1945. It should have been where it ended. And yet, evil found its way through the cracks and was permitted to live on. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you see it, it wasn't for very long. By the time it was really over, there wasn't much left. Only crumbs of what used to be. Now, only a few limited survivors carry the future on their backs. They had a rough road ahead of them, to rebuild their livelihoods or die trying.

The group consisted of a few individuals, each carrying the weight of their own survival stories. 

Deckland, a stocky man with a perpetually clean-shaven face but a wild, curly head of hair, was always quick to voice his skepticism. 

Cassie, only a few years older than the others, had short brownish-red hair, striking green eyes, and a concealed scar beneath her bangs. She was the one who, besides the enigmatic leader, carried a weapon—a 9mm handgun with a single round. 

The leader, known only as Jack, was a man of few words, but his quiet competence kept them safe, healthy, and fed, ensuring their loyalty. 

And then there was Curt, whose rounded yet defined face was currently hidden behind a mask, his body wracked by illness.

As they traversed the rubble of the barren city, they often recalled the devastating aftermath, the desolate wasteland that stretched before them. There were days when tears flowed freely, wishing they could have escaped the pain of this broken world. But tears eventually ran dry, replaced by a steely resolve to keep moving, to keep surviving. 

Their journey often took them past the torn-apart train station, miraculously still partially standing. It served as a grim reminder of their past dreams, of a time when the subway crisscrossed the city. But those dreams were distant memories, and their focus remained firmly on the present. Scavenging the station yielded little, as it had been picked through countless times before. Their stomachs grumbled in protest, fueling the gnawing depression that often accompanied their hunger. Food was a luxury they rarely encountered.

One day, out of the corner of his eye, Jack spotted a peculiar mark. They had been around this wasteland long enough to know that small, scattered groups hid in the shadows, clinging together for survival. They had often yearned to find such a group, to escape the crushing loneliness, but these elusive communities were almost impossible to locate. They had tried before and, in the end, had given up hope. This time felt different, though. Whoever left this mark had been sloppy, leaving a faint trail. They didn't want to get their hopes up, but there was no reason not to follow it, at least to try. The trail seemed to lead them to the outskirts of the city. In the distance, one of the large bridges still stood, though its usefulness was negligible. The bay no longer shimmered with cool blue water; only dirt remained, and the pervasive smell of dead fish was almost unbearable, forcing them to cover their faces with what little fabric they had. Even though they hadn't seen a single soul in days, footprints and small tracks littered the sandy ground they walked across. They knew others were out there; they just had to find them.

After a few hours, their journey led them to a precarious lighthouse. In its glory days, it had guided ships of all kinds, and they couldn't help but be amazed by its enduring presence. They decided to sneak in, not wanting to startle any potential fellow survivors. Ducking and crawling through a maze of metal and debris was nothing new. More dirt adorned their clothes, smearing across their faces, but they didn't care. They only wanted to get inside as soon as possible. A low rumble could be heard from a near distance. Another storm was rolling in, and nobody wanted to be trapped in that, especially if it meant adding burns and boils to their already extensive list of problems. The mere thought of it made old wounds sting, but they had no time to stop. It was dark and musty inside. Thankfully, the smell of fish was significantly lessened, allowing them to lower their makeshift masks from their faces. They kept a low profile as they moved through the mangled lighthouse until they could hear hushed voices.

"I don't know if it's worth staying here any longer if we have to keep going farther and farther out to find food." Deckland reasoned.

"What else do you suggest? Move our base to somewhere else? You know Curt wouldn't make the trip. He's barely with us as it is." Cassie countered, her voice low.

"Listen, both of you!" Jack's voice cut through the air. "We'll figure something out. For now, stop your squabbling. It'll only make this more difficult. Cass, hand me some soup please."

The group was listening intently, focusing on Jack's words, when a sudden slip of a foot on a piece of loose metal sent someone tumbling into their midst.

"Deck! Did I not tell you to cover your tracks and make sure nobody follows you?" Cassie exclaimed, clearly annoyed.

"I was sure I did! Please, Cass, don't hit me again! You left a mark last time." Deckland pleaded.

The new arrival, a teenage girl with brilliant brown hair, now stained with the hardship of this new life, was largely ignored in the ensuing commotion. She turned to the one who seemed to be the leader and asked about who they were.

"Excuse me. I didn't want to startle you, but I couldn't help but overhear something about food."

Deckland spoke up. "We aren't sharing any food with a stranger like you."

Cassie, however, squatted in front of the girl. "Don't listen to Deck. He's an idiot. Here, eat this. You must be really hungry."

Jack looked the girl up and down and nodded at Cass. "Very well. I have no gripes if you take responsibility for her."

The girl, who introduced herself as Scarla, wolfed down the soup Cassie handed her, abandoning all grace. She wiped her face and returned the bowl.

"Thank you. It was better than I would've been able to do," she said.

Cass patted her on the head and set the bowl aside. Not too far away, Curt, who had been lying down, began to cough. It didn't sound good at all, making Scarla nervous.

"Um, is he gonna be alright?" she asked.

"You mean Curt? I don't know. It's been a few days now since he became like this. We ran out of medicine before we could properly treat him," Cass explained.

Scarla got up and approached Curt's shivering body cautiously. She knelt beside him and pulled a bag from behind her back. She popped open a bottle she had retrieved and counted out a few pills.

"What are you doing?" Cassie asked.

"I'm going to help him." Scarla responded.

She couldn't see his face through the mask he had been wearing, probably to avoid infecting others. She put her hand over the mask and peeled it off his face. She opened his mouth and gently had him swallow the pills, then placed a cloth over his head. Curt's soft blue eyes opened, and he looked at Scarla.

"Thank you for saving me," he rasped.

Scarla simply nodded, ensuring he was comfortable. As the rest of the group heard, they simply smiled and went about their business. Although Scarla was now highly embarrassed, she felt warm and welcome here and decided that maybe she could stick around for a bit. She felt less lonely than before. She put a hand on her cheeks to feel the warmth while playing with her hair. It was nice.

It was 1948. The desolate wasteland seemed as endless as ever. But for the group, with Scarla now among them, perhaps it wouldn't have to be so bad anymore. Perhaps they could find strength and friendship in each other. They wanted so desperately not to be alone. They were already too close to giving up and ending what little they had left.