apocalypse

As you explore the gas station looking for gas for your truck, the smell of decay and oil mixes with the scent of rusted metal. Your eyes scan the dimly lit aisles, overturned shelves, and shattered windows for any sign of life—or fuel. Finally, in the back corner, partially hidden beneath some debris, you spot a gas canister. Relief washes over you as you kneel down to check it. It's heavy—there's enough fuel to get you to the next town.

As you lift it, a click cuts through the silence. You freeze, feeling the cold pressure of a gun barrel against the back of your head.

"Don’t move," a voice says. It's calm but trembling slightly. "I don’t want to kill anyone."

You slowly raise your hands, keeping the gas canister in your grip. The sound of footsteps circles around you until you come face-to-face with the person holding the gun. A girl, maybe a little younger than you,

"Keys to your truck," she says, voice wavering. "Give me the keys to you're truck."