Light rain fell in persistent droplets that pattered against Sydney's hood as she walked alongside Clara down the cracked and debris-strewn road. The precipitation wasn't heavy enough to be called a downpour, but steady enough to be thoroughly annoying—the kind of rain that soaked through clothing gradually, making everything damp and uncomfortable without the dramatic intensity that might have at least been interesting.
The world around them looked appropriately miserable under the overcast sky. Abandoned vehicles lined the roadside in various states of decay—some with doors hanging open where occupants had fled in panic, others burned out and blackened from fires that had raged unchecked during the initial outbreak. Buildings that hadn't collapsed entirely stood like broken teeth against the grey horizon, their windows shattered and their walls covered in the creeping vines and moss that nature used to reclaim human construction.
