The morning air is cold; fog hangs in the distance. It's so damn quiet; it has been for months now. The Driver makes his way through the overgrown grass of a yard long abandoned. The house is still standing; not all were. After It happened, many burned down; if the stove was on or someone was curling their hair, well, it was only a matter of time.
The door is still shut, the Driver takes that as a good sign and starts to pick the lock. He pushes open the door, head on a swivel as he walks in, checking for animals that might have taken up home in the remains of this house. It seems empty, another good sign. The Driver makes his way through the foyer to the living room and–
SQUEEK
He practically jumps out of his skin at the sound; under his foot is a dog toy. The Driver steadies himself against the wall and tries to lower his heart rate. "Just a toy," he mumbles to himself, voice sore from disuse, "just a toy."
The Driver kicks the toy out of his way and continues to the kitchen. He ignores the fridge--it's been too long without power--and goes straight to the pantry. Inside, there's canned food and not much else. The Driver curses under his breath and starts to check expiration dates. After a bit, he collects what he can salvage and makes his way out, watching his steps as he goes.
Fog stretches out into the distance, it has for months now. The birds don't sing much anymore, dogs don't seem to bark, he's seen 'em, but they're wrong. Somehow.
He takes a few steps out the door before he sees what owned the toy. If there's something the Driver has learned since the fog rolled in it's that few things stay after the people that cared for them leave. To be fair, he didn't stay either.
...
One of the first things the driver scavenged was a can opener; a nice and fancy one from one of those rich supermarkets. That was before the animals got into 'em; sliding glass doors were just too easy to break.
Sometimes he wondered why, where is everyone, and why is he the only one left. Sometimes he doesn't want to know the answer.
At least he has always liked canned beans. At first, it took him a few days to figure out how to cook 'em on a fire; it always seemed so easy in those cowboy movies, but he got there.
He tries not to think about what'll happen when he runs outta' canned food. It'll expire eventually; everything will. The Driver was never one for hunting; his dad always tried to teach 'em, but it never worked out. He was too sensitive. Probably why he drove away when he was old enough, probably why he never stopped.
At least he didn't have to pay for gas anymore.
...
The roads are empty, as always, so he makes pretty good time to the next town. It’s the same thing: empty homes, some ravaged, some not. You see one ghost town; you see them all.
The only thing that has changed is the Driver himself; as if nothing else in this hell was even real. Maybe it wasn't. It would be a lie to say he'd never considered it. But what was there to do? How do you deal with this?
On his final night in the town he finds the dog. It's scruffy with matts in its fur and eyes wild as it spots him. The Driver’s good at running away but nothing could escape that animal. He’s knocked to the gravel driveway and waits for the pain. Instead, it licks his face.
He runs a shaky hand down its back and the beast jumps in excitement, shoving its body into his hand. Its collar is caked with mud and various unexplainable filth but the Driver manages to make out a name, "Fuzzy?" The dog goes wild at its name, jumping up and down licking his hands. "well then," the Driver forces himself to his feet, "you know where any food is?"
…
After salvaging some scissors, the driver sets to cleaning up the dog, slowly revealing behind the mud and overgrown fur a dorkily shaped mutt; it is quite cute.
The fire is warm, it's not raining, and there's another living thing in his eye line; overall a pretty good day for the Driver. He lays down to sleep in the back seat of his car; the dog quickly hops up to join him. He's not one to complain.
He knows it'll be gone by morning.
...
The fog’s getting thicker but the Driver tries to ignore it. Maybe it's just the change of the seasons. He misses the sound of song birds in the Spring.
On the rare occasion when he flicks on the radio he doesn't like thinking of it. It's stranger than the birds, the dogs, than even the fog. It's still playing, why is it still playing? nothing else stayed why this?
How long has he lived like this? Even before? How long has he lived going from town to town, alone with no friend but the radio?
The Driver turns it off. That's enough thinking for tonight.
…
The house looms in front of him, taller than most with a broken front window. The Driver isn't even sure why he wanted to look in this one, but he does.
He wraps his sleeve around his hand, grabs a rock, and smashes the rest of the glass out of the window. The driver carefully climbs in, wincing at the crunch of broken glass under foot.
Unlike his normal targets this one shows the time; dust piled up with dirt and branches. The pantry is long torn open and riffled through; a voice in the back of the Driver's head worries about what animal ate it, that processed stuff isn't good for animals.
He walks up the stairs; they creak with every step. When he reaches the second floor he spots an eagle swooping at him. Its talons scour his face; beak biting at his hair as it flies by. The Driver runs trying to avoid holes in the floor and debris; he shuts himself in the first room he finds.
The Driver tries to take in the situation; there's probably a hole in the roof, that's how it got in and the eagle wouldn't attack him for no reason. There's probably a nest nearby.
Under no circumstance can he go back through the house. He walks to the window; this whole thing has been going on too long. The mystery, the fog. Maybe it's time to give in. Maybe this is how he finally finds out what happened? Where is everyone?
He opens the window and lets the fog take him.