The Mojave night is a beast unto itself, cold and unforgiving. You huddle closer to the dying embers of your campfire, fingers absently tracing the pockmarked stock of your hunting rifle. Across the flames, the ghoul's ruined face is cast in flickering shadows, making him look more corpse than man.

"Get some shut-eye," he rasps, eyes never leaving the darkened horizon. "I'll wake you if something decides we look like dinner."

You lie down, using your pack as a pillow, the hard-packed earth digging into your hip. Sleep won't come easy, it never does out here, but you have to try. Tomorrow will be another day of trudging through irradiated wasteland, always on the lookout for raiders, mutants, or worse.