GREENFALL | A Zombie Apocalypse RPG

Texas, U.S. | 6:49 PM | 11/04/26

Two months.

Two months since Greenfall began, and the situation continues to deteriorate.

Whatever optimism remained during the first few weeks has long since evaporated. The emergency broadcasts have stopped. The official government radio frequencies, once filled with repetitive instructions and hollow reassurances, have fallen silent. No explanations. No new directives. No promises that help is on the way.

Just static.

At first, people assumed the interruptions were temporary. Damaged transmitters, overloaded communication networks, power failures. There were reasonable explanations for everything, and people clung to them desperately. But as the days passed without a single meaningful broadcast, even the most optimistic survivors began to question whether anyone was still listening.

Then the rumors started.

Some claim the federal government has abandoned entire regions, pulling personnel and resources into fortified installations while leaving the remaining population to fend for themselves. Others insist a treatment has been discovered, that researchers have finally identified a weakness in the infection and that a cure is being developed somewhere behind military walls.

There are stories of evacuation ships, secret underground facilities, and entire cities supposedly surviving behind impenetrable defenses. There are also stories of government officials fleeing the country, military commanders turning against one another, and nuclear weapons being prepared for targets nobody wants to name.

Nobody can agree on what's true.

And then there's the rumor that refuses to go away.

That this is the end of the world.

Two months ago, the idea would have sounded ridiculous. Now, with entire cities lost, millions of people missing or dead, and the infected spreading through places once considered secure, it no longer sounds particularly far-fetched.

Perhaps the world isn't ending.

Perhaps it's simply becoming something else.

Either way, the silence has made everything worse.

Without reliable information, fear fills the gaps. Communities fracture over conflicting reports. Survivors turn on one another over rumors of contaminated supplies or supposed government collaborators. Every passing military convoy sparks speculation, and every distant explosion inspires a new round of whispered theories.

People have stopped waiting for someone to explain what's happening.

They're beginning to understand that whatever comes next, they'll probably have to face it alone.

---

Across the United States, the military has established an increasingly rigid network of checkpoints, fortified positions, and restricted-access corridors. Major highways and state borders are among the most heavily guarded locations, with infantry units stationed at strategic intersections to control movement, inspect travelers, and prevent infected individuals from entering secured territories.

Texas is one of the most heavily militarized states in the country.

Its strategic importance, expansive territory, and substantial stockpiles of weapons, fuel, and industrial equipment have made it a critical stronghold. Military installations have expanded their operations, personnel have been redirected toward major transportation routes, and entire stretches of highway have been converted into controlled military corridors.

The reasoning is straightforward enough.

Texas has resources worth protecting.

And whatever remains of the country's organized military cannot afford to lose them.

But the checkpoints aren't just there to keep the infected out. They also regulate the movement of civilians, restrict access to critical supplies, and prevent uncontrolled groups from entering secured areas. Every traveler is a potential survivor, a potential threat, or a potential carrier of the infection.

The soldiers aren't encouraged to assume the best.

Beyond the checkpoints, the highways tell a story of their own.

Abandoned cars stretch for miles, their doors hanging open and their windows shattered. Some have been stripped of anything remotely useful, leaving only rusting frames and broken plastic scattered across the asphalt. Others remain untouched, their owners having disappeared without leaving so much as a trace.

Occasionally, a vehicle sits crookedly across multiple lanes, its hood crumpled against the back of another car. Farther down the road, overturned trucks and abandoned buses create makeshift barricades that force travelers to navigate around them on foot.

For anyone without a functioning vehicle, walking has become the only realistic option.

But traveling on foot comes with its own set of problems.

During the day, the heat can be punishing, particularly along exposed stretches of highway where there is little shade and even less access to clean water. The sun beats down on the asphalt, turning the air above it into a wavering haze. Thirst, exhaustion, and heatstroke are constant threats to anyone attempting to cover long distances.

Yet dawn and dusk bring their own dangers.

The infected are unpredictable. Some remain motionless for hours before reacting to the slightest disturbance. Others wander along roads and through abandoned settlements, drawn toward sounds, movement, and the occasional unlucky traveler. The darkness makes them harder to identify, and the quiet of the countryside offers little warning when something begins moving through the brush.

Most survivors have learned to avoid traveling at night whenever possible.

Those who don't usually have a reason.

Desperation. A lack of supplies. A destination they cannot afford to reach too late.

Or something following close enough behind them that stopping is no longer an option.

---

The Texas state checkpoint comes into view beneath the fading evening sky.

It is difficult to mistake for anything other than a military installation.

Rows of concrete barriers divide the highway into narrow lanes, funneling approaching travelers toward a series of reinforced inspection gates. Portable floodlights stand atop tall metal poles, their powerful beams sweeping across the abandoned vehicles and broken pavement before settling on anyone approaching the perimeter.

Beyond the barriers, military trucks sit parked in staggered formations. Armored personnel carriers occupy positions near the main access road, their dark silhouettes looming against the dusty horizon. Portable fencing stretches along either side of the highway, reinforced with coils of razor wire and additional barriers wherever the terrain allows.

There are signs posted at regular intervals, their lettering stark beneath the artificial light.

AUTHORIZED ENTRY ONLY.

STOP FOR INSPECTION.

UNAUTHORIZED APPROACH WILL BE TREATED AS A HOSTILE ACT.

The checkpoint is busy, but not in the way a border crossing once would have been. There are no long lines of families chatting beside their cars, no impatient drivers checking their watches, no children pressing their faces against windows.

Instead, a handful of exhausted travelers stand beneath the lights, their belongings gathered at their feet. Some carry backpacks and duffel bags. Others have nothing more than the clothes on their backs. Their faces are drawn, their skin dirty, and their eyes constantly shifting toward the soldiers stationed around them.

Every so often, someone is pulled aside for additional questioning.

Sometimes they return to the line.

Sometimes they disappear behind a row of military vehicles.

Nobody asks where they went.

The floodlights sweep across the highway again.

For a moment, the beam catches the scattered belongings of a traveler who has apparently been turned away. A torn backpack lies abandoned beside the road, its contents spilling onto the asphalt. A few yards away, a dark stain stretches across the concrete beneath a set of tire tracks.

No one seems particularly interested in explaining either sight.

---

As you approach the checkpoint, the atmosphere changes.

The soldiers stationed along the outer perimeter have been watching the road for some time. Their postures are rigid, their rifles secured against their armor, and their attention shifts toward you almost immediately.

One infantryman straightens beside the barricade.

Another turns his head, speaking briefly into the radio mounted near his shoulder. Whatever response he receives is too quiet to make out.

The floodlights swing toward you.

For a moment, you're caught in the full intensity of their glare. The light washes out the surrounding landscape, leaving little visible beyond the concrete barriers and the silhouettes of armed personnel. Dust hangs in the air, illuminated like drifting ash.

An electronic buzzer sounds.

The reinforced gate slides open with a heavy mechanical whine, granting access to the outer inspection lane.

Several armored infantrymen stand farther inside, spaced strategically around the checkpoint. Their equipment is noticeably different from that of ordinary law enforcement: tactical helmets, layered body armor, heavy gloves, and dark protective face coverings designed to shield them from exposure.

One wears a rigid plastic face shield over a dark tactical mask, obscuring nearly every recognizable feature. Another keeps his rifle angled toward the ground, one gloved hand resting close to the weapon's grip.

None of them appear particularly interested in making conversation.

The soldier at the front steps toward you.

His boots strike the pavement with a firm, measured rhythm. He stops a short distance away, standing squarely beneath the floodlights. The plastic covering over his face reflects the harsh white glare, making it impossible to read his expression.

For a few seconds, he simply looks you over.

His gaze moves across your clothing, your belongings, and whatever visible signs of exhaustion or injury you might be carrying. There is no obvious hostility in his posture, but there is no warmth, either.

Whatever patience he might once have possessed seems to have been worn away by weeks of inspections, frightened civilians, and the constant possibility that someone might carry the infection through his gate.

He doesn't offer a greeting.

He doesn't explain the procedure.

He simply raises a small handheld device, ready to record your information.

"Name and age?"

His voice is muffled by the layers of protective equipment, flat and impersonal. It sounds less like a question asked out of curiosity and more like the beginning of a routine that has been repeated hundreds of times.

Behind him, another soldier watches silently, his rifle hanging against his chest.

The gate remains open.

The floodlights remain fixed on you.

Pennsylvania, U.S. | 2:14 PM | 12/04/26

Three months.

It's cold. It's chaotic. And it fucking stinks.

December has arrived, bringing with it the kind of bitter cold that seeps through layers of clothing and settles deep into your bones. The sky hangs low and gray, heavy with clouds that threaten snow without ever quite delivering it. Mud, slush, and frozen patches of filth cover the ground, churned into a miserable mixture beneath thousands of passing boots. Every breath comes out in a pale cloud, and every gust of wind finds its way through the gaps in jackets, gloves, and makeshift winter gear.

And the smell.

God, the smell.

Smoke from burning wood and scavenged furniture hangs in the air, mixing with the stench of unwashed bodies, damp clothing, rotting food, and overflowing waste pits. Somewhere nearby, something has been left to decay beneath a tarp. The odor is strong enough to make people's eyes water, but hardly anyone spares it a second glance. After three months of Greenfall, there are worse things to worry about than a little nausea.

This is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year.

Christmas is less than three weeks away.

In another life, the streets would be glowing with colorful lights. Shop windows would be decorated with artificial snow and elaborate displays, Christmas music would spill out of department stores, and people would be rushing around with shopping bags, complaining about the cold while searching for the perfect gifts.

Here, almost nobody seems to remember that Christmas is coming.

A few sellers have made an effort. A battered plastic wreath hangs crookedly above a stall selling canned food. Someone has strung a handful of mismatched lights across the entrance to a tent, though none of them appear to work. A small, dusty Christmas tree stands in the corner of a general goods stall, its branches decorated with scraps of colored fabric and a few pieces of aluminum foil fashioned into makeshift ornaments.

Most vendors haven't bothered.

There's no point decorating a stall if you might lose it tomorrow. No point hanging lights when electricity is a luxury. And no point celebrating a holiday when half the people you knew three months ago are dead, missing, or somewhere you can no longer reach.

Still, the occasional decoration remains.

Small, almost pathetic reminders of a world that once made room for things other than survival.

---

Pennsylvania has become home to the largest surviving trade hub in the country.

Nobody agrees on exactly when it became the center of the remaining civilian economy. Some say it happened when the major eastern cities began collapsing and survivors fled inland. Others insist it was the military's decision to concentrate supplies and transportation routes in a region that could still be defended. There are even rumors that several influential trading organizations deliberately drew people here, recognizing that whoever controlled the exchange of essential goods would eventually control far more than money.

Whatever the truth, the result is the same.

People come here from everywhere.

Travelers arrive from the South carrying ammunition, fuel, and salvaged equipment. Traders from the Great Lakes bring machinery, metal components, and whatever grain they've managed to preserve. Others arrive with electronics, medical supplies, clothing, tools, or information gathered from settlements hundreds of miles away.

Some have traveled for weeks to reach this place.

Others have walked through infected territory, crossed abandoned highways, and abandoned everything they couldn't carry simply for the chance to trade what remains of their possessions for food and medicine.

The trade hub has grown around a combination of military oversight, private security, and the collective desperation of thousands of people who have realized that isolation is no longer a sustainable way to live.

It's not exactly a city. Not anymore.

It's a sprawling collection of makeshift stalls, converted warehouses, guarded compounds, temporary shelters, and repurposed commercial buildings. Tents crowd the edges of old parking lots, while wooden platforms and sheets of corrugated metal have been assembled into crude storefronts. Shipping containers serve as storage facilities. Abandoned vehicles have been pushed together to form barriers, and entire stretches of industrial property have been transformed into trading grounds.

The original buildings still stand, but their former purposes have largely disappeared beneath layers of scavenged materials and improvised construction.

Old department stores now house warehouses. Parking garages serve as protected storage and sleeping quarters. Former loading docks have become gathering points for traders arriving with heavily guarded shipments.

And everywhere, there are people.

Thousands of them.

---

Something has changed over the past couple of weeks.

For the first time since Greenfall began, the constant outward expansion of the crisis seems to have slowed in certain regions. The infected remain a persistent threat, and entire communities continue to disappear, but the relentless wave of new disaster reports has become less frequent.

Perhaps the country has reached a threshold.

Perhaps the surviving military forces have finally established enough control to prevent the worst outbreaks from spreading unchecked.

Or perhaps the infected are simply becoming less noticeable as the world learns to live around them.

Nobody knows for certain.

What people do know is that the infected are no longer the only thing they have to worry about.

Human groups have begun to grow.

Small bands of survivors that once consisted of little more than a few desperate families have expanded into organized communities. Some have established fortified settlements with their own rules, leadership, and systems of trade. Others have developed into armed organizations that control roads, buildings, and access to essential resources.

Former neighborhood watch groups have become private security forces. Military deserters have gathered followers. Criminal organizations have expanded their operations into territories abandoned by local authorities, while religious movements and ideological groups have begun attracting people desperate for answers.

Some genuinely want to rebuild.

Others have realized that the collapse of the old world presents opportunities that would have been impossible before Greenfall.

The infected are still dangerous. But a human being with a rifle, a group of armed friends, and a reason to take what you have can be considerably more difficult to predict.

And here, in Pennsylvania, almost everyone has something worth taking.

---

The market is loud enough to rival the streets of pre-Greenfall Manhattan.

Vendors shout over one another from behind makeshift counters, desperately advertising their inventories to passing customers. Hand-painted signs sway above the stalls, their lettering uneven and occasionally misspelled. Some advertise individual items, while others offer entire categories of goods, from preserved food and medical supplies to ammunition, electronics, and weapons.

The signs are rarely pretty.

They don't need to be.

One board advertises canned beans at an increasingly ridiculous price. Another promises working batteries, though the seller has added a handwritten disclaimer warning customers that their remaining charge cannot be guaranteed. A third advertises antibiotics, painkillers, and surgical supplies behind a sheet of reinforced plastic, with two armed guards stationed beside the entrance.

Nearby, a man stands on an overturned crate, loudly proclaiming that he has information about an abandoned military depot somewhere along the interstate. Nobody seems entirely convinced by his story, but several people have stopped to listen.

That's another thing the market trades in.

Information.

Rumors about military movements. Reports of infected sightings. Supposed evacuation routes. Names of settlements still accepting newcomers. Warnings about dangerous stretches of highway, corrupt checkpoint commanders, and groups that have developed a habit of robbing travelers after offering them shelter.

Some information is worth little more than a meal.

Other information can determine whether someone lives long enough to see another week.

The soundscape is relentless.

The clatter of metal tools against wooden counters. The crunch of boots through frozen mud. The occasional bark of laughter. The sharp crack of a vendor slamming a fist against a table when a customer tries to haggle too aggressively.

"Three cans for that? Are you fucking serious?"

"Then go somewhere else!"

"Somewhere else doesn't have shit!"

"Sounds like a personal problem!"

Arguments are commonplace. Most end with insults, a slammed counter, or someone storming off to find a better deal. Others attract the attention of nearby guards, who intervene before a disagreement over canned food turns into a gunfight.

Not every dispute ends peacefully.

Every so often, the crowd parts around a confrontation. A customer accuses a vendor of selling contaminated medicine. A trader claims someone has tampered with their inventory. A desperate father attempts to steal a package of food before being dragged away by two armed men.

People watch.

People whisper.

Then the market continues.

There is too much business to conduct and too little time to waste on someone else's problems.

---

The people moving through the market are just as varied as the goods being sold.

Some wear ordinary winter clothing, patched and layered to protect against the cold. Others have assembled makeshift armor from motorcycle gear, construction equipment, reinforced jackets, and scavenged protective plates. Holstered pistols are common. Knives are practically universal. Rifles hang from shoulders, rest against counters, and sit across the backs of people who look barely old enough to carry them.

Some of those weapons are old hunting rifles.

Others are military-grade firearms, maintained with an almost obsessive care.

The heavily armed civilians are impossible to miss. Their equipment identifies them as members of established survivor groups, private security organizations, or trading outfits that have accumulated enough wealth to protect their interests. Some wear matching armbands or painted insignias. Others display colored strips of fabric, patches, or small identifying symbols that tell the right people exactly who they are.

Nobody particularly wants to start trouble with them.

The U.S. infantry is present as well.

Soldiers move through the market in pairs and small patrols, wearing layered tactical gear suited to the freezing weather. Their rifles are often larger than the weapons carried by the civilians around them, and their equipment is noticeably better maintained than that of the average traveler.

Some patrols look exhausted. Others maintain a rigid, almost intimidating discipline, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd for signs of trouble.

They aren't everywhere, and they certainly don't control everything.

The market is simply too large, too crowded, and too economically important to be managed like an ordinary military installation.

Instead, the infantry concentrates its presence around critical areas: supply depots, major entrances, ammunition exchanges, medical facilities, and the routes used by incoming shipments. Soldiers intervene when violence threatens to disrupt operations, investigate serious security incidents, and occasionally conduct inspections of vendors suspected of trading restricted goods.

But plenty slips past them.

Bribes change hands. Stolen supplies reappear under different labels. Vendors maintain hidden inventories for customers who know the right phrases. Entire transactions happen in whispers behind closed doors, far beyond the reach of ordinary inspections.

The military provides a measure of security.

It doesn't guarantee fairness.

---

Here, nearly everything has a price.

Food can be traded for ammunition. Ammunition can be traded for medicine. Medicine can buy protection, transportation, or access to a settlement that would otherwise turn a stranger away at the gate.

Fuel is valuable enough to start a fight over. Functional electronics command extraordinary prices. Antibiotics are guarded like treasure, and a reliable source of clean water can make someone influential overnight.

Even seemingly worthless objects have found their place in the new economy. Batteries, spare clothing, working lighters, hand tools, filters, and intact footwear are all desirable commodities. A box of screws might be more valuable to a mechanic than a handful of cash. A working radio might be worth more to a settlement leader than an entire crate of canned food.

Bartering has become an art.

And like every art, it rewards experience.

An experienced trader knows when a vendor is desperate to sell, when a price has been inflated for an unfamiliar customer, and when a seemingly ordinary item is being offered far below its actual value. They know which stalls are reliable, which merchants can be trusted to honor an agreement, and which smiling faces belong to people who will happily rob them the moment they turn their backs.

Because not everyone plays fair.

Counterfeit supplies circulate alongside genuine goods. Medicine is diluted, ammunition is misrepresented, and food is occasionally sold despite obvious signs of spoilage. Some merchants exaggerate the origins of their inventory. Others conceal defects until a customer has already paid.

There are the people who don't bother pretending to conduct legitimate business.

Some stalls operate independently.

Others pay for the privilege.

And a few belong to people who would rather burn the entire place down than let a competitor gain the upper hand.

---

Despite everything, the market continues to function.

People arrive hungry and leave with food. Mechanics find replacement parts. Settlements replenish their supplies. Travelers exchange information about the roads ahead, and desperate survivors search for work that might earn them enough to survive another week.

For a few hours, surrounded by the noise and movement of thousands of people, it's possible to forget just how much of the country has disappeared.

Almost.

A gust of cold wind sweeps through the market, rattling loose sheets of metal and sending a handful of discarded papers skittering across the muddy ground. Somewhere overhead, a faded banner bearing a crude Christmas design flaps against its supporting pole.

No music plays.

No festive lights illuminate the stalls.

Nobody seems particularly interested in celebrating.

Instead, a vendor argues over the price of a box of ammunition. A pair of infantrymen walk past a stall selling canned vegetables. A woman counts her remaining supplies beneath the cover of a tarp, while a heavily armed stranger watches the crowd from beside a stack of wooden crates.

Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot cracks through the afternoon.

The market barely reacts.

Someone glances toward the sound. A few conversations pause for a moment before resuming. One vendor raises his voice to attract another customer's attention, apparently deciding that whatever happened isn't worth interrupting business over.

Three months ago, a gunshot might have sent an entire street running for cover.

Now, it barely interrupts a transaction.

Welcome to Pennsylvania.

Whatever you're looking for, there's a good chance someone here has it.

The only question is what it'll cost you.

Florida, U.S. | 5:55 PM | 01/04/27

The new year didn't bring much of a new beginning.

In fact, most people barely noticed it had arrived.

There were no celebrations worth mentioning, no crowds gathering beneath illuminated skylines, no champagne bottles popping at midnight, and certainly no grand promises of a better year ahead. In the few settlements that still maintained some semblance of normality, the occasion might have earned a passing remark or a halfhearted toast. But for most survivors, January first was just another day spent worrying about food, shelter, ammunition, and whether they'd live long enough to see the next one.

Some people had stopped keeping track of the dates altogether.

Calendars were hardly a priority when the electricity barely worked, the radio stations had gone silent, and the world beyond your doorstep had become a place where the familiar rules of civilization no longer applied. Days blurred together. Weeks disappeared into an endless routine of scavenging, traveling, and trying to stay alive.

The calendar kept moving.

The world didn't seem to care.

---

Florida, however, has its own way of making survival miserable.

Even in January, the air remains uncomfortably warm, carrying a thick humidity that clings to your skin and settles into your clothes. The roads are bordered by dense vegetation, tangled undergrowth, and stretches of marshland where stagnant water collects beneath the roots of enormous trees. The farther you get from the remaining population centers, the more the landscape seems to swallow whatever evidence of civilization remains.

Abandoned vehicles line the highways, their metal frames rusting beneath the elements. Some have been picked clean, their doors hanging open and their interiors stripped of anything useful. Others sit crookedly across the road, forcing travelers to squeeze between bumpers or climb through the vegetation to get around them.

The heat has done little to improve the smell.

Rotting vegetation, stagnant water, and the lingering stench of things that died along the roadside mix with the odor of gasoline leaking from abandoned vehicles. In some places, the asphalt is cracked and buckling beneath the roots of encroaching trees. Road signs are obscured by vines, and entire stretches of highway disappear beneath overgrown vegetation.

It's beautiful in the way a graveyard can be beautiful.

Quiet. Overgrown. And full of things nobody wants to find.

Traveling alone has become increasingly dangerous. The infected still roam the roads and surrounding wilderness, sometimes remaining hidden in the undergrowth until an unfortunate traveler passes close enough to attract their attention. The fading daylight makes identifying movement in the trees difficult, and the long shadows stretching across the highway create countless places for something to hide.

Nightfall is approaching.

And whatever dangers the darkness brings, they won't wait for you to find somewhere safe.

---

The sun hangs low over the Florida horizon, its fading light filtering through the trees in long, golden shafts. The temperature has finally begun to drop, although the air remains thick and oppressive. Cicadas and other insects chirp from the vegetation, their persistent buzzing occasionally interrupted by the distant cry of a bird.

The road ahead stretches through another sparsely populated stretch of countryside.

There are few signs of recent activity. No functioning gas stations. No occupied houses visible through the trees. No reliable indication of how far it might be to the next settlement.

Then, just ahead, something interrupts the otherwise empty highway.

A checkpoint.

Relief comes almost instinctively.

The sight of a roadblock usually means military personnel, a secured perimeter, perhaps even a small outpost where travelers can receive directions or information about the surrounding area. In a world where most official communication has disappeared, a military checkpoint can be one of the few remaining signs that somebody, somewhere, is still maintaining order.

And Texas isn't the only state with a substantial military presence. Florida has its own strategic importance, particularly when it comes to food, preserved goods, and the resources needed to sustain surviving communities. Checkpoints along major routes aren't unusual.

At first glance, this one looks convincing enough.

A metal fence stretches across the highway, interrupted by a narrow gate that can be opened to allow vehicles or pedestrians through. A handful of men stand around the roadblock, their silhouettes outlined against the fading light. A makeshift shelter sits beside the road, constructed from scavenged metal panels and what appears to be part of an old roadside maintenance shed.

There are weapons.

There are uniforms.

And there are men standing around as though they have every right to decide who passes.

Then one of them notices you.

"AYE! YOU THERE!"

The shout cuts through the evening air.

A man near the gate raises an arm and gestures impatiently, beckoning you toward the checkpoint. His tone carries the casual authority of someone accustomed to having people obey him.

"Come here!"

It doesn't sound like a request.

As you draw closer, the first few details begin to feel wrong.

The uniforms aren't quite right.

They're a mismatched collection of tactical clothing, military surplus, and scavenged equipment, with none of the consistency you'd expect from an actual infantry unit. One man wears a faded combat shirt beneath a plate carrier that appears several sizes too large. Another has wrapped a dark scarf around his neck and lower face, while a third stands near the fence in a stained uniform jacket with no clearly identifiable insignia.

Their equipment tells a similar story.

The rifles are real enough, but their condition varies considerably. Some are old hunting weapons. Others resemble military firearms, though several have been fitted with mismatched accessories and worn slings. One man carries a shotgun with a scratched stock, while another rests his hand on the grip of a pistol tucked into his waistband.

Then you notice the red tape.

It's tied around the barrel of one of the rifles, a short strip of vivid red plastic fluttering slightly in the evening breeze.

Another man has a similar strip wrapped around his weapon.

And another.

The markings are crude, but deliberate.

Anyone familiar with the criminal organizations operating throughout the fractured United States might recognize the significance. Red Tape.

One of the largest and most influential criminal networks to emerge since Greenfall, known for its armed checkpoints, illicit exchanges, and control over portions of the black market. Its members have established a presence along certain roads and trading routes, exploiting the collapse of legitimate authority to extract resources from travelers and maintain control over strategically useful territory.

Their methods vary from one operation to another.

Some offer protection for a price.

Others take what they want.

And plenty of people who encounter them never get the chance to explain what happened.

---

The checkpoint is much smaller than an ordinary U.S. military installation.

There are no towering floodlights sweeping across the highway, no reinforced concrete barriers arranged in overlapping defensive positions, and no rows of armored vehicles stationed behind the perimeter. There are no visible communication masts or organized inspection lanes. No military insignia. No official signage explaining entry procedures.

Just a fence across the road, a few armed men, and a makeshift shelter that looks as though it could collapse in a strong enough storm.

The absence of proper lighting leaves much of the surrounding area in shadow. A single portable lamp hangs from a metal pole near the gate, casting a weak yellow glow over the ground. Beyond it, the highway disappears into the trees, and the dense vegetation on either side makes it difficult to see more than a few yards into the undergrowth.

The men seem comfortable here.

Too comfortable.

One leans against the fence with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Another sits on an overturned plastic container, casually cleaning the magazine of his rifle. Two more stand beside the shelter, talking quietly and occasionally glancing toward the road.

None of them appear particularly concerned about maintaining a proper security perimeter.

They don't need to be.

They have the weapons. They have the roadblock. And for anyone traveling through this stretch of Florida, they have something even more valuable.

Control over the way forward.

---

The man who called you over steps away from the gate.

He's broad-shouldered, with a thick neck and a scruffy beard visible above the edge of his tactical face covering. His clothing is stained with sweat and dirt, and the plate carrier strapped over his torso has seen considerably better days. Several ammunition magazines sit in its front pouches, while a battered radio hangs from one shoulder.

Nothing about his appearance suggests professional military training.

His posture, however, suggests a man who has spent enough time carrying a weapon to become comfortable with the power it gives him.

He watches you approach, his eyes moving over your clothing and whatever belongings you might be carrying. His expression shifts slightly as he takes inventory, lingering on anything that might be worth taking.

Then he steps directly into your path.

"Hold up."

His hand moves toward the rifle slung across his chest.

For a brief moment, he looks almost amused, as though the entire interaction is an inconvenience he's already decided will end in his favor.

"Where you headed?"

The question hangs in the air.

Before you can answer, he brings the rifle up.

The movement is casual enough to suggest he's done this many times before. The barrel settles against the center of your chest, and his finger rests close to the trigger.

Behind him, the man cleaning his rifle stops what he's doing.

Another straightens beside the shelter, turning his attention toward the checkpoint. The cigarette-smoking man flicks ash onto the road and watches with a faint, unreadable smile.

Nobody appears surprised.

Nobody tells him to lower his weapon.

The man holding you at gunpoint tilts his head slightly.

"Well?"

The red strip of tape tied around his rifle shifts in the breeze.

The gate remains closed behind him.

The sun continues sinking beneath the trees, leaving the highway in increasingly deep shadows. Somewhere far off, a bird calls once before abruptly falling silent.

You don't know whether there's another checkpoint ahead. You don't know how far it is to the next settlement, or whether you'll reach it before darkness settles over the road.

You only know that the men standing in front of you aren't behaving like soldiers.

And that the rifle pointed at your chest is very, very real.

"Where the hell are you headed?"