Mark stumbled out of the wrecked car, vomited on his shoes, and tried to shit without messing himself. He failed; a turd landed in his pants. He flopped it onto the dandelions growing in the culvert. His scalp had no bruises and there had been no tell-tale impact dimples marring the windshield. Free of concussions, he staggered to the passenger side and looked in. Joe was groaning about stomach aches and trying to unbuckle the safety belt. A canister of white capsules had spilled onto the seat and empty wine bottles were rolling everywhere as uncoordinated feet tried to find purchase on the slick glass. Fearing the leaking gas tank might catch fire, Mark unlocked the door and pulled his friend from the car.

“The car is totaled, my cellphone dead, we stink, and it's 40 miles to the city. What was in the pills we took last night?” asked Mark, of his oldest and best friend.

“Special mixture. Great stuff. Next time we bring girls along to party,” said Joe, his joy of life illuminating the disaster.

“You need to adjust the dosage,” said Mark.

“I mean to patent it,” said Joe.

“You got no shoes even,” said Mark.

“Got socks,” said Joe, retrieving a rolled pair from a pocket and holding them over his head like a trophy.

Mark popped open the trunk and found a pair of cowboy boots and a roll of duct tape. He inked a rough outline of feet on the sides of the footwear and cut out two sandals with his pocketknife.

“Put on your socks and tape these to your feet. Fancy boots aren’t made for walking,” said Mark to his buddy.

The sun was coming up, it would get hot, no one would stop, and they would die out here was Mark's conclusion.

“Very weird,” said Joe, and Mark turned to look.

Thick weeds and even a small shrub were growing through gaps in the damaged bumper and around the wheel wells.

“Like the car has been sitting here for weeks,” continued Joe.

“Check your pockets for any pills. If the cops search us, it's a sure bust,” said Mark.

He methodically removed any evidence of debauchery from the vehicle, threw it into the creek, and went upstream to refill two large wine bottles with clean water. The young men washed hands and face, drinking cool water until they could hold no more. Mark took a Mylar blanket from the glove compartment and wore it like a shawl for protection from exposure. Sometime during the night, he had lost his jacket. There was a battery pack for portables beneath the insurance and registration papers in the glove compartment. Mark plugged in his phone. He would call for a tow and they would be home in an hour. But there was no signal at all.

“Try AM radio. It carries for hundreds of miles. We could at least listen to dance music while we walk,” said Joe.

After a pause, Mark replied, “Just white noise, and I used a search app.”

“Your phone is busted. Give it here,” said Joe.

Mark handed over the external battery and waited while Joe selected tabs and clicked.

“I got nothing even on short wave or CB,” said Joe.

“Two busted phones. Let's get walking,” said Mark.

“The phone is working. Something bad has happened,” replied Joe.

“Don't make imaginary problems. . . Where should we go? I mean after we reach the city,” said Mark.

“My place is closest, and my sister has a crush on you,” Joe said with a wink.

“I think there is a store about half-way. We could eat and try phoning ahead to prepare her,” said Mark.

“What's to explain. Two heroes returning wounded from a tragic quest,” said Joe.

“The fair lady will love me chastely and from afar. I took and passed fourth semester English Literature,” said Mark.

“That's a point against you,” said Joe, who failed everything he wasn't interested in.

“I keep seeing flashes of green,” said Mark.

“It's the mescaline, half strength for visuals. Ignore them and they go away,” said a smug Joe.

“What's the story on your sister,” asked Mark, as they climbed the berm.

“The jocks want no introduction before a commencing a wrestling match, and the nerds just discuss Spinoza and stare at her boobs,” said Joe with a pleading look at Luke.

“Last time we met she reminded me of a lemon perched on a watermelon,” replied Mark.

“She has thinned out since then, smiles a lot more,” said Joe.

“And how's your love life?” asked Mark.

“The hot chicks want an IT professional not a grease monkey,” said Joe.

“Same at college. Humanities is out. Coding is in. Haven't had a date in months,” said Mark.

Out of the ditch and up on the freeway another strange sight greeted the pair. Blocks of compressed metal and plastic were positioned at intervals along the deserted freeway.

“Spilled from a truck going to recycling,” suggested Mark, always dubious of anything supernatural.

“And the highway patrol just lined them up really careful like,” said Joe with sarcasm.

Beyond the freeway, as far as the eye could see in either direction, were fields of wilting corn. The eerie silence of the empty road was magnified by locked wind turbines. Many had lost propellers from over-revving and parts of broken blades lay scattered at the end of paths scythed through the unripe crop. Mark and Joe started the long walk home. No hiss and zoom of automobiles disturbed the oppressive peace; the only sound was the flap of improvised shoes on blistering pavement.