Walton stopped his hoverbike at the town’s train station. “Faircross Station” was painted above the entrance in large white letters.

  Once, this station had been the most esteemed building in town—a welcoming haven for travelers arriving on the great hyper-trains. This changed once the Stuzak came from deep space and put the planet in under lockdown

  Now, the structure was falling into decay, and the tracks were slowly being swallowed by sand.

  He stepped off his hoverbike, retrieved his wide-brimmed hat from the storage compartment, and headed inside. Dust scattered beneath his boots as he passed through the front archway. The building was empty, just as Walton had expected. The benches that once held passengers eagerly awaiting their trains were now nothing more than firewood.

  The service drone that had once tirelessly handed out travel passes remained silent in Walton’s presence. It still stood behind its desk, slouched forward as if patiently waiting for its next workday. But it would never come—Walton noticed that several parts had been crudely removed from its exposed back.

  Walton reminded himself that he had business to attend to in this town as he made his way toward the station’s exit.

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  Outside, he was greeted again by the ever present scorching sun and unrelenting heat. He squinted as he looked out over the town spread before him.

  It was much like any other settlement in the region—a single dirt street lined with a few buildings on either side. To his right stood a small spaceport which, like the train station, hadn’t seen much traffic since the planet had been placed under lockdown. The buildings, some constructed from wood and others patched together with sheets of steel, were worn and weathered.

  A decaying town. A rotting corpse unaware it had died years ago.

  After taking in the view, Walton crossed the dirt road and made his way toward the sheriff’s office.

  Walton stepped onto the wooden porch of the sheriff’s office. Next to the door, he noticed a noticeboard covered with old, withered wanted posters—their faces barely recognizable. Below them hung several missing-person posters, better preserved and much more recent, and beneath those, a single sheet bearing the headline: “Deputies Needed.”He knocked on the front door, but there was no response. Peering through the window beside it, he saw that the office was as desolate as the rest of the town. A few papers were scattered across the sheriff’s desk. A lone terminal sat dormant, and the prisoner cells were empty.

  Walton turned away and removed his hat, wiping the sweat from his forehead. From across the street came the faint sound of music drifting from the saloon’s open doorway. He paused, listening. Then, placing his hat back on, he headed toward the saloon—to find out whether the music was a sign of life or merely a ghostly echo of the past.