Nogales

Before the Fires, I never really liked Nogales. It's not that it wasn't nice (although, in my opinion, most of the most noticeable areas are awful), but it was too clumped together, too much disorder), but nothing would prepare me from how Nogales seemed right now.

The road itself was blocked by piles and piles of scrap and concrete barriers, all covered with rusted, pointed protrusions, large enough to penetrate the engine of a fast-movin car. There were military cars, black from the smoke of previous fires, and all of them devoid of diesel or gas. There were skeletons, some were picked cleanly of their meat, possible by vultures, others showed signs of fire. The silence was thick enough to cut it with a knife, and the landscape looked horribly torn apart.

I was running out of diesel, and I certainly knew that I was gonna be fresh meat from the moment someone saw the jeep. It pained me to do it, but I ditched the jeep with the generator. I removed the radio as best I could. I took some water and rations, as well as my two remaining guns (my beretta and my Xiuhcoatl rifle), I donned the modified armor and started advancing.

My dogs were silent, but they were sniffing around, and listening. I swear the place was as quiet as a tomb, but all of a sudden I could hear a few dozen gunshots being fired not far from where we were. I hid quickly and my dogs followed suit, and we could hear the rumbling of a car and a few people yelling as they shot back at others who were chasing them. I waited for a while and kept on walking...