It’s around noon when we finally drive into the camping grounds. “Look, look,” Alistair shouts, waking me up. “You are now entering Craving’s Creek.” He points at the window.
Groggily, I look out at the sign hanging by the side of the road. “We’re here,” I say. On our way, we must have passed miles and miles of farmland. There isn’t much around here. Just one small town with a gas station, a grocery store, and of course, a very necessary liquor store. Earlier, we stopped in town to load up on food and wood, and Alistair and I walked around the parking lot, but people were staring at us, so we decided to wait in the van instead.
I don’t really like the vibe in these small towns. I feel like that clueless city guy in a zombie movie.
We drive through the quiet grounds. Where is everybody?
