The double doors groaned open with a sound like a dying animal, vines curling down from broken hinges as Arthur stepped outside.
His boots hit cracked pavement.
And he stopped.
The wind hit his face — warm, humid, carrying the scent of rot and soil and rusted metal. The light was harsh now, pouring through jagged clouds and broken towers that scraped the horizon like skeletons.
What lay before him didn't look like any place he'd ever known.
Buildings stood in silence, glass long gone, steel frames exposed like bones. Nature had swallowed the world whole — ivy crawling up sides of concrete giants, trees splitting through sidewalks like time had no patience left.
Down below, the road was littered with strange, rusted machines — hunks of metal on wheels, lined up like corpses on some forgotten battlefield. Doors hung open. Some were crushed. Others half-swallowed by moss.
And in the middle of the street — a hole. Big one. Deep. Like the ground itself had buckled under something angry and loud.
Arthur stared, jaw clenched tight.
"This… sure as hell ain't New Hanover."
He moved slow, one step at a time, revolver drawn, eyes scanning the streets like he was back in Lemoyne dodging bounty hunters. Every shadow felt like it might move. Every gust of wind behind a car made his trigger finger twitch.
He passed one of the rusted hulks, pausing beside it.
"What the hell kinda wagon is this?" he muttered, dragging his fingers across the flaking paint. No reins. No saddle. Just glass windows and rubber tires. He squinted at it, then shook his head. "Damn thing looks like a bank vault with wheels."
He kept walking.
The world had gone quiet again.
Not peaceful. Just… waiting.
He rounded a corner, boots crunching over glass and dead leaves, when he spotted movement up the road.
A person?
Wobbling. Limbs slack. Head twitching like a busted marionette.
Arthur lowered his revolver for a second, hope pricking at the edge of his thoughts.
"Hey!" he called out, voice loud and clear. "You alright, friend?"
The figure stopped.
Then turned.
And Arthur's breath caught.
Its face—twisted. Skin stretched. Something bloomed from its skull—mushroom-like, raw and pulsing, sprouting out where eyes used to be. Its chest heaved. Mouth slack and wet.
Then it screeched.
Arthur's whole body tensed.
"What in the goddamn hell—"
It broke into a sprint.
Arms flailing. Legs pounding. Fast. Too fast.
Arthur raised his gun, heart hammering.
"Nope. Nope, I'm done with this."
The world slowed.
Time stretched.
His fingers moved faster than thought.
One.
Two.
Three shots.
All aimed dead-center.
The runner's skull cracked open in a mist of red and spore as it collapsed mid-sprint, sliding across the cracked road like a ragdoll, limbs twitching one last time before going still.
Arthur stood still for a long beat.
Smoke curled from his revolver.
His breath came heavy through his nose.
"…The hell was that."
He crouched near the thing's body, gun still aimed.
The fungus… it was growing outta the man's face.
Its clothes were torn. Hands shredded. Barefoot. No weapons.
Just… rage. Hunger.
Arthur holstered the revolver slowly, eyes still locked on the corpse.
"This place… this place is sick."
He stood again, looking up toward the skyline.
A world in ruin.
A city choked in silence.
"I gotta find someone," he said under his breath. "Someone who knows what the hell happened here."
He adjusted his satchel. Gripped his revolver tighter.
And walked on.