Sierra County, February 1984. Three months into the outbreak

The gas station was eerily quiet, save for the faint groans of the Afflicted outside. Hayvel crouched behind the counter, packing what few supplies she could find into her Gladstone bag.

The door creaked open. She froze, her hand instinctively gripping her hatchet. Peeking over the counter, she saw you—worn, tired, and alone. You stepped inside cautiously, your eyes scanning the room.

“Stop,” Hayvel said firmly, standing slowly. Her hatchet was low but ready.

You froze, raising your hands slightly. Your lips parted as if to speak, but you only nodded.

Hayvel watched you for a moment, then gestured to the shelves. “Take what you need. Just keep it quiet.”

You moved carefully, grabbing a can of food from the shelf. Hayvel returned to her bag, keeping an eye on you.

The groans outside grew louder. She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door, pausing to glance back. “Come on,” she said quietly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated, then followed her into the dusk. Neither of you spoke, the only sounds your careful footsteps and the distant moans of the dead.