I made a swift exit from the superstore, nearly sprinting to the spot where I had hidden my pack. The entire time, I was plagued by the dread that the Tesla robot would detect my presence, emerging from the darkened ruins to tear me apart. Thankfully, that nightmare did not materialize, and once I regained some control over my near hysteria, I quickly made my way back towards the road.

The skeletons of dozens of rusted vehicles littered the landscape like discarded toys, some still cradling the skeletons of their unfortunate occupants. As I passed, I couldn't resist the urge to ponder the world before its descent into chaos. My father often reminisced about those days, fondly recalling his teenage escapades filled with mischief, friends, and romantic encounters. Those tales captivated me, igniting a deep longing to have lived through such times myself—a world unmarred by homicidal robots, marauding killers, and the multitude of dangers that now defined our existence.

Now, with the sun sinking perilously low, I found myself alarmingly still outside. My mother’s first rule of survival in the Wasted Earth was clear: never stay outside after dark, unless you’d made a stupid mistake or your life hung in the balance. Though I had spent nights outdoors before, I had never done so this close to the remnants of a large urban area. Even in the countryside, I would seek refuge in the branches of a tree or find a spot from which I could quickly escape if needed. Surveying my surroundings, I noted the landscape was flat in every direction, save for the crumbling remains of a nearby overpass. What I needed was shelter within four walls and a roof. For a fleeting moment, I considered returning to the superstore but dismissed the idea almost immediately; spending a night undetected by a Tesla Optimus Mark 6 was unthinkable.

I needed an alternative, and soon my eyes settled on a squat structure about a mile ahead. The faded billboard towering above it indicated it had once been a service station. Hoisting my pack, I increased my pace and reached it within ten minutes. Now for the tricky part. Just as I had done at the superstore, caution was paramount. I hid my pack behind a pile of rocks in a ditch beside the ruined roadway. Glock in hand, I employed the same cautious approach: move quickly but silently, always seek cover, and never leave your back exposed. I approached the forecourt, where six long-abandoned fuel pumps stood in disrepair, and the wreckage of a truck cluttered the area.

Inside the service station, the air was thick with the scent of aged petroleum and mold, a testament to the years it had spent abandoned. The dimming light from outside barely penetrated the grime-covered windows, casting long shadows across the interior. Shelves that once held snacks and travel essentials were now mostly bare, save for a few dust-covered items that had been deemed worthless by previous looters. The floor was littered with debris: shattered glass, torn magazines, and the occasional rodent scurrying away at my intrusion.

I moved cautiously, scanning the room for any signs of danger or usefulness. The counter, once the transactional barrier between customers and clerk, was cluttered with old registers and a thick layer of dust. Behind it, I found the employees' door, leading to a small back room that served as a storeroom and office.

This back room was in slightly better condition, perhaps because looters hadn't bothered to check it or found it too cumbersome to navigate with its cramped quarters and cluttered floor. Among the clutter, I found a few treasures: a box of matches, a half-empty bottle of water, and, to my surprise, a sealed bag of jerky that had somehow been overlooked. It wasn't much, but in the Wasted Earth, it was akin to finding gold.

The room also contained a small, battered desk with a chair tipped over beside it. Drawers hung open, their contents rifled through and discarded by those who had come before me. However, under the desk, I found a thick, woolen blanket—moth-eaten but clean enough and a valuable find for the cold nights.

Deciding this room was as safe as any to set up camp, I cleared a space on the floor, pushing aside papers and empty boxes to make room for my sleeping area. I laid out the blanket and set the jerky and water bottle beside it, planning to ration them carefully.

The windows in the room were small and set high in the wall, offering some light but little visibility, which meant I could light a small candle without drawing too much attention. The matches from the box sparked to life, and I lit the candle, its flickering light casting dancing shadows across the walls.

Settling in for the night, I reflected on my day's journey. The service station, with its silent shelves and whispered echoes of the past, now offered a temporary reprieve from the dangers lurking outside. Here, amidst the remnants of a world long gone, I found a moment of peace, a rare luxury in the harsh reality of the Wasted Earth. As night fell, I wrapped myself in the woolen blanket, the candle burning steadily beside me, and closed my eyes, hoping for a few hours of undisturbed rest before the struggle for survival continued with the dawn.

*

In the depths of the night, a faint noise disturbed the uneasy silence, wrenching me from the shallow grasp of sleep. At first, it was little more than a whisper on the wind, a distant clatter that might have been dismissed as the world settling around me. But as moments passed, the sound grew—a discordant symphony of groans and shuffling footsteps from outside.

Gripping my Glock tightly, I extinguished the candle with a quick puff of breath, plunging the room back into darkness. My heart pounded against my ribcage, each beat echoing loudly in my ears as I crept toward the small, grimy window. Peering out, the moonlight revealed a ghastly procession emerging from the dark: a shambling horde of the mutated infected, their forms twisted and grotesque, moving with a relentless, hunger-driven purpose.

I recoiled from the window, my mind racing. The service station had seemed like a sanctuary, but now it felt like a trap. The moans of the infected filled the air, a haunting chorus that promised death. I retreated into the shadows, praying they would pass without noticing the building and its lone occupant.

Then, to my horror the sound of breaking glass shattered the tense silence as one of the mutants forced its way inside. Its groans were louder now, a guttural sound filled with hunger and rage. My breath caught in my throat as I pressed myself against the wall, hidden in the darkness, Glock aimed at the doorway leading from the front of the station to my makeshift sanctuary.

The mutant stumbled into the back room, its movements erratic and uncoordinated, yet driven by a primal instinct. The moonlight filtering through the high windows cast its grotesque shadow across the floor, elongating its deformed limbs and distorting its features into something even more nightmarish.

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Its skin was pallid, stretched taut over protruding bones, with patches of decay where flesh had begun to rot away, emitting a foul, putrid stench that filled the air with the scent of death.

Its eyes, once perhaps capable of expressing human emotion, were now clouded and vacant, glowing with a faint, unnatural light that betrayed no sign of the person it once might have been. The face was twisted, features distorted by the infection into a macabre grimace that seemed permanently etched into a rictus of insane rage.

The body, though emaciated, possessed a horrifying strength, its muscles corded and visible beneath the sickly greenish skin. The limbs were elongated and deformed, fingers ending in sharp, claw-like nails that were caked with dried blood and filth. These hands spoke of the violence it had no doubt inflicted on some poor souls, they were tools of destruction honed by the mutation.

Movement was erratic, a shambling gait that belied a dangerous agility when provoked. The sounds it made were guttural and chilling, a constant reminder of its ceaseless hunger for the flesh of the uninfected. This creature, once human, had been utterly consumed by the virus, leaving behind only a shell driven by primal instincts.

Clothing hung in tattered remnants around its body, the last vestiges of its humanity now just another part of its grotesque appearance. My father used to speak of how the first mutants came into being. A virus, some sort of flu or another had swept the land prior to the time the robots had gone batshit. And as the pharmaceutical companies of the day tended to do they swept into action creating an untested vaccine. Hundreds of thousands were scared into getting what my father called ‘the fuck up jab’, he didn’t understand the science behind it but it had something to do with messing with a persons DNA. Things went wrong, and well, here we are today. A Wasted Earth with countless killer mutants roaming the land. Great.

It was now a game of cat and mouse, with the highest stakes. I couldn't shoot it; the sound would attract the rest of the horde. As it shuffled closer, its ragged breathing filling the room, I realized my only chance was to kill it quietly. Slowly I took my trusty knife out of its sheath on my hip and prepared to strike.

Seizing a moment when it turned its back, I sprang from the shadows, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat. With a kick, I swept its wiry legs out from under it causing it to fall forward, then I drove my knife deep into its neck. The creature's body tensed, then convulsed violently as I pinned it to the ground, trying to keep the struggle as silent as possible.

Its blood, thick and putrid, stained my hands as I held it down, the knife still buried in its flesh. Its limbs flailed weakly, scratching at me, seeking a grip, but its strength faded rapidly. Finally, with a shudder that ran through its twisted frame, it lay still.

Panting, heart racing from the exertion and fear, I waited, listening for any sign that the horde had heard the struggle. Minutes stretched like hours, but no sound aside from their unintelligible growls and snarls came from the other infected. Slowly, cautiously, I removed my hand from the creature's mouth and stood up, looking down at the still form at my feet. Should I pity it? Nah, fuck that. Rather it than me.

I quickly sheathed my knife and scooped up my pack. Daylight was still a ways off, should I stay or risk the night? The chances more infected would amble into the building were high and I doubted I’d get as lucky with another.

My decision was made for me as shrieks sounded from the horde outside. Something had them spooked and then I heard it and my heart sank. The indistinguishable sound of mechanical feet methodically walking. I swore under my breath. The horde must have drawn the attention of the Optimus six. Now I had no choice but to try and flee. I crawled out of the storage room and scrambled behind the counter. Through the broken windows I could see the two glowing orbs of the Optimus. The mutants too had seen it and I watched as several threw themselves at the robot.

With inhuman speed the machine dispatched the attacking mutants with terrifying efficiency. Its arms, engineered for versatility. One limb, sliced through the air and the flesh of the mutants with equal ease. The sound of rending tissue was almost drowned out by the mechanical whir of the robot's motors, a grim symphony of death.

Its other hand snatched another mutant about the throat ripping its head off with ease. Causally it tossed the corpse aside and punched clean through another. The mutants screeched and yowled as they hurled themselves against the killing machine. In the chaos, the ground quickly became littered with the dismembered remains of the horde.

The sight was horrifying, yet mesmerizing and strangely satisfying in its sheer violence. The Optimus Mark 6 stood amidst the carnage, its sensors scanning for any further movement, ready to eliminate any threat with cold, calculated precision.

Seizing the moment, I realized this was my chance to escape unnoticed. I kept low, using the counter as cover, my heart pounding in my chest as I moved with as much stealth as I could muster. The sounds of the robot's relentless killing spree covered any noise I made, the clash of metal on bone and rending of flesh filling the air.

I made my way to the back of the service station, avoiding the sightlines from the shattered windows. Each step took me further from the immediate danger, but the knowledge of the Optimus Mark 6's presence—a machine capable of such ruthless destruction—weighed heavily on me. The night had become a nightmare, with the threat of the infected now joined by the cold, mechanical death dealt by the robot.

Finally, reaching the back exit, I slipped through into the night, leaving behind the sounds of the robot's cleanup operation. The darkness outside offered little comfort, but it provided the concealment I needed to put distance between myself and the service station. The adrenaline coursing through my veins urged me on, pushing me to move despite the exhaustion and fear that threatened to overtake me.

As I moved away from the service station, the sounds of battle faded into the background, replaced by the quiet of the night once more. I didn't stop, though, not daring to until I was sure I had put enough distance between myself and the carnage behind me.

A mutant lunged at me from the darkness, its gnarled hands reaching for my throat. With no time for subtlety or silence, I drew my Glock and fired, the shots ringing out in the night. The mutant fell, but the sound of gunfire only seemed to spur the robot on, its sensors locking onto the source of the disturbance with deadly intent.

I froze. The sound of the gunshot could very well be my death for the robot had detected me. The cold, unemotional lights of its eyes swivelled in my direction, locking on with a precision that left no room for doubt. Panic surged through me, a primal instinct to flee overtaking all else. The mutants fled into the night but now the machine was fixated on me. A human. It’s true prey.

I broke into a desperate run, the fear of being caught by the Optimus Mark 6 fuelling my panicked steps. The robot’s movements were eerily silent for its size, a testament to its advanced design. It moved with a terrifying speed, its limbs adjusting with mechanical efficiency to chase me down. Each step it took seemed calculated, optimized for the sole purpose of killing any human in its path.

The ground beneath me was uneven, littered with debris. My breath came in ragged gasps as I pushed myself to the limit, but the robot's relentless pursuit never wavered. It was gaining, its drive to exterminate unwavering, a perfect machine built for destruction.

I ran, the service station and the corpses of mutants quickly fading into the distance. The robot was a shadow of death just steps behind me, its intention to kill clear in its unrelenting pursuit. Suddenly, it lunged, a hand closing around my arm with crushing force. A sharp, agonizing pain shot through me as my arm snapped under the pressure, a scream tearing from my lips.

But then, suddenly, bright lights pierced the darkness. The harsh glare of headlights flooded my vision, disorienting both me and, momentarily, the Optimus. The sudden arrival was followed by a deafening explosion, a shockwave threw me to the ground where my head struck a stone. Darkness claimed me.