Meanwhile down in the distant valley you could see that the interstate was a graveyard of cars and trucks. A mass of people (like a swarm of bewildered bees) were heading up the mountain. Led by a man in an old Willy's Jeep that was still running. He held a bullhorn and was laden with armour, a fat cigar perched in his mouth. bellowing volumous tones"We are the army of the mechanic and I am the Mechanic"