The echoing wail of sirens filled the air as a young man fidgeted nervously in his seat. Warm sweat trickled down his face, and memories flickered through his mind like a broken film reel: the face of a woman, children playing around a fire hydrant, the cold barrel of a gun. Each scene grew darker, more ominous, as he neared his destination.
BANG! The sharp crack of a shotgun blast ripped through the silence.
His body tensed, heart racing with each metallic click of the gun being cocked again.
BANG! BANG! More shots. A woman's distant, heartbroken weeping echoed faintly.
Suddenly, the young man was jerked from his nightmare.
"Hey kid, get up... It's the end of the road," the bus driver's gravelly voice cut through his haze, shaking him gently but firmly.
Still groggy, he blinked and gathered his few belongings—a worn black Mik-e backpack and a small carry-on suitcase.
He shuffled to the front of the bus, finding it empty except for the driver, the last stop in a stretch of nothing but road and faint streetlights.
The driver, a broad man with a deep country drawl, opened the bus doors to the cold night air. "You have a good one, you hear?" he said, his voice rough but kind.
"Yeah… I hope so," the young man replied, stepping into the misty darkness.
The bus doors shut behind him with a soft thud, and the vehicle rumbled away, the gleaming white silhouette of a hound against a red backdrop disappearing into the night.
The bus stop where he stood was a ghost of its former self. What was once a neat shelter was now battered and broken—a jagged hole in the plastic overhang exposed him to the misty drizzle. Rust streaked the bent metal frame, evidence of some long-forgotten accident.
The shelter barely kept the rain off on one side; droplets still drifted inside, dampening the faded wooden bench beneath.
He scanned the surroundings: towering trees wrapped in creeping fog hemmed the road to his right, alive with the nighttime chorus of squirrels rustling and owls hooting in the shadows.
From afar, coyotes' eerie laughter cut across the dark, a haunting melody drifting over the landscape.
To the left, the dense forest gave way to a rocky shoreline, where waves churned and tossed beneath the moonless sky. The salty tang of the sea hung heavy in the air, mingling with the damp chill.
The thickening mist rolled over the road, swallowing everything in a cold, gray blanket. His footsteps disappeared into the fog like whispers lost in the night.
"Yeah… I hope so," he muttered again, a hollow sound swallowed almost immediately by the fog.
He had no desire to be here—no clue why he'd been forced to come to this forsaken town so fast. The dark clouds overhead and swirling mist created the perfect backdrop for a horror movie, and he knew deep down he was about to become its first victim.
Then, barely visible through the haze, a flickering neon sign pulsed under a lone streetlight. Its bright colors danced and faded, casting strange shadows on the wet pavement.
The sign read:
WELCOME TO FORKS, WASHINGTON, USA