he had gone through several small towns along route 9 which had cycle shops , showroom models with the keys hanging right in them , but if he looked at them too long , the visions of himself lying beside the road in a pool of blood would rise up in vivid , unhealthy technicolor , like something from one of those awful but somehow fascinating charles band horror movies , the ones where people kept dying under the wheels of large trucks or as a consequence of large , nameless bugs which had bred and grown in their warm vitals and finally burst free in a gut-busting display of flying flesh , and he would pass by , enduring the silence , pallid , shivering .