You, on a street, in Army-surplus hazmat suit surfing decades of decay, leaving Armstrong-deep footprints in the fallout. Brick-thick scaffolds of vine with pale orange lipstick flowers border broken shop windows, long ago looted by now dead men. You sashay in and out of rusted vehicles. The bodywork is so thin you can punch holes in it, but that game tires when a family of scabrous rats with neon tails explode onto the street from a taxi. One stops, eyes you momentarily; stranger in a stranger land. You bang the side of the door again. The echo of impact rolls ahead of you, a sharp industrial yawp oscillating back and forth from the eyeless sockets of crumbling buildings. You follow the echo to the…