"James van Pelt - Parallel Highways" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pelt James Van)

manzanita in the median. "I haven't seen a sign."

"I think it's L.A."

"I hope it isn't. I couldn't stand it if we were this close." But he sat up more in his seat, a little less tired.

"She squeezed his hand. Malls flowed by and R.V. lots. Trucks filled the road: tankers, movers and the
semis. Cars darted like smelt among the shark, moving around their ponderous bulk, giving way, sliding
over, clearing a path. In the distance, a series of high rises peeked out of the haze.

"I remember audio-books," said Debbie. "If you weren't with me, I could start one in the morning and
finish it on the way back. I used to think my commute was half a book long."

"I didn't know that. For me, the drive was time to get good thinking done. From Banning to San
Bernardino I'd formulate the problem. From there to Pomona, I'd come up with various approaches, and
by Pasadena I'd have the day planned out."

The traffic flow varied. Cars slowed and came together for miles, crawling at fifty or sixty miles an hour.
Then, without any perceivable reason, they would speed up and spread out. Jack thought of it as
"accordion traffic," and it took all his attention. Now he drove with both hands on the wheel, watching for
the sudden cut, keeping out of others' blind spots. Drivers looked tense and focused. They snapped
glances in their mirrors; kept a thumb hear their horns. Blinkers flashed. Cars vied for placement as
junctions came up every mile or so.

Jack changed lanes twice to get into position for the Santa Ana junction. It was L.A. he decided. Maybe
a parallel one, but L.A. just the same. He could get them to Anaheim at least. Debbie could see
something familiar before they followed the road back out to alien landscapes and meaningless junctions
that led them nowhere at eighty miles per hour.

He could get them to Anaheim.

Traffic flowed slightly faster in his lane. They crept up on cars, taking minutes to pass them. A semi to
their right, ahead of them, blocked the signs. Jack wanted the Compton junction that would take them
west on 91, but he didn't know if he needed the left or right side of the highway. A sign blinked by, and
he missed what it said.

Slowly they closed the distance. The semi's wheels roared by Debbie's window, and Jack suddenly got
scared. Everything felt the same as it had once before. He'd heard these tires before.

"What's that truck?" he asked, voice tight.

Debbie pushed her face to the window and read the side. "Horizon Transit. Why?"

"Jesus," said Jack. He couldn't see the driver's face, but a leather-clad arm rested on the driver's door.
Only a few feet separated Jack from the car in front of them, a green lowrider with maroon tassels
dangling in the rear window.

Jack tapped the top of the steering wheel. Both lanes to his left were packed solid, hardly a hand's
breadth between them. No chance of cutting over and away. All he could hope for was that nothing
would happen, because there was nothing he could do to protect himself.