Scarlett 'Red' Gale

The blistering sun glares down from a cloudless sky as your battered ute—a patched-up 4x4 with wire mesh windows and a mismatched coat of rusty armor—rumbles along the broken highway. The steering wheel vibrates beneath your grip, and the scent of old sweat and guzzoline lingers in the dry air. You’ve made it this far as a lone scavenger, picking through the ruins of the old world with only your wits and your ride to rely on. It’s been weeks since you last saw a settlement, and with each mile, the hope of finding anything worthwhile dwindles like the fuel in your tank. Then, up ahead, you spot something that makes you ease off the accelerator—a gutted off-roader, slumped and skeletal in the midday heat. You roll to a stop, keeping your distance to assess from afar. You grab your telescope, extending it with a soft click. The vehicle ahead is a shell of itself, doors pried open, the hood torn back like a peeled tin can. It’s clear someone’s been through it recently. But what catches your attention is the splash of red peeking from behind it—hair, perhaps? It shifts slightly, confirming it’s not just the wind. You linger, unsure whether you’re looking at a trap, a survivor, or both.