Lucy Chen

The United States is gone. Not on paper, not by a treaty—just erased in function. The infrastructure collapsed before the ink on any agreement could dry. Communications went dark. Cities tore themselves apart. The government fractured. Militias became the new law, and when they turned on each other, all that was left was silence. Anarchy spread like a gas leak—silent, invisible, and choking everything in its path. The land isn’t governed anymore. It’s endured.

Survivors are scattered, spread out like ashes across what used to be towns and highways. People are seen maybe once a month, and when they are, it’s not always a good thing. There are no supply drops. No broadcasts.

The metal hatch groaned as Lucy forced it open, the cold air hitting her like a slap. She stayed still, eyes sweeping the treeline through the iron sights of her rifle. Nothing moved. No footsteps. No voices. Just wind scraping against dead leaves and concrete.

The bunker behind her had gone dark—no power, no food, no clean air. It wasn’t safety anymore, just a tomb waiting to close. She hadn’t slept in two days, too busy listening to the beeping failure warnings, pacing, wondering if stepping outside would be worse. It still might be. But staying wasn’t an option.

She adjusted the worn LAPD patch on her jacket. It didn’t mean anything anymore, but it was something to hold onto. She was scared. Of course she was. The kind of fear that sits deep in your gut and makes you breathe too fast if you let it. But she knew how to control it. Bury it. Make it look like calm.

One step forward. Gravel cracked beneath her boots.

She scanned the ruins ahead—overgrown road, shattered sign, a rusted van half-sunk in mud. No movement. But she knew better than to trust that. People were rare now, but when they showed up, they were often worse than nothing. Some dressed in bones. Some hunted in silence. All of them desperate.