Chapter 3: The Warden of the Wreckage

The fog wouldn't come.

They sat in Andy's pickup truck at the end of the logging road as the sun crawled toward the western peaks, watching the sky with the intensity of meteorologists tracking a hurricane. The air was crisp and clear, without even a hint of the thick, supernatural mist that had swallowed them two months ago.

"Maybe we need to wait longer," Dario suggested, adjusting the settings on his drone controller for the third time. The quadcopter sat on the truck's tailgate like a mechanical insect, its camera gimbal twitching occasionally as he ran diagnostics.

"Or maybe it doesn't work that way," Liam muttered. He kept turning the Polaroid photo over in his hands, studying it for details he might have missed. The ghostly trees, the glowing road lines, those damning tire tracks—all of it felt like evidence of a crime they'd committed against reality itself.

Andy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his patience wearing thin. "We've been sitting here for three hours. The sun's going down, the temperature's dropping. Where's the fog?"

"Weather doesn't work on demand," Liam said, though he felt the same frustration gnawing at him. They'd checked every forecast, analyzed historical weather patterns, even consulted old farmer's almanacs. October in the Cascades should have been prime fog season.

"Fuck this," Andy said suddenly. "I'm not sitting here all night hoping for weather. Let's scout the area, see if we missed anything in daylight."

They drove deeper into the logging road network, following every spur and maintenance track they could find. The forest felt different in the approaching twilight—not threatening exactly, but watchful, as if thousands of hidden eyes were tracking their progress.

That's when they found the junkyard.

It appeared without warning around a sharp bend, a sprawling collection of rusted metal and broken dreams carved out of the wilderness like a wound. Stacked cars rose in precarious towers, their chrome bumpers and shattered headlights catching the last rays of sunlight. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the property, and a hand-painted sign warned: "PRIVATE PROPERTY - NO TRESPASSING - SURVIVORS WILL BE PROSECUTED."

"Charming," Dario said, already reaching for his camera.

"Look at that shit," Andy breathed, pointing at the maze of automotive carnage. "Must be hundreds of cars in there."

But what caught Liam's attention was the small trailer near the entrance, smoke curling from its chimney. As they watched, a man emerged—heavyset, bearded, wearing greasy overalls and a flannel shirt that had seen better decades. He moved with the deliberate slowness of someone who owned every inch of ground he walked on.

The man spotted their truck immediately and began walking toward the gate, a massive German Shepherd materializing at his side. The dog's scarred muzzle and cold yellow eyes suggested it had been bred for purposes other than companionship.

"Turn around," Liam said urgently. "Now."

But it was too late. The man had reached the gate and was opening it, the dog growling low in its throat. Up close, Liam could see the proprietor's face—weathered skin, small dark eyes that held no warmth, and a smile that belonged in a slaughterhouse.

"Help you boys with something?" he called out, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being feared.

Andy rolled down his window, putting on his most disarming grin. "Sorry to bother you, sir. We're just doing some photography up here, documenting the old logging roads. Didn't realize this was private property."

"Photography, huh?" The man stepped closer, and Liam caught a whiff of motor oil, cigarettes, and something else—something organic and unpleasant. "Lot of photographers been coming through lately. Seems like everyone's real interested in these mountains all of a sudden."

"We'll just head back the way we came," Liam said quickly.

"You do that." The man's smile widened, revealing teeth stained brown by years of tobacco. "And boys? Word of advice. These roads get dangerous after dark. Easy to take a wrong turn, end up somewhere you don't belong. Wouldn't want anything to happen to nice young fellas like yourselves."

The threat was unmistakable. Andy's hands tightened on the steering wheel, but he kept his voice level. "Appreciate the warning."

"I'm sure you do." The man stepped back, but his eyes never left their faces. "Safe travels now."

They drove away in tense silence, the man and his dog watching until they disappeared around the bend. Only when they were well out of sight did anyone speak.

"What the fuck was that about?" Andy demanded.

"I don't know," Liam said, but his mind was already working. The timing was too coincidental—a junkyard full of abandoned cars, located just miles from where they'd encountered that impossible parking lot. "Dario, how far are we from where we saw the road?"

Dario consulted his GPS. "Maybe three miles. Four at most."

"That's not random," Liam said. "Think about it. A guy running a salvage operation this deep in the woods, warning us about taking wrong turns after dark. How does he know about—"

"Holy shit," Andy interrupted, hitting the brakes so hard they all pitched forward. "Guys. Look."

He was staring at his side mirror. Through the trees, just visible above the canopy, was the distinctive yellow bulk of a Volkswagen Beetle perched atop one of the junkyard's car towers.

"Tell me that's not the same car," Andy said, his voice tight.

Liam's mouth went dry. He could picture it perfectly—that cheerful yellow Beetle with its painted flowers, nestled between the Cadillac and the Model T in the phantom parking lot. The details were identical, down to the psychedelic daisies adorning its roof.

"We need to be sure," Dario said, already unpacking his drone. "If that's the same car..."

"Then our friendly junkyard owner knows about the road," Liam finished. "Maybe he's been harvesting from it."

The implication hung in the air like a toxic cloud. If the parking lot was real—if all those cars were actually there—then what happened to their drivers?

Dario launched the drone from a concealed position half a mile from the junkyard, sending it high above the treeline before swooping down for a closer look. The camera feed on his controller showed the full scope of the operation—acres of stacked vehicles stretching back into the forest, organized by decade and condition with disturbing efficiency.

"There," Andy said, pointing at the screen. "Yellow Beetle, northeast corner."

The drone descended for a better view, its camera zooming in on the distinctive car. Even through the digital feed, there was no mistaking it—the same flower-power paint job, the same rust patterns around the wheel wells, even the same cracked rear window.

But as they watched, something moved in the frame. A figure emerged from between the stacked cars, moving with purpose toward the yellow Beetle. The junkyard owner, but at this distance he looked different—thinner somehow, more angular. He climbed up the stack of cars with impossible agility, reaching the Beetle in seconds.

"What's he doing?" Dario muttered, adjusting the camera focus.

The man opened the Beetle's driver door and leaned inside, emerging moments later with something in his hands. Keys, Liam realized. He was removing the keys from the ignition.

"Bring it back," Liam said urgently. "Now."

But as Dario reached for the controls, the man looked up directly at the drone. Even from hundreds of feet away, through a digital camera feed, his stare was like ice water in Liam's veins. The man raised one hand and made a gesture—not a wave, but something older, more deliberate.

The drone's feed flickered once, then went to static.

"Lost signal," Dario reported, frantically working the controls. "It's not responding."

"Can you get it back?"

"I don't know. The GPS shows it's still airborne, but..." He paused, staring at the controller's screen. "Wait. It's moving. Coming back to us."

They waited in tense silence as the drone appeared above the treeline, descending toward their position with mechanical precision. It landed exactly where it had launched, powering down automatically.

"That's not possible," Dario said, checking the flight logs. "I didn't program a return-to-home sequence."

Liam examined the drone, looking for damage. Everything appeared normal except for one detail that made his blood run cold. Wrapped around the landing gear was a piece of paper, secured with a rubber band.

With trembling fingers, he unwrapped it and read the message scrawled in pencil:

Some roads are private property. Some cars have owners. Mind your own business, or join the collection.

At the bottom, in different handwriting that looked older, more formal, was a single line: The Warden sends his regards.

"The Warden," Andy repeated. "What the hell does that mean?"

Liam folded the paper carefully, his mind racing. The junkyard owner wasn't just aware of the phantom road—he was connected to it in ways they were only beginning to understand. And he knew they'd been there that night. Had probably been watching them from the moment they'd entered his domain.

"It means we're in deeper than we thought," he said. "And that guy—whoever he really is—he's not just some random salvage operator. He's part of this thing."

The sun was setting now, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. And in the valleys below, wisps of fog were finally beginning to form, creeping between the trees like ghostly fingers.

"Look," Dario said, pointing west. "The fog's coming."

Andy started the engine. "Then let's go find that road."

But as they drove back toward the dead-end logging road, Liam couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into a trap. The Warden—whatever that title meant—had sent them a warning. More than a warning, actually. He'd made them an offer: mind their own business, or become part of his collection.

The problem was, Liam was beginning to suspect they'd already joined the collection the moment they'd driven down that impossible road. They just didn't know it yet.