Somewhere ahead a truck had turned turtle and all the traffic was being diverted through other roads. The black biker wore the archetypal biker gear, dressed in black from head to toe, all leather and all style.
Inside the helmet the biker head was filled with fear. Pure crazy, batfuck insane fear. It sloshed through his body and his heart thudded in his chest faster than he could drive his bike. All around him death sat every vehicle. In every car he looked, The Reaper was present. He sat hunched in between people or sprawled in the back seat and in one case sitting on the hood of the car, his scythe resting in his lap, its blade sharp as the first shaft of moonlight and hungry for life.
The reaper stroked the shaft like one strokes a terribly good puppy, he looked at the biker and nodded at him, just like every other reaper had done.
The biker drove slowly, not moving his head but using his eyes to look into the cars.
For a second a sound attracted his attention and he looked upwards, as a plane passed overhead, a small shape sat on its wing. The cloaked shape waved at him. He didn't wave back. He brought his bike to the bridge's periphery, a large truck stood there, "Inflammable" written on it in large letters. A hooded shape sat on the passenger's side of the truck.
Up in the sky, the plane banked in a tight circle, lost altitude and headed for the bridge. People ran out of their cars, trying their best to get away from the falling death. The biker took off his helmet, tried to get off from the bike but someone held him down by the shoulders.
He looked back and saw Death's hollow eyes staring back at him. The plane swooped low like an eagle moving in for a kill.
Then, Death grinned.
Now that I have written this, this remind me of the final destination movies.