SAMMY COULD LITERALLY see the individual insects stuck in the grill of the Peterbilt when it simply vanished—pow, like that. As though it had never existed.
“You’ve got to be f*****g kidding me,” he said, struggling to get out from under the bike, while Annie did likewise and scrambled to her feet. They both flipped up their visors.
“I think we need help,” she said, and, contrary to her character, began crying. “Where’s your cellphone? We need to call DJ.”
“This is no mescaline trip, Annie,” he snapped, grunting as he righted the bike, then tore off his coat and began cleaning the bug guts off the windshield. “Look at this s**t. This is real.”
She moved to respond then paused, staring off down the highway, first north, then south. “Where is everybody? Where are all the other cars?”
He
