The Streets Of Old Olney

The door that opens from Milliways leads to a gray and dusty landscape across which the fingers of the dawn are just starting to spread. Actually, no. Too poetic. The sun's coming up over one of those landscapes which would probably look a lot better in the dark. This is a land where the trees are sparse, shriveled, and black; where rock and concrete jut up through the ground like the bones of a compound fracture; and where jagged, ragged walls and chunks of rebar huddle together in vaguely squarish piles among heaps of rubble. There's a distinct smell of animal on the air. Many predators live here, or somewhere nearby, anyway. Those accustomed to nights among the densely populated regions of twenty-first century Earth may be taken aback by the fact that there's no skyglow to be seen even where it's still dark. This is a quiet place.

Except for the odd snuffling and hooting noises from deeper within the ruins of the city, anyway. Those carry real good.

"Welcome to Olney," Ellen says quietly. "You're hearing the deathclaws now. I did some scouting earlier. There's a gap in the outer rubble that we can all get through about twenty yards that way, so long as we keep an eye out for anything trying to kill us."