"No signal..."
On a desolate highway just outside Pitkin County, central Colorado, V wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced up at the blazing sun.
February or not, the damn thing still burned like hell.
It had been four days since he'd left his nomad clan. Not long ago, Karl and the others had messaged him—they were coming to pick him up and told him to send his location. V had just hit "send" when the comms died.
He had no idea if the signal ever went through.
Do I keep moving and hope we cross paths? Or stay near the coordinates… assuming they even got them?
He hadn't decided yet.
But one thing was certain—he had to deal with the now.
Turning to the side of the road, V stared at the hunk of metal he called transportation: a Thorton Galena "Viper", broken down. Again.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
No mechanics for miles. Just a dead town nearby, abandoned years ago.
"I wonder what Karl's riding… Maybe a Herrera? If it's a modded-out model, they'll need five or six more days to reach me. And until then..."
He checked his jacket pockets. Just one synthetic energy bar.
That was it. If he was going to survive five days out here on that?
He needed to focus on survival.
V was born in the Badlands. Sure, he got kicked out of his clan after a falling out with the chief—and left with nothing—but wilderness survival? That still came second nature.
Food. Water. Vehicle parts. That was the plan.
He pulled a weather-stained tarp from the trunk and tossed it over the Viper. Then he slung his Copperhead assault rifle over his shoulder and headed back toward the ghost town he'd passed earlier.
There might still be salvage. Maybe some ethanol, maybe something to patch the engine.
About an hour later, sweat pouring down his temples, V reached the edge of town.
The place had maybe a dozen single-story buildings—if they could still be called that. He started from the outer ring, sweeping through one wreck after another. On his fourth, he found what looked like an old general store—and inside, jackpot: a box of cereal.
No telling how expired it was, but the smell was fine, and the flakes still looked intact. He stuffed the box into his jacket lining and turned to keep looking when—
Engines.
Low. Approaching.
V paused. Instinct took over.
He quickly removed the cereal from his jacket and placed it back where he found it—no rustling. No noise. Then he crouched low, gripped his Copperhead, and moved to what used to be a storefront window. Now just a jagged hole.
He leaned into it, one shoulder turned, and peered toward the source of the sound.
Not many nomad crews rolled through this area.
But he recognized those rides.
Three vehicles. Rolling in slow. And on their frames—
Maelstrom.
More specifically, a nasty offshoot known as the Wrath Pack.
These guys were infamous even by Maelstrom standards. No unity. No code. The only reason they functioned as a unit was because their leader kept them fed, armed, and feared. And the only reason they'd survived this long in Colorado?
They were damn good at killing.
And in the Badlands, being lethal was enough.
The convoy halted in the center of town. Nine guys disembarked. V watched as they exchanged quick words and fanned out.
Shit.
They were here to scavenge too.
You don't wave at Maelstrom and walk away. Not out here.
And especially not when you're solo.
They moved in three-man squads. One team was heading straight for the building V had just swept.
It wouldn't take them long. Any halfway decent scavenger would notice signs of recent disturbance—and in a place like this, with no new tire tracks?
They'd know someone was still around.
V couldn't let them sound the alarm.
Yeah, these bastards could throw down. But V? He'd just had a real meat dinner at Karl's place a few weeks ago.
He wasn't exactly undernourished.
He slid out the back, keeping low, moving silent like a wraith through the blind spots. He made for the same building the trio was approaching.
As he reached the structure, one of the three was already outside—kneeling by some rubble, looking for salvage.
V crept in.
Close. Quiet.
Then—swift and clean—he locked the Copperhead around the guy's neck, using it like a steel arm.
The ganger struggled. V didn't hesitate.
Crack.
He eased the body down, careful not to let it clatter on the stone.
Expressionless. Calm.
His first kill was at sixteen. Also a Maelstrom.
Now? It didn't even register.
One down.
But the next two? Trickier.
They were inside the house. Tight space. Close proximity.
Take one down, the other reacts. No way around it.
Stealth's done.
"Hey, come look at this. Looks like someone's been digging around in here—"
V was already moving.
He ghosted through the back door.
Before either could speak—
The Copperhead roared.
.
.
.
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