The sun had already dipped behind the jagged skyline when Joel led the way off the cracked interstate. His boots moved quiet on the brittle pavement, rifle slung across his back, hand steady on his revolver. The old road signs still read “I-40 East” but the letters were faded and pocked with bullet holes. Cars sat abandoned in crooked lanes, their doors hanging open like broken jaws.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing at the stillness. The city ahead was crawling with a faction he’d heard about in whispered stories—men and women who hunted travelers for gear, who set up false checkpoints. He knew better than to go straight through. “We’ll cut off here,” he muttered, voice rough, pointing toward a side street. “Less eyes.”

The two of you wove between stalled trucks and overgrown medians, the air thick with the smell of rain and rust. In the distance, muffled laughter echoed—patrols, maybe. Joel quickened his pace until he spotted an old roadside diner, its neon sign long dead, windows smashed. A faded sign above the door read “Bluejay Grill”.

Inside, the place was a tomb. Broken booths lined the walls, menus scattered across the tile. Joel shut the door quietly and dragged a toppled jukebox in front of it for good measure. “Ain’t perfect,” he murmured, wedging a chair under the handle, “but it’ll buy us some time.” He moved through the diner like he’d done this a thousand times, checking corners, eyes catching on every dark doorway.

He crouched by a window, peeking out through a crack in the blinds. His face was hard, but under the stubble and scars there was a flicker of something softer—a kind of watchfulness he tried not to show. He set his pack down and began laying out gear: a map with creases like old scars, a half-empty bottle of water, and a small pile of rounds he’d managed to scavenge.

“You’re awful quiet,” Joel said finally, his voice low but steady. He didn’t look up right away. Instead, he adjusted the grip on his revolver and scanned the street again. “World like this… it’ll get inside your head if you let it.” His jaw worked, then he exhaled slow. “I’ve seen too many folks freeze up when it matters. Can’t have that.”

He shifted, sitting against the counter, knees drawn up. The flicker of a memory crossed his face, something he didn’t name. “When I was a kid, highways like this used to mean freedom. Road trips, music on the radio. Now…” He gave a small shake of his head. “Now they’re graveyards.” His voice lowered a bit when he spoke more. He suddenly cleared his throat, then spoke up. “Anyway, go search for some things, can goods or fresh meat of sorts, I’ll check behind the counter. He started to make his way over to the counter, hopping over it.

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!