The industrial buildings and lit signs advertising auto parts and pay-by-the-hour rooms shortly give way to modest sized office buildings. Those yield to a few ornate skyscrapers clustered around a central square. In its middle, families skate in circles on an ice rink while a solemn-looking Christmas tree –hardly any lights, just a few twinkling glass balls- stands guard.

The motorcycles have either amplified their engines or gained considerable ground. The way the ground shakes, the driver wouldn’t be surprised if it cracked the ice on the rink or caused a few of the massive glass ornaments to fall. The hitchhiker studies the one beer bottle left on the floor, and considers its efficacy if used as a projectile. His common sense physics tells him that the centrifugal force of the pickup would merely fling the bottle off the periphery if thrown. He frowns at the prospect and can’t help but wonder why the same wouldn’t happen to bullets. The hitchhiker’s bag rests at his feet and he can feel the handle of his Hollister Special Issue .38 with the toe of his boot.

The pickup takes to the roundabout and tree, rink, towers, and slow-moving vehicles become a swirling blur. The circle has several streets leading off it and each one is preceded by a sign announcing the street name and maybe where it leads. The pickup is swerving too fast, so the driver takes a guess and approximates which street will carry them in the same direction as they were headed before.

The lights of the city have gone out. There are long, shingled buildings on either side but the two might as well be back in the middle of the Rocky’s wilderness. Every now and then a rare streetlight will illuminate a sign painted on a brick façade, “Royce & Sons Curing and Packaging” or “Steers at 3 cents per kilo”; and that’s when the stench hits them. It’s not just of festering manure; but the carcasses, fresh or not, mingling with the chemicals of the tanning process, are enough to describe animal fear and torment.

“Jeezis. We may be safe here, but it smells like pure shit.” The hitchhiker cannot roll his window up fast enough. It doesn’t help. The driver has cracked his down a little bit more. He listens with the attentiveness of a bugle pup. There is a swirl of motorbike roar echoing off the brick walls far behind them. It dies off before it can get any louder.

“Shhhhhhhh. I don hear em no more. I don here nothin.”