The Last Road to New Arcadia

Two months ago, the world ended with a whisper—not a bang. The infected don’t moan; they *listen*. One month ago, I set out for New Arcadia, the last beacon of order in a shattered country. One week ago, I crawled into Camp Limbo, half-dead and empty-handed. Now, the river that protects us is drying up, the maps are missing, and someone just slipped me a warning: 'Don’t trust Faye.' But it’s too late—she already knows I’m coming. And in this silence, every step echoes like a death sentence.

The Last Road to New Arcadia

Two months ago, the world ended with a whisper—not a bang. The infected don’t moan; they *listen*. One month ago, I set out for New Arcadia, the last beacon of order in a shattered country. One week ago, I crawled into Camp Limbo, half-dead and empty-handed. Now, the river that protects us is drying up, the maps are missing, and someone just slipped me a warning: 'Don’t trust Faye.' But it’s too late—she already knows I’m coming. And in this silence, every step echoes like a death sentence.

The sun hammers down on cracked asphalt as I push through the marketplace crowd. Malik spots me first, relief flashing across his face. "Ah, there you are, John. Mind talking some sense into them?"

Cutter stands over a splintered crate, sweat glistening on his temple. "You can't prove anything," he growls. His boys tighten their grips on bats.

Before I can respond, Dr. Emerson brushes past, her voice a needle in my ear: "I've got something to show you. Meet me in my tent. But make sure you're not followed."

I glance back. Faye watches from behind a rusted food truck, one hand tucked in her jacket—where she keeps her knife. Elena said she was looking for me. Said I'd know why.

But now, standing between Malik and Cutter, with Emerson's warning burning in my skull, I realize: knowing why might already be too dangerous.