Six Silver Coins

Her bags were packed into the hold beneath them. She could feel the weight, slowing them down by the merest fraction of a second. She wasn't in a hurry.
The mist was closing in around the coach. She could make out a car as it overtook them, and a van with blood painted neatly in blue capital letters on the side.
The old woman adjacent to her was repeatedly licking her lips in a snake-like manner. She could see the forked tongue clearly in the dim, artificial light.
The coach smell was musty, enclosed. All windows closed so the passengers wouldn't freeze to death. The man behind her was wrapped in a blanket, snoozing with his head tipped against the window. His hat over his eyes. She could see his reflection in hers.
She was tired. The coach gripped tightly in the soft claws of night. She wouldn't sleep. Her stop was the last but she wouldn't want to miss it.
The coach seemed to bend inwards at the middle. The roof of the vehicle drooping, dripping liquid plastic lining onto the empty seats, the remaining passengers left unharmed. The traffic lights took a lifetime to change their mind.
She could feel the wheels turning beneath them and wondered; if one burst they might skid wildly off the road, the driver fighting with the wheel - over the side and down the embankment on the left, turn over, heads slamming back in their seats, shattered windows wounding old and young alike. The blonde-haired children at the front thrown from their seats, ending up sprawled and broken against the doors. The last coach of the day, never arriving at its destination. The passengers moved out forever.
Or perhaps the driver would win his fight, he would swerve right and brake hard. A car could go into the back of them, being smaller, it would be these unfortunates in their graves next week. Four lives instead of 12. But perhaps worth more.
Her eyelids began to droop, then snapped back open again. The man behind her mumbled in his sleep. Something about pulling out daisies - they only grow stronger.
They were travelling west past the river now. Serpents wreathed beneath the black surface, their fangs protruding, eyes glistening, yellow in her direction. She glanced across at the old woman. Grey hair untidily scraped back in a bun. She licked her lips again, turning her weathered face towards her, smiling briefly, wrinkled skin pulled back revealing yellowing teeth with several gaps, before turning back again. Maybe she could sense them too.
She would not want to tread upon those muddied banks. The grass brown and trodden underfoot by hundreds - some happy, some miserable, some never seen again.
They reached the bridge and they were beneath her. Squirming over one another, trying to climb up, to reach her, but without the means to do so.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again they were across, past Irisville and Darkfield and well into the country.
All was well.