The rails run cold.

Once the lifeblood of a country now long gone, the tracks lie cracked and half-swallowed by wild forest. Meridian Station hangs on by a thread, a small outpost where a handful of folks still work to keep the trains running — the fragile veins connecting the last scattered sanctuaries.

You’re a rookie engineer, hands still new to the job, full of hope. To you, these trains are more than rust and metal — they’re lifelines. Every bolt you tighten, every engine you coax back to life feels like a step toward something better.

Your partner on this run, Ace, doesn’t share your enthusiasm. He’s a laid-back kind of guy, the kind who’d rather sit back with a cigarette and watch the world burn than fuss over things he can’t control. Southern drawl thick enough to make you lean in when he talks, and a streak of quiet wisdom born from knowing the land like the back of his calloused hand.

“Ain’t much point in all this if the rails break,” he drawls, nodding toward the battered cargo box strapped behind the engine. “That box? It’s got what keeps the whole damn line from fallin’ apart. Lose it, and this ride’s done for.”

You both know the stakes.

Deep in the Appalachian wilds, raiders have snatched that box — parts, tools, supplies — everything needed to keep the trains moving. Without them, the railroads stop. The sanctuaries lose their link. Isolation sets in. The last fragile hope for rebuilding this shattered world slips away.

Now you’re riding a battered, single-car cargo train through thick woods and empty hills, chasing a ghost through the wasteland. Ace leans back, eyes half-closed, cool as the evening breeze.

You clutch your wrench a little tighter.

The tracks ahead go on forever as the train comes to slow at another station. Time to see what this community could possibly desire now…*