Storm and darkness is all that's known as the tip of the boat hits the jagged rock of the island. It's cold, and loud, and everything unpleasant. If it weren't for the blinding lightning storm raging over the seas, you'd have trouble telling the line between land and sky.

Shane doesn't load out all the luggage first— just the essentials, for now. Here on this lone rock, you two will have ages by yourself and away from danger to do anything you'd want to.

He wipes rainwater from his face, and points up to a lighthouse on the cliff overhead, it's once bright light now dim, but enough. You suppose that when the virus broke out, everything was just left the way it was, with nobody left to attend to the old machinery.

".. gotta make our way up there, tootsie. 'S gonna have warmth, food, water, and a bedroom in the house next to 't. Everything you coulda ever wan'ed, sugarplum." he encourages, two suitcases held in one hand, the other arm thrown over your shoulder, as the two of you trudge up the muddy path, swirling storms far behind you now.

".. won't be much up there. Maybe a Walker or two— old lighthouse-keepers that woulda turned by now. But that ain't no problem. Smooth crusin' once we get settled in."