Skunk Town stood at the edge of the desert, built where the old railway line died in the dust. It was barely worthy of being called a "settlement," a fragile human outpost clinging to the bones of a ruined world. The town was ringed by a three-meter wall cobbled together from scavenged metal and ancient timber, studded with broken mirrors and shards of glass that reflected the desert sun to repel light-fearing undead. At night, pitch-tar lamps and watchmen kept the darkness at bay. On the ramparts, hand-cranked spear throwers pointed outward, and wire-strung limbs and skulls hung from poles—part warning, part morbid comfort.
Around three hundred souls called Skunk Town home: deserters from the defeated Union army, prostitutes, scavengers, and the occasional preacher from the old world. Together, they formed a crooked, stubborn society. The town had only one main street, with the saloon, blacksmith, clinic, and trading post arrayed along it. At the center stood a leaning bell tower—a five-story structure rebuilt from a ruined church steeple. Its copper bell, cracked down the side, still rang three times every day at noon: once to honor lost human dignity, once to mark lunchtime, and once to remind everyone that time was running out.
To the west stood the train station, where a still-operable stretch of rail connected Skunk Town with Crossroads and Millstone. The rail line was the town's lifeline, with a hand-pumped railcar making a daily run to ferry intel, supplies, vaccines, and the occasional survivor between outposts. Beyond the tracks lay the deadlands.
That afternoon, Eastwood sat in the shade of the Holy Gun Saloon. His face was hidden beneath a hooded cloak, beard coarse and unkempt, spurs on his boots dulled with rust. His revolver—polished to a shine—lay on the table in plain view. No one dared approach.
"Heard there's trouble in Millstone again," said Benson, the one-eyed, barrel-chested barkeep, polishing a cracked glass. "Laughing Jack hanged five kids from the trees, pinned their tongues to their chests."
Eastwood didn't reply. He took a slow drink from his glass.
"You planning to wait here 'til the end?" Benson pressed. "You're a survivor of that war, ain't ya? Sharpshooter, Union Thirteenth?"
"I died already," Eastwood said simply.
Just then, the saloon doors burst open.
Zoey ran in, face pale, dust and sweat streaking her cheeks. "Uncle Eastwood... my mom... she collapsed. Please come!"
He frowned. Via was his neighbor, a woman who traded her body for canned food. He'd never meddled in their affairs.
But this time, he stood. Silently, he holstered his gun.
Their shack was in the eastern quarter, barely more than a pile of planks. Inside was heat, mildew, and the coppery stench of blood.
Via lay on a bedding of rags. Her lips were cracked, her forehead burned with fever. She was horrifyingly thin, her bones nearly piercing her skin.
"She hasn't eaten in days," Zoey whispered. "She gave me our last can."
Eastwood said nothing. He checked her eyelids and pulse, then stepped outside.
"Where are you going?" Zoey asked.
"To find a doctor."
But when he reached the clinic, a yellowed note was pinned to the iron door:
PLAGUE WITHIN. DOCTOR DEAD.
Eastwood stared at the paper for a long time.
The sky darkened.
When he returned to the shack, Zoey was asleep, curled against her mother. Via stared at him, eyes lucid.
"You'll leave, won't you?"
"I'm going to Crossroads to find medicine," he said.
"Don't come back," she said calmly. "If I die, take her. Don't let her stay here."
He didn't answer. He nodded.
That night, Skunk Town was quiet. No undead came. No bell tolled. No fires burned.
But everyone knew—this was the calm before the storm.