The overpass appeared out of the gray morning like a concrete skeleton.
Tall pillars. Rusted rebar sticking out like broken bones. And on top, the crumbling remains of what used to be a bridge.
The white crate glowed at the base of the eastern pillar.
Alex saw it before Sarah killed the engine. Small. Wooden. The kind of crate that spawned in batches of twenty.
Not valuable. But valuable enough.
"There," he said, pointing.
Sarah nodded. "I see it."
"One survivor?"
She checked her map. "One dot. Stationary. Could be waiting. Could be hiding."
"Could be dead," Jade said from the back.
She'd reassembled her rifle—broken barrel, cracked scope, but still capable of firing. She held it across her lap like a security blanket.
Alex didn't blame her.
"Same play as before," he said. "I approach. Sarah, you watch the RV. Jade..."
"I'll be on the roof. If someone shoots at you, they get a bent barrel to the face."
"That's not a promise I feel good about."
"It's the only promise I'm making."
Alex grabbed his tire iron and stepped out.
---
The air was cold. Damp. The kind of cold that seeped through jackets and settled in bones.
Alex walked slow. Not sneaking—he wanted to be seen. A quiet approach got you shot in the back. A visible approach at least gave the other person a chance to think.
If they're thinking, he reminded himself, they're not shooting.
The white crate sat twenty feet from the pillar.
And leaning against the pillar, wrapped in a blanket, was a kid.
Alex stopped.
The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen. Thin. Dark circles under his eyes. His clothes were too big—hand-me-downs or scavenged, Alex couldn't tell.
He held a kitchen knife in one hand. His grip was wrong. Too tight. Too high.
Never held a weapon before the Transfer, Alex thought.
The kid saw him. His eyes went wide.
"Stay back," he said. His voice cracked. "I have a knife."
"I see that."
"I know how to use it."
"You hold it like someone who's watched a lot of movies."
The kid's jaw tightened. "Stay. Back."
Alex stopped. Put his tire iron on the ground. Raised his empty hands.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said.
"That's what they all say."
"How many people have said it?"
The kid didn't answer.
Alex took a slow step forward. The kid's knife hand trembled.
"I'm Alex," he said. "What's your name?"
"Why do you care?"
"Because I'm standing in front of you instead of taking the crate. That should tell you something."
The kid looked at the crate. Looked at Alex. Looked at the RV in the distance.
"You're not alone," he said.
"No. I have a crew."
"Crew." The word came out bitter. "Everyone has a crew. Until they don't."
Alex heard something in that sentence. Something personal.
"You had a crew," he said.
The kid's eyes flickered. "Had."
"What happened?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Fair." Alex pointed at the crate. "That's a white crate. Common. Worth maybe fifty credits. Not nothing, but not worth dying over."
"I'm not dying."
"You're holding a knife wrong, alone, under an overpass, staring down a stranger. That's a lot of ways to die."
The kid's lip curled. "You're not going to kill me."
"No," Alex said. "I'm not."
"Why not?"
Alex thought about it. About the first night. About the Asphalt Creeper tapping on his window. About how close he'd come to being the kid under the overpass.
"Because someone helped me," he said. "And because being alone on this road is a death sentence."
The kid stared at him. The knife lowered. Just an inch.
"You're weird," he said.
"So I've been told."
---
His name was Danny. Sixteen. From Ohio. A junior in high school when the Transfer happened.
He'd been driving for four days. Alone for three of them.
"My dad was with me at first," he said. He was sitting on the ground now, blanket around his shoulders. The knife was on the ground beside him—not dropped, but not held. "He got sick. Day two. Some kind of fever."
"There's no medicine on this road," Alex said.
"There's no anything. I watched him..." Danny stopped. Swallowed. "I watched him die."
Alex didn't say I'm sorry. Didn't say it gets better. He just sat there, letting the kid talk.
"The crate showed up this morning. I thought... if I could get it, maybe there'd be medicine inside. Food. Something."
"White crates don't have medicine."
"I know that now." Danny looked at the crate. "I know a lot of things now."
Alex stood up. Walked to the crate. Crouched beside it.
"Ten seconds," he said. "You want to do the honors?"
Danny blinked. "What?"
"Open it. It's your crate."
"I can't fight you for it."
"You're not fighting me. I'm giving it to you."
Danny stared. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Why?"
"Because you're sixteen. Because your dad died. Because I'm not a monster." Alex gestured to the crate. "Now open it before someone else shows up."
Danny crawled to the crate. Touched the lock.
```
[System: Common Supply Crate (White)]
Open? (10 seconds)
```
His hands shook. But he held on.
Ten seconds.
The crate opened.
```
[System: Crate opened.]
Rewards:
– MRE x2
– Water Bottle x3
– Basic First Aid Kit
– Credit: 50
```
Danny stared at the contents. His eyes got wet.
"First aid kit," he whispered.
"Told you white crates don't have medicine."
"This isn't medicine. This is..." He picked up the kit. Held it like it was made of gold. "Bandages. Antiseptic. Tape."
"That's medicine, kid. Just not the kind that cures fevers."
Danny laughed. It was a broken sound. But it was a laugh.
---
Sarah appeared at Alex's shoulder. He hadn't heard her approach.
"Problem?" she asked.
"No problem."
She looked at Danny. At the open crate. At the knife on the ground.
"You're recruiting again," she said.
"He's alone."
"He's a kid."
"Who's survived four days on this road. That's more than a lot of adults."
Sarah sighed. Ran a hand through her red hair. "Alex, we can't save everyone."
"I'm not saving him. I'm giving him a choice."
She looked at Danny. The kid looked back. Scared. Hopeful. Exhausted.
"Fine," she said. "But he sleeps in the back. And if he touches my tools, he walks."
Danny nodded quickly. "I won't touch anything. I promise."
"You're going to have to earn trust," Alex said. "Same as everyone else."
"I can do that."
"Can you fight?"
Danny looked at his knife. "I can learn."
Jade appeared on the roof of the RV. Her broken rifle aimed at nothing in particular.
"New guy?" she called down.
"New guy," Alex said.
"He's a baby."
"He's sixteen."
"Same thing."
Danny looked up at her. Swallowed. "Is she always like that?"
"Yes," Alex and Sarah said together.
---
They loaded Danny's supplies into the RV. The kid had almost nothing—a backpack, a sleeping bag, and a photograph of his dad.
Alex saw the photo. A man in a fishing hat, holding up a bass. Danny, younger, grinning next to him.
"Good memory," Alex said.
"The only one I have left."
Alex thought about the journal. The photograph of the previous owner's crew.
Everyone's carrying something, he thought. Everyone's lost someone.
He helped Danny into the RV. Showed him the back bunk. The storage compartment. The rules.
"Don't touch Sarah's tools. Don't touch Jade's rifle. Don't touch my journal."
"Got it."
"And if you see something wrong—monsters, other survivors, anything—you shout. No heroics."
Danny nodded. Sat on the bunk. Looked around.
"It's not much," Alex said.
"It's more than I had."
---
Sarah started the engine.
"Where to?" she asked.
Alex pulled up his map.
No crates. No markers. Just road.
"East," he said. "Might as well see what's out there."
"East it is."
The RV rolled forward. The overpass disappeared behind them.
Jade sat in the corner, cleaning her rifle. Sarah drove. Danny curled up in the back bunk, first aid kit clutched to his chest.
Alex sat in the passenger seat. Watched the road.
Four people now, he thought. A mechanic. A sniper. A kid. And me.
Not a crew yet. But getting there.
He pulled out the journal. Looked at the photograph again.
Three people. One RV.
They started somewhere too, he thought.
And maybe—if we're lucky—we'll find out where they ended up.