You are in a field. The door is open to a rickety toolshed. A tall chain-link fence with barbed wire at the top stands to the south.
- You look inside the toolshed, which is not large enough to fully extend one's arms out. It smells as though someone has lived in here, and you speculate they were hiding, terrified (without leaving for days). There doesn't seem to be enough room to sit properly—perhaps they stood? Eventually thirst and hunger outgrew the terror (a state that can't be maintained indefinitely anyways) and off they went, somewhere else.
Or someone used the toolshed as an outhouse. (You notice a black guck on the floor, buzzing with fat flies.) Either way, they appeared to have taken the tools, such as a hammer or any featureless blunt object with which to hit things. The toolshed is without tools, and doesn't seem large enough to have ever held anything else.
Inventory:
- You carry only a bent knife and a smashed radio. It has been a long ride. Your blue jeans are shredded; the T-shirt, stretched 2 sizes larger, is more red than white, and your shoes are unaccounted for. You wear a crumpled paper party hat.
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