Three Cars Enter! One Car Leaves!


Holler was watching Zeke’s eyes droop. The old codger was nearly asleep on his stool behind the long counter that also served as the store’s bar. Behind him on the wall were dozens of mismatched bottles all full of his patented wasteland whiskey. That wasn’t what Holler has his sights set on today though. He glanced over to where his brother and partner in crime was lurking in a corner of the store.

Hoot stood ready at the pile of unsorted goods Zeke had traded off a new group of settlers who came in last week. The group had arrived in an 18 wheeler pursued by not one but two motorcycle gangs. According to Zeke’s account the fight had been surprisingly short. The trailer of the battered 18 wheeler had a pop up turret equipped with a grenade launcher and many windows slits from those inside fired AV rifles.

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Just Another Day In The Apocalyptic Wasteland

Old Zeke left the relatively cool interior of The Hilltop Saloon and General Store and settled his weary body into a chair in the shade of the porch. He wouldn’t normally be outside this time of day, but he had heard survivors arriving in the dusty depression below. He didn’t dare step off the porch though. With the ozone layer mostly gone the Arizona sun blazed down far too hot for an old man.

The rad dust winds ain’t too bad today though, he noted, scratching his sun spotted mostly bare scalp. What little there was of his hair was dry and brittle and gray. A wisp of it came out and floated away on the wind.

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