God’s Bug Zapper
The narrow country road they had turned onto from Highway 12 disintegrated into a loosely graveled, one-lane monstrosity. It was growing increasingly rough, and Kevin was afraid that it would peter out altogether. Jennifer sat across from him, her arms folded across her breasts. Her heat-flushed face was pulled into a tight grimace.
It was the end of July, hotter than hell, and the old Pontiac’s air conditioner had quit about three hours earlier. Heat shimmered off the dark green hood, the road ahead seemed to twist and bend with it.
“You should have bought a damn map,” she said moodily.
Kevin cursed under his breath. He would have turned back already but the road was too narrow, flanked on each side by ditches of sun dried mud filled with boulders that would tear
