The rusted pickup truck rumbled over the cracked asphalt of the Wastes, kicking up plumes of crimson dust that clung to the vehicle's battered exterior. Kalen gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, as he navigated around potholes and the skeletal remains of abandoned cars. Rico sat in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, scanning for any sign of pursuit. The truck was a salvaged 2035 Ford F-150, its engine sputtering but functional—Rico had "borrowed" it from a Blackstone guard who owed him a debt, and Kalen had spent two hours fixing the faulty alternator with scrap metal and a roll of duct tape.
They'd left the Ninth Safe Zone at dawn, the sky still streaked with shades of deep purple and red. The journey to Three Canyons Outpost would take eight hours, if they avoided radiation storms and mutated wildlife. Rico had packed a small cooler with dried meat, compressed biscuits, and two canteens of clean water—luxuries in the Wastes. He'd also brought a shotgun, which he leaned against the dashboard, and a radio that crackled occasionally with static from distant scavenger caravans.
"How's Miguel holding up?" Kalen asked, breaking the silence. He glanced at Rico, who was twisting a frayed thread on his red scarf—a nervous habit, Kalen had noticed.
Rico sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Zoe says he's stable, but just barely. His fever spiked last night. She's using the last of her anti-radiation meds to keep him alive. If we don't get real antibiotics from Masoud… I don't want to think about it." His voice cracked, and he looked away, staring at the endless expanse of red dust.
Kalen nodded, his chest tightening. He knew what it was like to lose someone you loved. He thought of his mother, of her last words, of the way she'd smiled even as the radiation wolves closed in. He thought of his father, of the way he'd pushed Kalen to safety before the sandworm struck. "We'll get the meds," he said, his voice steady. "I promise."
Rico met his gaze, and Kalen saw a flicker of hope in his eyes. "Thanks, man. I don't know why you're doing this—you don't even know us. But… thanks."
Kalen shrugged. "I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for my mother. For all the people Victor's killed with his fake pills. But if saving Miguel is part of that, then so be it."
The truck fell silent again. They drove for hours, the landscape unchanged—endless red dust, jagged rock formations, and the occasional skeleton of a dead tree. The sun rose higher, casting a blistering heat that seeped through the truck's broken windows. Kalen rolled down his window, letting the hot wind blow through his hair, and breathed in the acrid air. It smelled of iron and decay, but it was familiar—home, in a twisted way.
At midday, they stopped to refuel at an abandoned gas station. The pumps were rusted and useless, but Kalen had siphoned gasoline from a crashed tanker the day before. As he filled the truck's tank, Rico scanned the area with binoculars, his shotgun at the ready.
"See anything?" Kalen asked.
Rico shook his head. "Just dust and rocks. But we should be careful. Three Canyons is a lawless place. Scavengers, raiders, drug runners—everyone goes there to hide from the UG and Blackstone."
Kalen nodded. He'd heard stories about Three Canyons Outpost—a ramshackle collection of tents and metal shacks built into the side of a canyon, where anything could be bought or sold for the right price. It was a place where trust was a liability, and survival depended on quick wits and a faster trigger finger.
They climbed back into the truck and resumed their journey. An hour later, Rico suddenly pointed ahead. "There it is. Three Canyons."
Kalen squinted, and sure enough, he saw it—a cluster of tents and shacks built into the side of a massive canyon, its walls rising hundreds of feet into the air. The outpost was bustling with activity—scavengers loading supplies into trucks, raiders sharpening their weapons, children chasing each other through the dirt streets. Smoke rose from campfires, and the sound of shouting and laughter carried on the wind.
As they approached, two armed scavengers stepped into the road, blocking their path. They were both tall, muscular men, with faces covered in bandanas and eyes that scanned the truck suspiciously.
"State your business," one of them said, his voice gruff. He held a rifle pointed at the truck's windshield.
"We're here to see Masoud," Kalen said, keeping his hands visible. "Marco sent us."
The scavengers exchanged a glance. "Marco's dead," the other one said. "Killed by raiders two weeks ago."
Kalen's heart sank. Marco had been their only connection to Masoud. If he was dead, how would they find him?
Rico leaned forward, his hands raised. "We're here to help Masoud. Victor Kim stole his shipment of antibiotics. We can get it back. We just need to talk to him."
The scavengers hesitated. One of them pulled out a radio and spoke into it, his voice low. After a moment, he nodded. "Follow us. Masoud will decide if he wants to see you."
They pulled aside, and Kalen drove the truck into the outpost. The streets were narrow and crowded, with scavengers staring at them as they passed. Many of them looked hungry, their faces gaunt, their clothes tattered. Kalen saw children begging for food, women selling homemade crafts, and men gambling with bullets and rations. It was a chaotic, dangerous place, but there was a sense of community too—scavengers helping each other fix their trucks, sharing food, laughing together.
The scavengers led them to a large red tent at the center of the outpost. It was bigger than the others, with a flagpole outside flying a tattered Iranian flag. Two more armed scavengers stood guard at the entrance, their hands resting on their guns.
"Go inside," one of the guards said. "Masoud's waiting."
Kalen and Rico climbed out of the truck and walked into the tent. Inside, the air was cool and dim, illuminated by lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Rugs covered the dirt floor, and crates of supplies lined the walls—weapons, food, water, medical supplies. At the center of the tent, a man sat on a pile of blankets, surrounded by his lieutenants. He was in his fifties, with a long gray beard and a scar across his cheek. He wore a traditional Iranian robe, and his eyes were sharp and intelligent, like a man who'd seen too much.
This was Masoud Karimi.
"Marco sent you?" Masoud asked, his voice thick with an Iranian accent. He didn't stand, but his eyes never left Kalen and Rico.
"Marco's dead," Kalen said. "But he told us about you. About the shipment Victor stole. We can get it back. In return, we need your help. We need to know who's supplying Victor with the chemicals for his fake meds. And we need to find the North Star Outpost."
Masoud's eyebrows raised. "The North Star Outpost? You're Elara Voss's son, aren't you? She was a good woman. A hero. She saved my wife's life during the Catastrophe."
Kalen nodded, surprised. "You knew my mother?"
"I worked with her," Masoud said. "We were both medics. She told me about the outpost—about the untainted antibiotics, about the vaccine she was working on. The UG wanted to destroy it, but she hid it. She said it was humanity's last hope."
Tears pricked Kalen's eyes. He'd never met anyone who'd known his mother besides Marco. To hear someone speak of her with such respect, such admiration, was overwhelming.
"Why do you want to find it?" Masoud asked.
"To finish what she started," Kalen said. "To distribute the meds to the people who need them. To stop Victor and the UG from profiting off people's suffering."
Masoud nodded, his face serious. "Victor stole fifty kilos of medical-grade antibiotics from me. I was going to sell them to scavenger caravans, to people like Miguel—people who can't afford the UG's prices. He took them, mixed them with sawdust, and sold them for ten times the price. My son died because of him. He needed those antibiotics for his radiation sickness. Victor's fake pills killed him."
Anger flashed in Masoud's eyes, and his lieutenants shifted uncomfortably. Kalen could see the grief and rage in his face, and he knew they had a common enemy.
"I'll help you," Masoud said. "But first, we get my shipment back. Victor's storing it in Warehouse 12, in the Outer District. It's guarded by Blackstone officers. We'll raid it tonight. Once I have my meds, I'll tell you everything you need to know about Victor's supply chain. And I'll give you a map to the North Star Outpost. I was there once, with your mother. I know how to find it."
Kalen smiled. "Deal."
Masoud stood, extending his hand. "Then let's plan."
For the next three hours, they mapped out the raid. Masoud's lieutenants provided detailed information about Warehouse 12—its layout, the number of guards, their patrol routes. Kalen shared his knowledge of Blackstone's tactics, having observed them during his patrols. Rico suggested using distraction tactics to draw the guards away, then sneaking in through the back entrance.
As they planned, Kalen couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie. For the first time in years, he wasn't alone. He had allies—Rico, Masoud, Marco (even in death), Jake. He had a purpose.
At dusk, they loaded their weapons and climbed into the truck. Masoud sent five of his best men to accompany them, all armed with rifles and grenades. The drive back to the Ninth Safe Zone was silent, but there was a sense of anticipation in the air. They were going to take down Victor's operation, one warehouse at a time.
As they approached the Safe Zone, Kalen saw the familiar glow of its lights in the distance. He thought of Jake's sister, of Miguel, of all the people dying from Victor's fake pills. He thought of his mother, of her dream of healing the world.
Tonight, they were one step closer to making that dream a reality.