Two friends, backpacking across the Western Ghats, arrived by the early morning train at a small-town station. It was a day like none other. As the train curved through another of the moss-covered tunnels and emerged into the first rays of sunlight, they were embraced by a soft blanket of mist. It ran beside them, through the woods, and across the cabin, through the open window, like a mischievous ghost on wheels, making them laugh.
But when they disembarked, they were no longer laughing. No longer human. Much like the zombie-town that lay before them. In ruins under the mist.
Phil Slattery, Writer, Publisher 