The fog thickened like it had plans.
Not just "spooky vibe" fog—no.
This was alive kind of fog.
Creeping, swallowing, muting the world in soft white static as the van rolled slowly through the narrow, cracked streets.
Streetlights flickered uselessly overhead.
Buildings on either side leaned a little too far forward, like they were eavesdropping.
And every shadow stretched wrong.
They drove in silence—Rick at the wheel, 777 half-chewed jerky hanging from his mouth, tapping furiously at a scanner that refused to update.
After wandering aimlessly for too long, something finally cut through the mist.
A road sign.
Barely visible.
Metal half-rusted, its lettering coated in dew and decay.
Rick stopped the van with a soft screech of tires.
Both men stepped out.
Their boots crunched gravel as they approached the sign.
Rick wiped the condensation away with his sleeve.
"Do not acknowledge it."
That was all it said.
Black text. Unevenly spaced. Like it was added after the sign was made.
"…Tobey might be here," Rick muttered, eyes still on the sign.
His voice wasn't hopeful. Just tired. Resigned.
"This place. Of all places." 777 groaned, already annoyed. "What about the sign?"
Rick didn't look at him.
"'Do not acknowledge it.' That simple."
Then, after a pause:
"We're new here. No clue what's waiting. Don't talk to things you don't understand."
The fog swirled lower, colder.
It hugged their legs like something alive.
Windows creaked in buildings nearby, like the wind had fingers and was testing the hinges.
Then—
They both felt it.
A hand.
Resting gently on their shoulders.
Not heavy. Not strong.
Just… there.
"...I don't like hands on my shoulder," Rick said, dangerously calm.
"Well," 777 replied, already annoyed, "you're the one doing it."
Silence.
Then in perfect sync:
"Shit."
Rick didn't flinch.
He stood still, like daring whatever was behind him to move first.
777?
777 yeeted himself forward—straight into the sign—spinning around to look at whoever had just made the dumbest decision of their afterlife.
Rick turned too.
And standing there—
Was a stranger.
Short. Hoodie up. Face completely hidden by a cracked bike visor.
No mask. No words.
Just standing there.
The stranger slowly removed the hand from Rick's shoulder, raised one finger as if to say "wait a sec", and then calmly dug into their backpack.
Tension surged.
Rick's hand went to his sidearm.
777's hand twitched toward his boot knife.
If this stranger pulled out an AK, they were both already ready to put him in the dirt.
But what came out…
Was a can.
A regular-ass can of Dr. Pepper.
Unopened. No dents. No expiration date.
The stranger extended it toward Rick.
Silent.
No weird vibes. Just a gesture.
Rick took it slowly.
Nodded once.
The stranger nodded back.
Turned.
And walked away.
No words.
No threat.
Just gone—vanished into the fog like a ghost with brand loyalty.
Rick looked at the can in his hand.
"…You gonna drink it?" 777 asked.
"…Not yet," Rick muttered.
The fog rolled in thicker—like the air itself didn't want them to see what was next.
They climbed back into the van.
The tires crunched over gravel as they drove past the signboard, its message fading behind them like it was never really there.
—
The Village
Dilapidated rooftops poked out of the mist like broken bones.
Half-sunken homes, leaning sideways into the hillside.
Corrugated metal sheets flapped faintly in the wind—loose, rusted.
Windows either shattered or missing entirely, boarded-up like the houses were scared of being looked into.
There was no color.
Just grays, pale greens, faded reds.
Even the trees nearby looked tired—tall and twisted like they'd grown up too close to a dying town.
"Now we're in a small abandoned village in the middle of the hills," 777 muttered, peering out the window.
"Yeah, I know. I have eyes, you know." Rick sighed. "Anyway… what's the sitrep on our tech?"
777 tapped his screen. Fingers moved.
He frowned.
"Still intact. GPS is toast, and the van's pinging the main base just fine… but Jennifer's gone full mute mode."
Suddenly—
MAX VOLUME STATIC IN EARPIECE
"YOU DIDN'T TELL ME TO DO ANYTHING—WHY WOULD I WASTE ELECTRICITY."
"OW—my ears! You're gonna make me deaf!" 777 winced, yanking his earpiece off and scratching furiously.
Jennifer's voice softened—dripping sarcasm like a smug teenager.
"Oops. My bad. But maybe deafness would be a mercy. You wouldn't have to hear Rick's endless sighs anymore. So… what do you want, glitch boy?"
"Nothing," 777 said quickly.
"You use me for coping. Why not use Rick instead?" she teased, voice distorted but oddly playful.
"That's a good way to get me killed," 777 snapped.
Rick didn't react.
Didn't laugh.
Didn't even blink.
Just lit a new cigarette and stared forward like the world hadn't gotten weirder.
"Let's find your son," 777 said finally, popping the laptop shut.
Rick sighed. "Yeah. Let's go."
They stepped out of the van.
Rick paused at the village edge—mist curling between his boots.
"Remember the sign from earlier?" he asked.
"Yeah."
Rick's voice dropped lower.
"Don't react. Even if I die."
777 froze for a second. Then nodded. "Cool. Mental trauma speedrun it is."
—
The Village (Up Close)
Some houses were no taller than a shed—leaning like they'd grown out of the dirt wrong.
Others stood big and wide like they were waiting to host ghosts.
Wood cracked under their boots. Doors half open.
Wind whistled through mail slots like someone trying to speak in reverse.
No people.
No sound.
Just cold air and the distant creak of something shifting inside one of the houses—like the village itself was watching.
—
And just like that…
Their search began.