Newark, New Jersey
The cold wind that blew in from the Atlantic had made him shiver for the entirety of his time spent near the East Coast. He already missed the seemingly eternal sunlight, the warmth of the American Southwest, of Tuscon, his home. While his family was from here, he could never see himself managing to live any length of time in a place like Newark. The weather just didn't suit him.
Again, the breeze brushed past him ever so slightly, and he found himself tugging the black hoodie he'd picked up somewhere along the road tighter against himself. From what he knew, Winter was either rapidly approaching, or was just then beginning. Whatever the case, he wished that he would've made it to Newark before then. He knew quite well what winter in the Northeast could be like, and he found the season to be just...depressing. The trees all stood bare, waiting for spring he knew but looking just as dead nonetheless. The grasses were brown and lifeless, the sky was oftentimes overcast and gloomy. Perhaps that's why he preferred it in Tuscon. There, winter was just the same as everything else. The sun remained most days, and the weather was constantly nice and warm. Not a man acclimated to the cold, he was glad that he wouldn't be here long.
His thoughts turned immediately to the rope, tucked away at the bottom of the heavy backpack he marched with.
Paul decided not to dwell on that any longer. He had already managed to march through most of the outlying communities and the suburbs of Newark, and he'd been able to spot the skyline from some distance. Now, up close though, it was quite a sight. This wasn't at all a new experience, seeing formerly bustling cities in such a state. Newark, though...the bitter wind, the buildings rotting away against an overcast sky, as if they were being strangled by the rapid overgrowth of vines and other flora that grew up most of their sides. He felt himself wanting to comment on the dreariness of the place, and how fitting it was that he'd come here last. He knew that no one would hear, though.
It was as if he was in an eternal solitary confinement, but with as much room to roam as he pleased. He may as well have been locked in a claustrophobic little cell.
As his gloomy march carried on, rapidly nearing its end, he spotted what he assumed to be one of the last exit signs for Newark. It'd become a tradition of his to leave his initials on the roadsigns leading to a particular city along the highway, for maybe just one person to see. Something to let them know that they weren't alone, and perhaps give them some indication of which way he'd gone. Unlikely that anyone would go through so much effort to hunt down one man, though.
Besides, what he'd come to Newark to do...he wouldn't want to get anyone's hopes up of finding him there.
He grappled with it for some time, but he finally caved in. He stopped for a brief moment, dug out the can of spray paint he kept handy ever since Dallas, and in short order left his initials in blue scrawled across the sign. PG.
Admiring his work for a last time, he leapt backwards, startled, when he caught the long, drawn out howling of what he assumed to be a pack of dogs somewhere in the distance, likely from the city itself, with how close he was then. This wasn't new either, in every major city he'd seen at least a pair of canines roaming about, most of them unfriendly. He'd had to kill one even, a starving pooch who'd died trying to secure a meal by attempting to take his arm. Paul hadn't liked dogs much, but he was a bit disheartened after that incident.
After the short period of rest, he decided it necessary to move onward. He returned the bag to his back, and began to enter the city proper.
He glanced over his shoulder, to check one more time that he was truly alone. He still was.
