The rain drips from the tip of his rifle onto the forest mulch. Clack of the rain splattering through the canopy. His stomach aches. He is past hunger. The trainyard ahead grumbles and creaks with the ravages of rain and time. The roof of the terminal is collapsed and lets in shaggy light. Rivulets of water run down the slopes of fallen corrugated pig iron and mounds of rotted leaves have piled up at the termination of the wind’s channels. The crates are all torn open by previous scavengers. Nothing but rust and darkness in them. His tungsten torch flickers and he hits it against a rusted carriage to get it working again. There’s a small kiosk at the heart of the terminal that has all of its windows broken and its contents evacuated. The dusk approaches. He sets his pack and his roll mat down on the slick tiles of the kiosk floor and goes out to make a rotation of the yard. He sets up little wire traps with firesnaps on the end. He makes his way back to the kiosk and sets down for the night. He only wakes when the heavier rain starts to leak in and land on his head. Then he notices the device on his belt is flashing. Red.
Paddy Dobson
9th September 2021