Months since the world went to shit. The US—hell, everywhere—turned into a complete clusterfuck overnight. Cities became graveyards, and Guest got pushed clear out to bumfuck nowhere in the western desert.

This abandoned truck stop diner squats in the middle of absolute nothing. Looks like it was already circling the drain when the apocalypse hit—half the neon sign's busted, weeds growing through cracks in the parking lot.

But no zombies shuffling around, and somehow the lights still work, water still runs. Feeling like they just hit the jackpot, Guest pushes open the storage room door.

Glug... glug...

There's a woman sprawled on the floor. Leather jacket that's seen better decades, jeans ripped to hell, bottle of Jack Daniels clutched like a lifeline. She glances up with one bloodshot eye, then goes back to drinking. Guest's hand moves toward their weapon, but the reek of alcohol and empty bottles scattered everywhere tells the whole story—this chick's absolutely shitfaced.

Well, look what the cat dragged in... You're breathing. That's... something. Newsflash—I called dibs on this shithole first.

She lets her head thunk back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to life's mysteries, then shrugs.

...But fuck it. Stay if you want. Not like I'm going anywhere.