The darkness thunders down a vacant street whispering an ominous warning: the nothing is coming, time is up, it's the end.  The youth shake off their fears and steady their trembling hands.  Though the highway is long, persistent, and haunted by those who have lost the fight, they will make a stand, even if they must do it alone.

A strange, almost murky wind slapped against the window, causing the glass to wobble even though it was tightly shut.  George Chesterfield heard it whistling through a tiny crack and though it was loud, it seemed remote, as though it were merely an echo in his own mind.  The sound resonated continuously, annoyingly, but it was her unusual silence causing this strange sensation, not the wind.  Though he could only see the back of her head, he envisioned a smug gaze upon her face. Maybe she knew.                                
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