Hollowed-out skyscrapers loom over streets choked with debris and abandoned cars. You can hear the groaning of metal and the distant crackle of uncontrolled fires. A leaning crane at the center looks like it could fall at any moment.

A heavy steel blast door marks the entrance to this underground sanctuary. The air is thick with the smell of damp concrete and old canned food. A flickering fluorescent light hums incessantly over the entrance terminal.

The docks are a tangle of rusted cranes and half-sunken ships. The smell of salt air is mixed with leaking oil and rot. A large freighter, the 'Sea Ghost', sits tilted against the main pier, its hull screeching against the wood.

A makeshift village of tents and shacks built under the concrete shelter of the highway. Smoke rises from trash-can fires while lookouts watch the road with scavenged binoculars. A row of spiked barricades blocks the northern ramp.

The hospital smells of antiseptic and death. Broken glass crunches underfoot in the darkened hallways where gurneys lie overturned. A single emergency generator still thumps rhythmically in the basement, keeping a few lights alive.

Vines have shattered the glass skylights, turning the food court into a literal jungle. Scavengers pick through the remains of department stores while birds nest in the mannequins. A stagnant fountain in the center is now a mossy pond.

A skeletal metal spire that pierces the low clouds. The wind whistles through the girders like a dying animal. The small control shack at the base is surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

A deep, ancient well located in a hidden courtyard behind a church. It is one of the few sources of clean water left in the district. The stone walls of the courtyard are covered in desperate, painted prayers.