Your flashlight flickers dimly. Giving it a hearty shake makes the beam come to life. Even so, it still only affords you a few feet of visibility. Making your way along the center line, you narrowly miss being hit by a speeding black Firebird. After walking through the fog for several minutes, you've seen no sign of the accident. Not even a weird dark stain on the road or a shoe. Puzzled, you keep walking, although the shrieking cries of your baby from the cab warn you not to stray far. The fog parts, and you find yourself staring at a run-down town. Though the architecture looks of high-quality, and the homes seem like the sturdy type these northerners build to last centuries, the place looks abandoned. From your eyes, as a professional scrap salvager, this is like a city of gold. You rationalize that whomever was in the road must've dove out of the way, and focus your thoughts on the city in front of you. You had been traveling to an abandoned factory on the Canadian border, so this will
save you time and could even net some large amounts of cash. Trotting back to your cab, your head swims with thoughts of copper wire, dusty discarded steel beams, all the things that keep a scrap salvager fed. Swinging open the cab door, you slide into the seat. Not feeling the familiar pain of the child car seat cutting into your side, you look down. With a panicked yell, you realize your cab is empty. Jumping out, you listen, but hear none of the telltale shrieks that had accompanied most of your ride, hell, most of your life. The fog rolls clear, but you can't see anyone in any direction. The town looms ominously before you.