They’re dead. With their glassy eyes and pained expressions they stand resolutely around, a consensus of decay. There had been more, once upon a time, but shit happens: breathers shot a few, a few had burned after stumbling into fire, a few just fucked off to wherever and never came back.
This is just the ones in town.
Outside of town there might be more, and there might not. It doesn’t really matter. Nothing outside of town has any meaning to them. Though, honestly, it isn’t like there’s much inside of town they give much of a shit about either.