Abruptly, the crevasse seems to widen drastically before him, as if the earth is splitting under some new stress, and a fragment of the repeating vision slams him harder than before: a swarm of vehicles, trucks and cars, sliding-colliding on rain-slick blacktop, sliding-colliding-tumbling. But this time a continuation of the montage reveals something new: The highway is a bridge, which has broken open, a great slab of pavement canting down, a ramp to ruin, off which the tumbling vehicles fall away into a gorge.
