The pickup rattled east on what was left of I-70, weaving between rusted hulks of cars frozen in their final traffic jam. The road is filled with Dust and sand, occasionally deers and coyotes could be seen on some dense areas. There was no sign of ferals as well as remaining civillians.
Sand dusted the shoulders; the sky was a hard, bright winter blue. Natasha drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift close to Sam's knee. Neither spoke much the first hour — just the hum of tires and the occasional crackle of the radio scanning for Wanda's signal. The slow music was playing on the stereo, feeling like the dystopian scenario as it turned out to be.
The pickup was a omni. The seats on behind was filled with food supplies and essential things, laptops, wardrobes and guns.
Sam was looking through the window, his mind is flattered around the journey, meeting with Wanda and the small sweet exchange between him and Natasha. The pickup ate up miles under a pale winter sun, the highway a cracked ribbon stretching through empty plains.
Natasha drove steadily, eyes scanning the horizon, while Sam rode with the Glock in his lap and the map spread across his knees.
For a long while they were quiet, just the engine, the music and the wind. Then Sam spoke.
"Natasha, I had a doubt for some time."
Natasha turned toward him, "Shoot!"
"Do you think she's really Wanda? It's been… what, one year long since anyone... As well as you heard from the Avengers side? Is she really there?"
Natasha's hand tightened on the wheel.
"I've thought about that," she admitted. "Could be a trap. Someone using old recordings, or worse — one of those enhanced ferals mimicking voices. We didn't know about them till now, but we already know they can think like a normal people. I don't know how this NV ferals can do...", she was silent for next couple of minutes. Then she said again, "But I want to believe. I heard the same Sokovian accent slipping through when she said my name.. it's Her. We have to confirm it now. "
Sam supported her, "Its better to have a place to go than to run amok."
"Yes. But, we have to be ready for any possible situation. It could go wrong in any minute."
Sam nodded slowly. "So we go in careful."
"Always," she said. "Weapons hot, truck ready for fast exit. If it's her, we can stay. If it's not… we burn it down and keep moving."
He leaned back, watching the sand dance across the windshield.
"Eight months is a long time to be alone," he said quietly. "I only managed four before I started talking to myself."
Natasha glanced at him, eyes softening. "I talked to the radio. Every night. Pretended someone was listening. I started feeling alone. Sometimes I just thought to myself, why not join the Ferals, it's easier to be in a group again."
Sam smiled, noticing her face turned at him. "But Someone was. I found you through the radio. Wanda heard you."
"Yeah." Her voice was soft. "Guess I wasn't as crazy as I thought."
A pause. Comfortable.
Sam fiddled with the heater knob. "Do you think… when we find more people… it'll ever feel normal again? Like, barbecues and bad movies and stupid arguments about whose turn it is to do dishes? Can we be same again?"
Natasha laughed — a real, low laugh that warmed the cab more than the heater.
"God, I hope so. I miss arguing about stupid things." She shot him a sideways look. "Though I was always right, so the arguments didn't last long."
Sam grinned.
"You dont believe me. That's wrong."
Another stretch of quiet. Then Sam, a little shy:
"I used to watch those old Avengers press conferences on YouTube when I was alone. You always looked… bored."
Natasha groaned dramatically. "Because I was. Standing there in matching outfits while Tony cracked jokes and Steve talked about freedom. I just wanted to get back to the field."
Sam chuckled. "You looked like you were plotting everyone's assassination."
"Only on weekends."
He laughed outright. She smiled at the sound.
"You know," he said after a bit, "I never thought I'd be riding with Black Widow. Talking about barbecues. And also... Becoming my first kiss."
Natasha reached over, gave his knee a quick squeeze.
"Life's adventure now. Get used to it."
Sam looked at her.
"Yeah," he said softly. "But this kind of adventure? I can live with that."
She smiled again.
The miles rolled on, the conversation easy and light — two people who'd seen the worst the world could offer, choosing to talk about the small, hopeful things instead.
For the first time in a long time, the road didn't feel quite so empty.
Late afternoon, the fuel gauge dipped low. Natasha pulled off at a lonely gas station beside the road— the pump was still standing, mart windows shattered, snow drifting across the lot. What a view.
They waited on the omni for some time. "No movement," she said. "You fill up. I'll check for supplies."
Sam nodded, he started siphoning from an underground tank with the hand pump while Natasha slipped into the mart, MP5 raised.
Inside was pure carnage: three dead ferals sprawled across the aisles, skulls caved in by what looked like a tire iron still clutched in a desiccated hand on the floor. Nearby, a fourth body — human, female, half-eaten. Probably the clerk or a traveler who'd sought shelter.
Who killed the ferals? The dead woman couldn't have — she'd been killed before. Someone else had been here. Recently. But who? Wanda? Natasha stopped thinking. Let's start the salvage.
She grabbed the useful items — batteries, a few cans of soda, painkillers, a half bottle of vodka — and returned to the truck.
Sam was already done. He saw Natasha pick up an empty gas can and start pouring. "What happened inside?" Sam asked. Natasha said, "Nothing. Three dead ferals and a half eaten corpse. We need to burn them."
"Burn them?" Sam asked, as he went towards the station and eyeing the bodies through the broken glass.
"Yeah. Can't leave infected remains."
They doused the corpses with the last of their siphoned gas and lit them. Flames roared up, black smoke curling into the cold sky.
Natasha slid back into the driver's seat, tossing the scavenged supplies — batteries, soda, painkillers, vodka — into the back seat. She stared through the windshield at the burning bodies for a moment, the flames reflecting in her green eyes.
Sam watched her, as he also slid to passengers seat.
"Three ferals.." she said finally, starting the engine. "Dead. Skulls caved in. Someone used a blunt weapon, must be a baseball bat or tired iron."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Could it be Wanda? Maybe she passed through?"
Natasha shook her head firmly, pulling back onto the highway.
"No chance. If it had been Wanda, those ferals wouldn't have skulls left to cave in. She'd have turned them inside out with a thought — red mist, no mess, no weapon needed. This was close-up, brutal, hands-on work. Someone else."
Sam nodded slowly. "So… another survivor?"
"Looks like it." Natasha glanced at him with a half-smile. "And a damn good one. Three ferals, close quarters, no gunfire. That's not luck — that's skill."
Sam gave a question look. "You think this guy's friendly?"
Natasha shrugged. "Friendly, territorial, or just passing through. Hard to say. But she.. or they left the supplies, didn't loot the place clean. That's… decent."
"Or were in a hurry," Sam offered.
"Or that." She smirked. "Don't worry, Peters. If they're out there killing ferals that efficiently, I'd rather have them on our side than against us."
Sam was nonchalant. "It will be a good thing."
Natasha laughed — but there was a tension on her.
"Something like that. Though We have to be careful. They might be scavangers, who will be deadly towards us."
They both stopped after that.
For a few miles, the thought of another competent survivor out there didn't feel like a threat, or maybe a threat.
It felt like possibility.
Dusk fell early. They found a truck-stop motel — long row of rooms, big rig parking lot empty. Water still ran from the tanks on the roof. As like always, the motel was empty, no survivors.
They took adjacent rooms. Natasha leaned in Sam's doorway, smirking.
"You sure you don't want to share again? I promise I won't bite… unless you're into that."
Sam flushed. "I… uh… I'll be fine. Good night."
She laughed softly. "Sweet dreams, Peters."
They slept separately — doors locked, weapons close.
Next morning they pushed on. Sharing a little chit-chat, but mostly the music of the truck flown through the journey. By midday they reached a small abandoned town — boarded shops, cars frozen mid-evacuation, silence thick as snow.
"Eyes open," Natasha said, slowing to a crawl. "Engine noise draws them."
She drove through the town slowly, keeping the engine noise minimum. Sam was close, sitting with a gun in his lap, waiting for any possible situation.
The noise is minimum, but still, in an abandoned area, the shimmered noise feels loud.
It drew them anyway.
Doors banged open. Windows shattered. Ferals poured from buildings — thirty, forty — shrieking as they sprinted across the street.
"Fuck, this is a dumb idea!" Natasha floored it. The truck roared forward, ran at speed.
Sam leaned out the passenger window, Glock barking. Two ferals dropped, tumbling under the wheels.
"Keep them off the sides!" Natasha shouted.
More leapt onto the truck bed. One smashed the driver window, clawing through the drivers seat. Natasha smashed it through the driver's seat. Another jumped on the rear window.
Sam twisted, fired twice — center mass, then head.
Another feral — fast and agile, athlete maybe — sprinted alongside and lunged. Claws hooked Sam's jacket, yanking him half out the window.
"Sam!"
He fired point-blank, but the thing's momentum carried them both to the asphalt.
The truck screeched to a halt.
Natasha was out in a heartbeat, MP5 chattering. Other ferals started jumping on him, some tried to run towards Natasha. She started firing, Bodies jerked and fell as she advanced, clearing a path to Sam.
The dropped bodies created panic among the other ferals, as they started retreating from Sam. Natasha ran towards him, she saw Sam lay motionless in the snow, blood seeping from claw marks across his chest and arm, jacket shredded.
"No—no—no—"
She dropped to her knees beside him, checked pulse — steady but fast. He was Unconscious, not dead.
The ferals were waiting from the buildings. Still tried to make a move.
Natasha hauled him up — adrenaline making him feel weightless — and half-carried, half-dragged him to the truck on one hand, on other hand she carried the MP5, still locking at the buildings, look out for possible movement. She dumped him in the passenger seat, slammed the door, and jumped behind the wheel.
The engine roared. She peeled out, running down two ferals that got too close. Others started follow the car.
Blood soaked Sam's shirt. She ripped open the med kit one-handed, pressing gauze to the worst gashes while steering with her knee.
"Hang on, Sam. Stay with me."
She grabbed the radio handset.
"Scarlet, this is Widow. We're coming in hot. One injured — claws, possible infection. Need medical ready. Respond."
Static.
She tried again. Nothing.
The sun bled out across the horizon as she pushed the truck to its limit, snow flying from the tires. Eventually she left the town, left behind the running ferals too.
Hours blurred. Sam drifted in and out of fevered consciousness, murmuring something — unable to hear anything.
Finally, near midnight, the landscape changed — rolling hills, remnants of old Sokovian-style architecture half-buried in snow.
Natasha crested a rise and saw it: a grand old manor on a hill, windows glowing faintly red from within. Scarlet energy shimmered around the estate like a dome.
She aimed the truck straight for the gates.
As they approached, a figure stepped into the headlights — slender, dark hair whipping in the wind, red jacket, hands glowing with chaos magic ready to strike.
The figure froze.
Natasha hit the brakes, truck sliding to a stop in the snow.
The woman on the drive lowered her hands slowly, eyes wide with disbelief and tears.
It was Wanda.
Real. Alive. And staring at the blood-soaked truck like she couldn't believe what — or who — it carried.