unplugged his phone from its holder and dialled the number which booked the ride.
"The number you are calling is currently switched off," said an automated voice. Iqbal cross-checked the number and dialled again. "The number you are calling is currently switched off," the voice repeated.
Iqbal furrowed his brows and peered out once again. There has to be some sort of mistake. He tried the number again, and again, and again. But, all he heard was the same voice repeating the same words.
Unbelievable, though Iqbal. Why did they book the ride on a number they would switch off? He checked his phone for the booking details of the passenger. There was a name, Sambhavi.
He paused for a minute and stepped out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. It was an unusually cold night. The drizzle did not help. Iqbal jogged to the house ahead and climbed up its steps. The nameplate read 'Miss. S....
