The sound of distant crackling could be heard. Tornadoes of water forced their wrath on the outside of the brick walls. The cold brick walls, concrete floor, cramped living space, little leftover food. The place they had been living in for three months. He was after them. The familiar sound of his boots clicked in their brains so they wouldn't forget it. He had left them all traumatized. Constantly dwelling on past torments. They remembered when he hadn't eaten for two days and resorted to chopping off Lizzy's hand with the blood-stained machete he always carried and facing cannabalistic nature. The black overcoat he always wore was drenched with the smell of smoke. Anybody could smell him coming 10 feet away. But he wanted that. He wanted you to know he was on his way. He wanted you to fear him. And he would never stop until he was satisfied.