The wind howled through the empty, burned streets, stirring up ash like some filthy snow, whistling through the shattered windows of the silent ruins, moldering concrete and steel stretching upward, reminiscent of the old structures they used to be. The last rays of the setting sun loomed through the gradually growing shadows, marking danger for some- if there were any left- and comfort for others.

It was a comfort for Gutalin, mostly. He hated SNG patrols as much as the next your next scavenger, as the government called people like him, and the dark would mean safety for him, in the event the cowards decided to patrol the old industrial area; he couldn’t imagine them doing so. The entire area was a nightmare of massive steel beams and industrial equipment, and the possibility of something attacking them was too high here for them to likely patrol.

Gutalin wasn’t afraid at all of the area. It hadn’t been picked over much in the years since everything had happened - if everything was still here as he remembered last from when he was a boy - and the possibility of him finding swag was all too high because of that. 

Still, even to someone as hardened as him, it was eerie being back, old memories vaguely and silently drifting around him like some ancient, and forgotten angry spirit. A little up the road was the old lumber mill; he could still see the old crane looming over the connecting railroad tracks, looking perilously close to falling after twenty years of misuse. And, to the side, you could see the rocket factory over that brick wall to the right. He and the other guys had called it that, he remembered, smiling as it came back to him, due to the gigantic missiles they always had in the yard, upright and secure for passersby to see. He knew now it was a military factory, of course, but what he and the others had imagined and talked about concerning the factory was too good to dismiss, even now…

Of course, the factory had been what caused the whole ordeal, it was at fault for what happened to that part of the city. It was the military factory’s fault that a quarter of the city’s population lost their lives and homes and why everyone else had to fight for the small amount of remaining resources. No wonder people scavenged, Gutalin thought bitterly, there were barely any resources and what was left went to those who paid the most for it. 

Well, it wasn’t just the missile factory, one had to remember. Yes, a test missile that was being disassembled had fallen over and exploded, and had inconveniently been near a bio-weapon shipment and blew it open… but there were others; this, if anything, had been the smallest cause of the whole damn thing. 

He put his hand on the cool, cracked glass visor of the gas mask as if to be sure it was there. He could still remember the sight of disfigured people, lying on the streets, bits of their lungs plastered to their shirts, red and pasty… they for a while had called it The Red Death, but that had already been used multiple times, someone remembered, so they just decided to call it The Corroder… it was an accurate description of the effects, anyways, of what it did to victims, from what he remembered. It had been a long time since he had seen a victim - in the years since then, the virus had mostly faded - but there were traces of the foul thing lurking here and there still, in the basements of buildings, deep, dark places that were mostly forgotten if anything. Or, everyone except scavengers, like Gutalin.

He kept walking down the lane, the moon slowly rising to its zenith above him, its light creating odd shadows, deep shadows. He used to be afraid of them but after years of scavenging he’d been able to start telling whether there was anything in the shadows or not; He’d learned to be able to easily tell if something was there because things in the shadows were always darker than the shadows themselves, which had saved him multiple times, by this point. 

He was an incredibly lucky scavenger, Gutalin thought as he walked past a mashed hulk of metal that probably had once been a car. Most that had taken up the work at the beginning of the catastrophe had died within…a few days, maybe. He was one of the only ones still around, possibly the last, he figured; old hangouts, stashes, and scavenging points had been long abandoned… still, he often checked places that many had sold goods at, at the beginning of everything, just to see if there was anyone, and yet he never saw a soul; It was…worrying. 

He shook his thoughts away as he continued walking, the empty street rapidly growing colder. He closed his jacket, steps becoming more cautious, more measured as he moved closer to his destination, footsteps making no noise in the soft, dark gray ash that still covered the street. He considered taking out a cigarette, smoking his sudden anxiety that always came with the start of a job, but that never helped anyway.

He stopped at an intersection, alert, before moving on, still taking cautious steps. One thing he never understood about The Backline was that time didn’t seem to pass at all, nothing ever weathered, and it all looked the same as it did when it started. It was less apparent here, where there had been a massive explosion at the factory, but everywhere else, you could tell. The ash should have been blown away, but it was still here, covering the whole town like a thick, grimy blanket -an example. 

His destination was the tractor factory, on the other side of town. Not for the first time, he wished there was a safer way to the god-forsaken place. He had gone scavenging in there multiple times, and every time he went he seemed to have a near-death experience just on the way there. Last time…

Well, last time was bad. But the fact something hadn’t happened was, well, unusual. But welcome. Any experienced Scavenger would tell you that the lack of danger, when out on a job, wasn’t bad; it was just merely good luck. And Gutalin knew that, he just still couldn’t help being worried as he scanned the nearby ruins, the crumbling concrete fences, and the occasional rare abandoned car or truck, long gutted for valuable parts and fuel. Too many perfect places for ambushes. He could easily imagine something leaping out of that alleyway overgrown with moss, and how little time he would have to react. Gutalin wasn’t typically paranoid man, but again, any good Scavenger could tell you that’s what keeps you alive.

Maybe that’s why he was the last one.

He kept walking, quickly yet carefully, down Turner Street, past the old, nearly collapsed apartment complex that all the local college kids from the university had lived in, bypassing the industrial warehouse where he knew a nest of shriekers lived, walking through the old farmers market, stepping gently over the ashy and burnt remains of local produce, and his memories continued to come, flooding his brain slowly but surely of long dead, long gone faces; his neighbors, his family, his friends…

He loathed and loved the memories at the same time. His childhood home, in pieces around him, ruined and desolate until the last brick crumbled to dust. He didn’t know what to make of it. Gutalin still wished he could just forget. He loved The Backline, he knew it intimately, but the pitiless bitch still tried to get back at him for surviving the countless numbers of expeditions he had taken inside her, and had still somehow come off unscathed. It was always unfair how he survived. He knew it. Everyone did.

He kept walking, getting closer and closer, every sense and instinct he had, primitive or modern, seeming to be on fire. He didn’t come here to the industrial area for the swag anymore as much as the adrenaline. It was a unique feeling, being in danger constantly, but being perfectly attuned to everything happening in the environment, He supposed, briefly, this must be how wild things feel, in just daily experience, before moving on. He didn’t have time for such thoughts; survival was key. The Backline always tried her best to kill him, and he wouldn’t let her win today.

He paused warily before the entrance to the factory, massive rusty gates open still, looming above him like some silent sentinel. They were thankfully propped open by an ancient-looking white fuel truck, and, as Gutalin had expected, it was intact and untouched; Nobody had ever been over here. 

He slipped through the crack in the gate, hands shaking slightly as he softly felt the peeling white paint of the truck. Every cell of him was alive, tense. His hair on his neck stood up as he entered… the familiar smell of sulfur, blood, and rot was there. Everything he expected, as usual; was the same smell of a job that would give good swag.

A high brick wall surrounded the courtyard, and throughout it were unidentified hulks of shadow - probably unfinished tractors and equipment - that made everything eerie, almost like a graveyard of some gargantuan creatures, metal flashing weirdly in the light of the rapidly rising moon. He felt for his pistol, an ancient, military surplus colt, and slowly unholstered the thing. Everything smelled and felt normal, but something was…off. He couldn’t place it. Admittedly, he hadn’t been here for a while, so maybe nothing was wrong, but some deep, unknown thing within his soul, perhaps his luck, just felt…

He shook off the feeling and made his way through the courtyard, which almost had a straight aisle down the middle, to a dusty steel door he could see at the end, still clutching his pistol. Nothing moved, all was silent; all he could hear was the gentle sound of the wing, whistling in the night. All seemed fine, ordinary even, so why couldn’t he shake the feeling off? 

He didn’t notice the odd, grayish shadow on the side till it was too late. It sprang at him and pinned him before he could even react.

He laughed. 

“Hey, I should have figured you would have been here,” he said, smiling.

He heard the dragon growl quietly. “I told you not to go alone, you idiot… don’t you remember what happened last time?”

Gutalin sat up, looking into the dragon's eyes; they always seemed to glow slightly in the dark, and for some reason, he always found it fascinating. “You said you were going to be busy, and I got bored, so…well, might as well come back here…”

The dragon took him by his arm, eyes unreadable. “So, you would kill yourself, because I’m not there?”

Gutalin shook his head. “Of course not-”

“You would have. You haven’t been inside, but you would have walked into a crawler nest if you had.”

He looked in surprise towards the silent building. “A crawler nest? Here?” He whispered, suddenly becoming even more anxious than he thought he could be.

He had to reflect for a moment, as he lay on the ground, staring at the sky, that as much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he was lucky he knew the dragon. Granted, their meeting had been accidental years ago when he was younger; they had met similarly to the situation now. But now, the dragon was the only thing he had left that he loved.