Alex drove for two hours before he saw smoke.
Not the black, oily smoke of a burning vehicle. This was thinner. Grayer. The kind that came from a campfire.
He pulled over behind a billboard—same strategy as before—and killed the engine.
The map showed no crates nearby. No system markers. Just open road and a single off-ramp leading toward a cluster of trees.
The smoke came from somewhere beyond those trees.
Could be a trap, he thought. Could be nothing.
But his fuel was down to forty-three percent. His food would last two more days. And he was still Level 1.
He needed something. Anything.
He grabbed the tire iron and walked.
---
The trees were sparse—dead things with brittle branches that cracked under his boots. The smoke got thicker as he moved. So did the smell.
Gasoline. Oil. And something burning that wasn't wood.
Alex slowed down. Dropped into a crouch.
Through the last row of trees, he saw it.
A clearing. Maybe fifty yards across. In the center: a vehicle.
Not an RV. Not a car.
A tow truck.
Old. Orange paint faded to rust. The winch cable was snapped, dangling from the front like a broken arm. One tire was flat. The hood was up.
And leaning into the engine bay was a woman.
Red hair. Messy ponytail. Coveralls stained with grease and something darker—maybe blood. She was muttering to herself, words he couldn't make out, while she wrenched on something inside the engine.
A campfire burned a few feet away. A pot hung over it, something bubbling inside.
No weapons in sight. No guards. No crew.
Just her.
Alex stayed behind the tree for a full minute, watching.
She didn't look up. Didn't glance around. Just kept wrenching and muttering.
Either she's alone, Alex thought, or she's the worst guard in history.
He stepped out of the trees.
The woman's head snapped up. Her eyes—green, sharp—locked onto him.
Her hand went to her belt. A wrench. Not a gun. But she held it like she knew how to use it.
"Back off," she said. Her voice was low. Accent—Irish, maybe. "I've got nothing you want."
"I haven't asked for anything," Alex said.
"You're standing in my camp. That's asking."
He stopped about twenty feet away. Kept his hands visible. The tire iron hung at his side—not raised, not hidden.
"Your truck looks like hell," he said.
She snorted. "Thanks. I hadn't noticed."
"The winch cable's snapped. That's not a quick fix."
"No shit."
"And your radiator's leaking." He pointed. "See that green puddle? That's coolant. You've got maybe twenty miles before that engine seizes."
The woman looked at the puddle. Looked at him. Her grip on the wrench loosened slightly.
"You a mechanic?" she asked.
"Delivery driver. But I've changed enough tires and patched enough radiators to know a losing battle when I see one."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed—a short, sharp sound.
"You're an asshole," she said.
"So I've been told."
She tossed the wrench onto the tow truck's hood and crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
Alex considered lying. Considered playing it cool.
But she'd already seen through him once.
"Information," he said. "And maybe a trade. I've got MREs. You've got... whatever's in that pot."
"Soup. Found some canned vegetables in a wrecked semi a few miles back. It's not good, but it's hot."
"Hot beats MREs."
She looked him up and down. Took in the dirty jacket. The tire iron. The exhausted set of his shoulders.
"You're alone," she said. Not a question.
"So are you."
"I'm alone by choice."
"And how's that working out for you?"
She didn't answer.
Alex took a slow step forward. "Look. I'm not here to rob you. If I wanted your stuff, I wouldn't have walked out of the trees with my hands showing."
"Maybe you're stupid."
"Maybe. But I'm not dead yet. Neither are you. That counts for something."
The woman was quiet for a long moment. Then she sighed—a heavy, tired sound—and gestured to the fire.
"Sit down before you fall down. You look like shit."
Alex sat.
---
Her name was Sarah O'Connor.
She told him while she stirred the pot. While he tore open an MRE and added the "beef stew" to her vegetable soup. While the fire crackled and the tow truck ticked and the sun crawled across the gray sky.
"Chicago," she said. "I had a shop. Family business. My dad taught me everything about engines before I could drive."
"You had a shop," Alex said. "Past tense."
"Everyone had a past tense now. You think your delivery route still exists?"
Fair point.
She talked while she worked. Not because she was friendly—Alex got the sense she wasn't friendly with anyone—but because she was alone. And alone made people talk.
She'd been driving for three days. The tow truck was her starting vehicle—C-Class, better than most. But she'd pushed it too hard. The radiator cracked somewhere around mile two hundred. The winch cable snapped when she tried to pull a crate out of a ditch.
"I've been here for a day," she said. "Trying to jury-rig a fix. But I don't have the parts."
"You need a new radiator hose," Alex said.
"And a miracle."
He looked at his inventory.
```
[Inventory: Basic Tool Kit, Fuel Canister x1, MRE x2, Credit: 175]
```
No radiator hose.
But—
"The gas station back there," he said. "The one with the collapsed roof. I passed it this morning. There might be parts in the garage bay."
Sarah looked up. "You'd go back there? For me?"
"For a trade. You fix my RV, I help you get parts. Then we both move on."
She studied him. Those green eyes missing nothing.
"You're not a delivery driver," she said.
"I am."
"Delivery drivers don't think like that. They don't walk into strange camps with their hands out and ask for trades."
Alex met her gaze. "Maybe I'm a fast learner."
She held his eyes for five seconds. Ten.
Then she nodded.
"Alright. But if you try anything stupid, I'll put this wrench through your skull."
"I'd expect nothing less."
---
They drove together.
Sarah rode shotgun in the Winnebago. Her tow truck was too damaged to move—she'd come back for it later, she said, if they found the parts.
She looked around the RV with a mechanic's eye. Noticed every flaw. Every rust spot. Every wire held together with electrical tape.
"This thing is a death trap," she said.
"It runs."
"Barely."
"It got me here."
She snorted. "That's not a compliment to the RV. That's a compliment to your guardian angel."
Alex didn't argue.
The gas station came into view an hour later. The fire he'd started was out—just a black scar on the pavement. The crew was gone. The blue crate was gone.
But the garage bay was still there.
Sarah jumped out before the RV fully stopped. Walked straight to the bay door. Pulled it open.
Inside: tools. Parts. Shelves of supplies.
And a radiator hose.
"Holy shit," she breathed. "It's the right size."
She grabbed it. Checked the fittings. Grinned—a real grin, the first Alex had seen.
"I can fix my truck," she said. "I can actually fix it."
"Good," Alex said. "Now about mine—"
The system pinged.
```
[System: Rare Supply Crate (Blue) detected]
Location: Roof of gas station, 0.0 miles ahead.
Warning: Opening can be interrupted.
```
Alex looked up.
The roof of the gas station was partially collapsed. But in the corner, wedged between a broken AC unit and a pile of debris, something glowed blue.
A crate.
The crew had missed it.
"You seeing this?" Sarah asked. Her eyes were fixed on the same spot.
"Yeah."
"Blue crates don't show up every day."
"No, they don't."
They looked at each other.
"Truce holds until we open it?" she asked.
"Truce holds," Alex said. "Fifty-fifty split."
"Sixty-forty. I found the hose."
"Fifty-fifty or I drive away and you walk back to your truck."
She glared at him. He didn't blink.
"Fine," she spat. "Fifty-fifty. But you're still an asshole."
"Still been told."
---
The climb was tricky. The wall was crumbling. Alex went first, finding footholds in the brick. Sarah followed, muttering Irish curses under her breath.
The crate sat on a bed of debris. Blue light pulsing. Warm to the touch.
Alex crouched beside it.
"Ten seconds," he said. "Watch my back."
"I'm not your bodyguard."
"You're my fifty-fifty partner. Same thing."
She muttered something else—something he didn't catch—but she turned around. Watched the tree line. The road. The empty horizon.
Alex started the timer.
One... two... three...
The crate hummed.
Four... five... six...
"Someone's coming," Sarah said.
Seven... eight...
"Alex."
Nine...
The lock clicked.
Ten.
The crate swung open.
```
[System: Rare Supply Crate (Blue) opened.]
Rewards:
– Radiator Hose (High Quality) x2
– Fuel Canister x3 (+30% fuel)
– Advanced Tool Kit (Workbench upgrade available)
– Credit: 300
– Blueprint: "Armored Window Plating" (Requires Level 15)
```
Alex grabbed everything. Stuffed it into his jacket.
"Go," Sarah said. "Now."
He looked up.
A dust cloud on the road. Vehicles. Multiple.
Coming fast.
They dropped from the roof. Landed hard. Ran for the RV.
The dust cloud got closer.
Sarah jumped into the driver's seat. "Keys?"
"Already in."
She turned the ignition. The engine coughed. Caught.
The first vehicle cleared the dust cloud—a black SUV with tinted windows.
Alex recognized it.
The same SUV from yesterday. The one that had shot at him.
"Drive," he said.
Sarah floored it.
The RV lurched forward. The SUV gave chase.
Behind it, two more vehicles.
Three against one.
Again.