The stolen car rattled over broken asphalt, its engine groaning like a wounded animal as you, Joe, and Love sped down the abandoned highway. Dust and ash swirled in the air, sticking to your skin and clothes. The world outside was a wasteland: toppled signs, burned-out vehicles, and skeletal trees lining the horizon. But for now, in the cramped metal of the car, you felt a fleeting sense of control — a fragile illusion of normalcy.

Joe drove with a careful intensity, eyes scanning every bend and cracked overpass. Love sat beside him, backpack clutched to her chest, her sharp eyes constantly flicking to the rearview mirror. You crouched in the back, keeping your hands on your knees, listening to the hum of the engine and the occasional howl of wind through the car’s cracked windows.

“We need to find a safe place to refuel,” Joe said, his voice calm but taut. “And somewhere we can rest without drawing attention.”

Love shook her head, lips pressed tight. “There’s no safe place. Anywhere we stop, there’s someone desperate enough to kill for fuel or food.”

Your stomach twisted. She was right — in this world, desperation was a weapon. People didn’t just scavenge anymore; they hunted, scavenged, and stole to survive. And now, with a stolen car, you were a target.

As if on cue, a cloud of dust appeared ahead. Figures moved on the side of the highway, waving frantically. At first, you thought they were signaling for help. But then you noticed the weapons — makeshift clubs, pipes, even a rifle slung over a young man’s shoulder.

Joe’s hand tightened on the wheel. “Hold on,” he muttered. “This could get ugly.”

The car slowed, tires crunching over gravel. The figures waved again, more insistently, their faces desperate and grimy. You caught glimpses of children clinging to their parents, a woman pressing her hand to a small wound. Hunger and fear radiated from them like heat.

Love leaned forward. “Maybe they just need help,” she said quietly. “We can share, even a little.”

Joe shook his head. “One mistake, and they take the car. Or worse.”

Your heart pounded. You knew both of them were right — and wrong. In this world, trust was a gamble, but compassion was one of the few things left that kept you human.

Before a decision could be made, one of the figures stepped into the road, swinging a club. The car skidded, tires screeching, dust and gravel flying. Love cursed and grabbed the dashboard for support. Joe slammed the brakes, heart racing, and the car came to a jittery stop just inches from the figure.

“Give us fuel! Food! Everything you have!” the man shouted. His eyes were wide, wild, and filled with fear. “We won’t die out here!”

You swallowed hard. The three of you exchanged glances, weighing risk against humanity. The group looked as broken and desperate as you felt, just a reflection of what the world had become.

Joe finally spoke. “We can’t give the car. But… maybe we can help them survive without losing ourselves.”

Love nodded slowly. “Some water, some canned food. That’s it. Then we go.”

You stepped out carefully, hands raised to show peace. The wind carried the acrid smell of burnt tires and dust as you handed over the supplies. Children clutched the packages, eyes wide with gratitude. Adults gave tentative nods, cautious relief flickering across their faces.

After a tense few moments, Joe revved the engine. Love slid into the passenger seat, and you climbed in the back. The figures on the road faded into dust and distance, their desperate pleas lingering in your ears.