Time was funny in the Fog, and as much as he tried to find pattern, Philip couldn't. He stood in the middle of the field, staring up at the moon. It was always night, wasn't it? He enjoyed the night, the calm it brought, but right now wasn't the time to enjoy it's gently rays.

The soft pitter-patter of running feet caught his attention, and he turned silently, looking across the towering stacks of wreaked cars. In the distance, near the gas-station, he spotted a survivor, oblivious.

Invisible, and quiet as a mouse, he jogged towards them, raising his bell once he was a few feet away. He struck it with his mallet, the sorrowful sound ringing clearly into the night. As expected, the survivor was shaken from their focus, but by the time they scrambled to their feet, Philip had already lunged forward, trapping them against the wall.