I’ve spent the last two days scouting through this endless fog. The sun casts a muted light during the day, giving everything a gray pallor and casting deep shadows. Nights are pitch black, the street lamps producing small halos of light on empty streets.The air feels like a heavy weight on my shoulders, it has a metallic tang to it, almost like blood.
I try to be indoors before sundown..but curiosity compels me to stay outside. This place is beautiful, in a lonely way. The houses are in a state of decay, peeling paint, dust caked windows. The streets are littered with the slowly rusting hulks of cars, possibly decades old. I’m not sure. People must have lived here once, but their absence oddly comforts me.
The air though, the air unnerves me. It’s heavy, oppressive, it has an iron taste to it, almost like blood. I’ve taken to wrapping myself in whatever thick clothing I can find to keep out the cold and damp.
I’ve been fortunate so far in finding supplies. Food and water are in abundance, and yet, they are all curiously missing their expiration date. So far I haven’t melted into a heap of quivering meat vomiting for hours on end. We’ll see how that goes in the next few days.
I did find a pistol earlier. I unloaded it and took it with me, if I do come across someone, the sight of it should keep them back. And unloaded, I don’t have to worry about putting it to my temple if the isolation gnaws away at my rationality.
