“This is too weird,” he mumbled gravely. And then he laughed a little nervously.
Savanna cranked on the heater. “It’s getting cold.”
Roger looked outside. “Where the hell is everybody? We should be able to see something. High beams or fog-lights—something.”
There was nothing. Only the rain. Rain which came down from the blackness in endless sheets, wave after wave, pounding the hood, the windshield, the roof. The 4x4 had become an enormous steel drum.
Savanna switched on the radio again.
“Honey,” Roger began, “there’s no way—”
But there was something. It was just a flash, a brief blat! of sound, a voice. And then only static. They looked at each other in the dark of the truck.
“Try the vice grips ...” Savanna said.
He had already reached for them. He maneuvered them around the tune
