Hitchhikers

Death slowed down for us. Death slowed down to pick us up, a maniac on the highway. And who were we, two hitchhikers? Where were we going? Too late now, anyway. Too late: we're bundled up in the back, wrists bound, ankles bound, a sack over each of our heads. 

You can scream all you like, no one will hear you. Scream your throat raw, and it will only join the other screams, of the victims locked in the boot of every car as it roars on up the highway.