A sharp, biting wind whipped into the cab the moment Michael rolled the window down halfway, causing him to jerk back with an involuntary shiver. The thin fabric of his short-sleeved shirt was useless against the sudden chill that seeped into his bones. Rubbing his arms vigorously, he muttered under his breath, "Well, that's bracing." He strained his eyes, peering into the oppressive darkness that stretched in every direction, a vast, ink-black void swallowing the feeble light from the vehicle's headlights. It was utterly hopeless. No stars, no moon, no distinguishable landmarks—just an abyss. The conclusion was inescapable: pressing on blindly through such profound blackness was a fool's errand, likely to leave them even more disoriented and farther from home by dawn. The only sane choice was to stop and wait for daylight.
This decision, however, brought its own set of troubles. Squeezing into the cramped vehicles for the night was a minor inconvenience compared to the cold. Autumn had firmly gripped the Great Barrens. While the days could still bake the earth, the nights held a deep, penetrating chill that promised to plunge toward freezing in the dead of night. Once the engines were off, the metal shells of their trucks would offer little protection against the relentless wind sweeping across the plains. For a group that had anticipated a quick return trip and dressed accordingly, the prospect was grim.
Their only hope was to find shelter from the wind. After another ten minutes of cautious driving, a lone hillock, a mere bump on the flat expanse reaching perhaps twenty or thirty meters high, materialized on the right. Its leeward side offered a potential reprieve from the worst of the gale. When John's voice crackled over the radio, suggesting they camp there, Michael agreed without hesitation.
As the convoy settled in the hill's shadow, Michael made a mental note to always keep a blanket or a heavy coat in the vehicle from now on. He was just stifling a yawn when John's voice returned, this time laced with excitement. "Sir! Behind that thicket of sand briars—there's an opening. Looks man-made. Could be a shelter!"
The announcement sent a jolt of anticipation through the entire group. Discovering a hidden shelter was a quintessential dream for any Wastelander. It whispered of treasures from the time Before—precious, manufactured goods that could be used or traded. Of course, this assumed the place hadn't been picked clean by generations of scavengers. If it had, they'd be lucky to find a usable scrap, leaving even a desperate sand rat disappointed.
A quick reconnaissance team was formed, led by John. They approached the entrance cautiously, using machetes to clear away the thorny sand briars, which had grown to monstrous sizes since the Collapse, their spines now tipped with a nasty, numbing toxin. Michael and the others remained in the idling vehicles, a prudent precaution. Shelters, while promising, could also be death traps—perfect nesting grounds for mutated creatures that thrived in confined, dark spaces. He watched the flashlight beams, fixed to the barrels of their rifles, disappear into the black opening, ready to either charge in or speed away.
The wait was short. Soon, John's voice returned, thick with disappointment. "Bad news first, sir. This place has been visited by scavengers. A lot of them. It's stripped cleaner than a rad-roach carcass. The good news? We've got a roof, of sorts, and enough space to light a fire and lie down."
…
The shelter was tiny, a crude underground bunker carved into the hill, less than a hundred square meters in total. A relic of the late war era, built by some pre-Collapse survivalist who had tried to hedge against the impending nuclear winter with stockpiles and a water purifier. As John had reported, the interior was a scene of utter desolation, littered with the debris of repeated ransacking.
Two skeletal remains, small and likely female, had been unceremoniously tossed into a corner. Empty shelves lay overturned on the concrete floor. The place held a particular sadness; amidst the wreckage were the splintered remains of musical instruments—a guitar, a violin, a saxophone—smashed beyond repair. The original owner had probably been a musician, a vocation with little practical value in the harsh new world. The only seemingly intact item was a leather suitcase, covered in dust and boot prints, which everyone had ignored, assuming it was as worthless as everything else.
With practiced efficiency, John's men built a fire using wood from the broken shelves and the shattered guitar. The flames pushed back the cold and cast dancing shadows on the bare walls, offering a semblance of comfort. After posting guards at the entrance, most of the crew, exhausted, collapsed onto the dirty floor and fell into an immediate, heavy sleep.
But Michael found he couldn't. The grim environment and the fate of the shelter's former inhabitants kept him awake. Driven by a restless curiosity, he dragged the discarded suitcase over. Its lock had been brutally forced long ago. He lifted the lid, not expecting to find anything of value.
Inside, carefully wrapped in clear plastic, were several CDs. Next to them lay three U disks, their casings adorned with faded cartoon characters. And at the very bottom, nestled in a small velvet pouch, was a collection of platinum jewelry—rings, a necklace, earrings—ten pieces in all, set with diamonds of various sizes.
Michael's knowledge of gemology was virtually nonexistent; he'd never had the means or reason to learn. But even he could recognize that this hoard, back in his world, represented a small fortune. He understood instantly why it had been left behind. In the economy of the Wasteland, where survival was the only currency, these glittering stones were useless. They couldn't quench thirst, fill a stomach, or stop a bullet. They were dead weight. In a place like the old Cinder Town, where the pinnacle of technology was a tape-deck recorder, the CDs were equally obsolete. Platinum wasn't gold, and diamonds were just pretty rocks.
For the locals, it was trash. But for Michael, it was the exact opposite. This was the kind of treasure he had been hoping to find since he first arrived in this desolate world.