Car, that didn't feel like a car.

Shoulder

That couldn't have been a car.

His eyes opened suddenly, and it was indisputable that he hadn't hit another car. He couldn't see out the windshield, it was a mess of partially shattered glass, and almost completely blotted out by what appeared to be blood.

It doesn't bleed.

He was still too afraid to open the door. Looking at the windshield was enough to scramble his thoughts violently. He thought about what he might have hit. Thought about the authorities and what they would do, what he would tell them. No one would believe him if he said he saw a car coming out of the fog. But he knew he saw a car, he was absolutely positive. Then another realization hit him, right in the face.

A person, I might have hit--

He instinctively pounded down brutally on the steering wheel.

"But I saw a car, damn it! There was a car! Heading out of that fog! Straight towards me! And I was on the right side of the road!"

He froze suddenly. That outburst might have attracted attention. He had to get out, and had to do so without thinking twice about it. The door opened, and after a few attempts he stepped out. Using his good arm, he ran his hand through his hair, harder than he'd ever done before. It was then that he noticed that he was trembling, and that he felt sick. One of his legs became weak suddenly and he lost his balance for a second. He began to walk forward, very cautiously, then stopped to think.

If I did hit something--no, I did hit something, where is it? It should be further back, right?

He shook his head as he headed back down the street. Now he felt sick, real sick, nauseous and nervous. And he was trembling hard, trembling like a madman. He knew he wasn't thinking straight, and the thought of it made him feel even sicker. Again he stopped to look around, but saw nothing but the texture of the road through the fog.

Wrong side of the road. Move more cars. Wait! More cars might have seen the accident! My car, how long was I sitting in it?

Thoughts attacked him from all sides. He had to get back to his car. There were more people that lived around here; this was a street. There had to be people behind him when he was driving. But no one had hit him from behind after the crash. They might have seen, and avoided it. No, they would have gotten out to help, that's what people do. He turned back to his car, which he couldn't see through the fog. But he knew that he had been going the opposite direction from it to start with. It was then that something caught his eye through the fog.

He squinted, then started bolting toward it. But he stumbled and fell partway there. He couldn't move his left arm without pain shooting up into his chest. He arose once more, and started to walk, very carefully, the remaining distance. The object had begun to become clearer as he got closer. It was a trash bag. A black trash bag pushed off to the side of the road. Again, it became apparent to him that he was supposed to get back to his car. He looked up from the bag, a house. It had to have been a house, but there were no lights on inside. The boy glanced down at his wrist, but remembered that he had put his watch in his bag. He walked down the sidewalk, and passed a few more houses. All of them were dead; it was the only way to describe them. No lights, no noise, nothing. It couldn't have been late; it wasn't even beginning to get dark yet, He had just gotten out of school.

Still no car, should have left the lights on.

He walked down the sidewalk for a few more minutes, constantly looking back at the houses, and out at the street. He stopped suddenly when he spotted what looked like the stop sign he was looking for from the start. It was in the same location, but it couldn't have been the same sign. It was almost completely deteriorated; the normally white wood that held the sign up was now brown; reddish brown. The sign itself was a mess. The letters were all partly stripped off, and all the red metal seemed to be charred. The edges of the sign were being eaten away by a thick layer of orange rust.  This discovery got him thinking. For one, why hadn't he seen the sign before? And two, why was it so messed up? The sign was just fine the day before.

"More kids, thinking they're really bad, huh?"

He laughed to himself, and walked into the street.

Stupid people, acting like freaking children. What'll they get out of --?

He stopped walking and scanned the area quickly. He knew he heard something, a person maybe? If it was a person they could help him out. Movement, he could hear something walking, scuffling. He looked out across the street, nothing. The intersection, nothing. There was nothing in sight but there was someone out there. More movement, a sharp scraping noise, but not as loud. Whoever it was moving away from him. He cupped his hands around his mouth quickly and yelled in the direction of the noise.

"Somebody out there!"

He waited, and listened for a response. Now there was another scuffling noise, a faster one. Then the scraping noise again. The boy smiled, expecting a response, there was none. Again he yelled out.

"Just keep coming forward!" He forced a laugh. "I dunno, I can't find my way around in this fog!"

Now another very quiet scuffling noise, coming from his right. He looked down the street, but saw absolutely nothing. Another person must have heard him. He started to walk towards the one in front of him, the one that he could hear very clearly now. He still couldn't see anything though, and he was growing impatient. Again he started to walk toward the noise, but stopped and put his hands on his knees when he saw a figure moving towards him through the fog, maybe twenty meters away. The boy's expression quickly turned to one of astonishment. Whatever it was moving towards him, he could see that it was lying on the cement; dragging itself, and something else, forward.