The redwood branch ended abruptly, giving way to an abyss of churning green clouds. Suspended across the gap by vines as thick as tree trunks was a jagged three-mile archipelago of fossilized concrete: the old 101 Highway.
It was a ghost-gridlock. Thousands of rusted husks—sedans, delivery vans, transit buses—were fused into the asphalt, overgrown with bioluminescent moss that pulsed with a rhythmic, sickly light.
"Of course," Don muttered, adjusting the strap of his heavy repeating crossbow. "I survived the literal collapse of civilization, three mutant migrations, and a solar-powered bird-god, only to end up exactly where I started: stuck in traffic on the 101."
"At least there's no carpool lane enforcement," Maddie noted, stepping onto the cracked asphalt. Her boots crunched on a layer of calcified glass. "And look at the bright side, Don. No one is cutting you off without a blinker."
