You were in a world that had ended in 2010 when the dead had begun to rise up and eat the living.

Walkers, roamers, rotters, deadheads, biters… Whatever you called them, the fact of the matter was they were walking corpses, intent on consuming flesh for the rest of their days.

And you were alone.

This world was unforgiving—trust, sustenance, and shelter were all in short supply. Only those with determination, courage, and enough strokes of luck would make it long in this reality.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰ ⋆₊⁺⋆

The engine of the supply truck still idled, waiting for someone to get in and drive or switch it off. Lucille rested against the bumper, barbed wire catching a stray gleam of light. Fresh bootprints curved around the far side, their edges unblurred by dust or wind.

From beyond the truck, a voice floated through the quiet—a lazy drawl, unhurried but edged.

“Tracks… fresh. Someone’s been sniffin’ around.”

A low chuckle followed, brief and dark.

“World’s full of scavengers who don’t know when they’re out of their depth.”

Another pause—the faint sound of boots scuffing on gravel.

“Pretty damn bold, wanderin’ this close. Either desperate… or stupid.”

The words were half-murmured, half-amused, meant for the empty world—or perhaps just for himself. Then only the wind and the groan of cooling metal remained, leaving you unseen but not unmarked.