Surviving the Haunted Path: The Black Fog Strikes

On the thirtieth day after the black fog descended, Shanghu fell, and the last radio broadcast went completely silent.

Ren Piaomiao was fleeing along the highway with a convoy of twenty-three people: three battered cars with nearly empty gas tanks, twenty ordinary people, and three Awakened. In the fog lurked man-eating horrors. Some pounced and tore at their prey; others stood silently in the middle of the road, waiting for you to blink.

The Wind Whisperer could smell life and death in the breeze. The Mage could summon a volley of ice spikes with a raised hand. The Berserker stood at the front, axe in hand. People with secrets of their own were crammed into the same convoy. Some got out along the way; others were left behind forever. Ahead lay a permanent quarantine zone, a place you could enter but never leave. Behind them, the black fog pressed closer, inch by inch.