If I keep going, eventually I will pass the checkpoint and I can move back to the highway once more. With a silent sigh, I turn back to my journey and go, eager to be free of this place and the evil that surrounds it like a shroud.
The trek is blissfully uneventful, and I estimate I’ve gone about five miles on foot before the sky starts to lighten.
I’ve gotten beyond the town and the checkpoint, but now the space is wide open. Grass sways in the wind alongside the asphalt that lines the highway, but there’s nothing else—just miles and miles of road.
Maybe I can find an abandoned car and hide out there, or I can lie in the grass, which is now waist-high, but instead, I continue to put one foot in front of the other. It’s a risk, but so is falling asleep exposed.
By the time midday rolls around, my body is hurting. I’ve taken sips of water to get me through, but it’s not nearly enough. I’m hungry, as my stomach keeps telling me with painful grumbles, and my head aches from dehydration.
I spot an old route 66 stop, the building long since abandoned with broken windows and graffiti dotting the walls. The gas pumps are old school, and the panels are open, exposing complex wires and gadgets. I step through the doorway, long since missing an actual door, and crunch through glass and debris littering the area. Years’ worth of garbage layers the stone floor and the acrid scent mixed with booze stings my nostrils.
This was clearly a popular hangout for teenage partiers and the homeless at some point. Warily, I find my way through a few rooms until it’s darker before crouching down. I don’t have a flashlight and can’t see the ground, but I sit anyway because I’m too tired to care.
With no food, I try to satisfy the empty, gnawing sensation by taking a few sips of water before I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. My body is so weary that I can’t be bothered by outside dangers, and I slide into sleep easily and completely.