No man's land is located in Devil's Acre and are rows of shops. No man's land is a setting in Library of Souls.
Description[]
The street is lined with neat little shops, and the shops had signs and display windows and apartments on the upper floors. There is not a caved roof or a broken pane of glass in sight. Their clothes weren’t rags and their faces were clean. Maybe everything here wasn’t new and sparkling, but the weathered surfaces and patched paint gave it all a handmade, worn-around-the-edges look that was quaint, even charming. Lorraine’s place had no window and no sign, just a blank door with a silver bell on a pull chain. A dim parlor flickers with oil lamps. It is a sleazy place with delusions of grandeur: the walls were trimmed with gold scrollwork and velvet drapes, the domed ceiling was painted with tanned and tunicked Greek gods, and marble columns framed the entrance to the hall. A curtained wall reveals a wide panel of sturdy glass and leads to another room similar to the dimly lit parlor but smaller, and people were lazing about on chairs and sofas, some reading while others napped. All the people are prisoners with chains. A a tube connected umbilically to the wall below it is used to communicate with the prisoners on the other end of the glass. Lorraine’s office was a desk and chair crammed into a walk in closet.
The street signs, are concealed in the most inconvenient places— behind public benches at knee height, dangling from the tops of lampposts, inscribed into worn cobblestones underfoot—but even with their help, we took as many wrong turns as right. It seemed the Acre had been designed to drive those trapped inside it mad. There were streets that ended at blank walls only to begin again elsewhere, streets that curved so sharply they spiraled back on themselves, and two or three streets with no name. Doleful Street boasted two undertakers, a medium, a carpenter who worked exclusively with “repurposed coffinwood,” a troupe of professional funeral-wailers who did weekend duty as a barbershop quartet, and a tax accountant. Oozing Street is described as "oddly cheerful", with flower boxes hanging from windowsills and houses painted bright colors; even the slaughterhouse that anchored it was an inviting robin’s-egg blue. Periwinkle Street, on the other hand, is a cesspit. There's an open sewer running down its center, a thriving population of aggressive flies, and sidewalks that overflowed with putrefying vegetables.