Night and with it a chill cool as though the air was struggling to hold onto the last vestiges of winter with all their might.
Night, out where Roseville and Sacramento blurred imperceptibly into one. Rail yards loom in the gloom, forcing the roads to twist back on themselves as if they encounter an impenetrable barrier. Housing estates rise to snare the unwary and lead the seeker astray. The freeway that hurtles by, elevated, is its own world: rushing ever forward to destinations far beyond the city. If this part of town is seen at all, it will flash by as a pool of night and the shadowed mass of heavy industry.
This makes getting to the gas works difficult requiring forward planning and dexterity when using the infernal Sat-Nat device.
And there is the gas works, taking up a large and forsaken lot of land between the urbanity of Atkinson Street and the wilderness of dry creek. There is the great drum of the gas works proper, surrounded by a three dimensional warren of platforms, stairwells, pipes and chain-link fences. Machinery lies idle like sleeping titans and a great mechanical mass slumbers over a large pond at the southern end of the complex, whose depths can only be guessed at.
Only a few lights gleam feebly against the dark. It would almost be depressingly lonely, if the gates were not open. And as inviting as the jaws of Cerberus.