Glancing wistfully over his shoulder, Greg Willams studied the solitary desert road that stretched out behind them. As far as the eye could see, the same sight lay before him. A cloud of orange dust enveloped the VW bus as it trundled its way along the twin-wheel ruts. The shortcut indicated on the map should have reduced their trip to fifteen minutes. However, they were already half an hour along, and the road stretched ahead into eternity.

"What's happening, flake? You get us lost?" Impatiently, Gia Williams thrust herself between the kombi's two front seats.

"Don't flip your wig, sis," Greg responded, glaring at his twin. "The Albuquerque road is up ahead. A few more miles, and we'll be on the highway."

"Yeah, the high way—ha-ha," Tracey McMaster echoed, propping his elbows into the steering wheel and rolling another joint.

"Ain't gonna bogart all the weed, Trace," Gia exclaimed, grabbing the joint for a toke.

"Nah, I shares," the driver conceded, toothily grinning at his old lady.

"We all share," Greg chortled as he grabbed the roach clip from his sister.

"Right on," the trio exclaimed in unison.

Silence prevailed in the bus while the miles drifted along behind them. An hour had passed with no sign of life other than the cactus and scrub of the desert. How they arrived in New Mexico was beyond them. Their gig in LA had been a bust. Perhaps, if their amp hadn't shorted then caught fire, they would have gotten through the first set. However, the clammer of their music drowned out the first pop and sizzle.

Jamming their gear into the back of the bus, they beat it. With no destination, the trio retreated to the sound of approaching sirens. Then, finding themselves in front of Hektor Estevez's gas station, Greg discovered that they were in New Mexico using the free state map. How long they had been on the road was beyond the hippie's knowledge. They were too stoned to remember.

"Poor Pete," Gia moaned, then laughed. Peter Strong was their bassist or, rather, at this point, their ex-bassist. Since he was not on the bus with them, he had to be back in LA.

"Poor Pete," Greg and Tracey repeated.

"Poor us," Gia moaned again as her maracas rattled amongst their equipment stashed in the back. They had managed to save the drum kit, two guitars, tambourine, and maracas but had left Pete behind to deal with the mess.

"Hey, babe, we ain't lost," Tracey chortled from the driver's seat. "We're right here. We done lost the world."

"Yeah, right, Trace," Gia responded, wrapping her arms tightly across her stomach. Greg hummed the Twilight Zone opening tune. "Knock it off, Greg," his sister snapped.

"What's that up ahead," Greg suddenly exclaimed, pointing toward an anomaly on the horizon. It was difficult to tell what lay ahead. However, it broke up the doldrums of the landscape.

"Civilization?" the female member of the group asked as she leaned forward to hug her brother's seat.

"Way out here? Doubtful, sis," Greg responded, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Probably just a mirage," Tracey cut in. "Psychedelic, man." Joining Greg, both men did the Twilight Zone thing.

"Very funny." Gia didn't think it was amusing at all.

As the miles melted behind them, the vision ahead expanded and retreated in the haze of the New Mexico sun. The bus lumbered along the road, quickly showing signs of overheating. However, the occupants continued onward as though they had complete faith in their ride.

Then, a crooked signpost loomed out of the desert as though a natural part of the landscape. Pulling up beside it, Tracey stopped the kombi. Greg leaned out of the rolled-down window and read out loud: "Whispering Springs, New Mexico, pop. 642."

"Far out," Tracey exclaimed.

"Yeah, like too far out," Gia glumly answered.

The ambling bus swayed as the wheels encountered rut holes. Gia swayed on the middle seat to its rhythm while her maracas continued to rattle. The tambourine joined in. Greg unfolded the map onto the knees of his orange and brown striped trousers. It held no indication that a town called Whispering Springs existed. Tracey jounced along in the driver's seat as he headed toward the outcrop of buildings dotting the landscape.

"I hope they have a burger joint," Gia announced, popping between the front seats again. "I'm starving."

"And a payphone," Greg suggested.

"Yeah, we should call Pete," his sister sighed. Although she was Tracey's old lady, she had an occasional fling with their other bandmate. Hey, well, it was all about free love. She was about as free with her love as any of them.

"Nah, wouldn't wanna do that," Greg answered, leaning back in his seat and propping his hands behind his head.

"Noooo," Tracey put in, grinning toothily. "He doesn't need to know. We did a fade-out, and I intend to remain faded out."

"Would ya dig that?" Greg exclaimed as Whispering Springs came into sight.

The old town stood starkly on the desert. Buildings faced each other with only the rutted desert road to divide them. Timbered false fronts loomed above a line of broken hitching posts. Faded curtains hung limply through the broken window of the hotel. A wheelless wagon lay keeled over before the blacksmith shop.

The kombi rolled along the street, then sputtered and stopped. With a hiss, the rear-mounted engine farted steam. Throwing the doors opened, Greg and Tracey leaped out and dashed to the back. Gia stood behind them and peered over their shoulders.

"What now?" she asked, turning to survey their surroundings. Any hope of a burger and fries quickly disappearing.

"We check it out," her brother responded. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he moseyed toward the swinging doors of the saloon. Tracey followed in his wake. After a moment's hesitation, Gia ran after her male companions.

The half-hinged doors of the saloon creaked eerily as the trio entered. Broken chairs and tables scattered the floor; the wrecked bar sagged in the middle. The mirror behind the bar lay shattered in a million pieces. Smashed bottles of aged whisky added to the ambiance. Yellow desert dust covered everything.

Cautiously, Gia glanced around. The whole place gave her the creeps. Her stomach knotted then tightened. When was the last time I took the pill? she wondered. Time became fluid for her. How many days had they been on the road? Had they traveled to New Mexico from California or haphazardly drifted through Arizona before crossing into the Land of Enchantment? She realized she had no clue what day it was. Gnawing on her lower lip, she pressed her mind to recall their movements.

In the meantime, Greg and Tracey disappeared up the rickety staircase leading to a narrow galley. Several small bedrooms led off the galley. Images of a saloon filled with rough cowboys and dancing girls crowded their imaginations. They were still young enough to recall a youthful fascination with playing sheriffs and bad guys. Grinning from ear to ear, they hooted down at their female companion.

"Let's beat it, guys," Gia called back. She already hated the place.

"Can't," Tracey yelled back, cupping his mouth with his hands. "That kombi is done fried."

"So are you, Trace," the young hippie yelled back.

Gia's mind cleared enough to provide a glimmer of understanding about their situation. They found themselves stuck in the middle of a desert ghost town. No one knew where they were. There was no way to reach the outside world, and their ride was toast. Tears sprung to her eyes as the sounds of the boys hollering "bang-bang" echoed around the abandoned dance hall. Tracey suddenly plummeted to the first floor with a splintering crash as the banister he leaned against broke.

Awkwardly, Tracey McMaster sprawled at Gia's feet. The twist of his leg beneath his prone body caused her stomach to jump into her throat. She knew a broken bone when she saw one. Falling to her knees, she cradled her boyfriend's head in her lap. Greg clattered down the swaying stairway to stand pitifully above her.

"Holy Crud!" Greg exclaimed as he ran his hands through his straggly blonde locks.

"Is that all you can say, Greggie?" Gia countered, standing and thrusting her fists into her sides. Then, she returned to her knees beside Tracey. "We're busted now."

"Yeah." her twin turned away, instantly sober for the first time in as long as he could recall. His head sagged between his shoulders as he placed his hands, palm down, on the broken bar.

As the day dwindled, twilight entered the town of Whispering Springs, New Mexico. The first call of a coyote echoed across the desert landscape. Gia trembled. In her arms, Tracey murmured through his unconsciousness. Greg's mind raced for solutions. They had no transportation, no food or water, and their friend lay injured with probably more than just a broken leg. Furthermore, no one knew where they were.