In time, it begins to rain. The wiper scraped back and forth. We keep the windows down,

letting a little of the wet air in, enjoying the sensation.

We no longer talk.

We drive onwards, Carpenter and I.

We take turns at the wheel as the road turns to rough and rocky trails through ruined villages and forgotten shrines.

We take turns at tuning and retuning

the radio, calmly attempting to bypass the static and return ourselves to music and maining,

although it's been days since we heard anything like a human voice, and there are no longer

any iron signal towers visible upon the horizon.

And when the petrol gauge dims and the petropater's dripping face blinks its final warning at us from the dashboard,

we park the car beneath an old willow tree that hangs alone in the empty fields.

We get out and we walk onwards through the rain.

Gradually the landscape obscures.

There comes a time when you can no longer see beyond the next hedgerow, the next style, the next creeping outgrowth of stray forest, overwhelming the burnt-out ruins.

High above in the distance, the shapes of rusted military saints on their towering long legs or rolling tracks are just barely visible.

And as we enter deeper into the trailing mists, A familiar wet scent enters the air.

A cool, sticky damp lingers on our skin, making us drip.

It's river mist, I think.

Somewhere out here, in the heart of the barren land,

the waters have staked a claim for themselves.

And presently, we come to something strange.

An endless line of worn and tape stretching out across the fields before us.

...