Last Stop Gas
High Lethality! Forcing the squad to split across a 40" board to fetch two independent supplies through a central crossroads makes this an intense survival challenge. Expect downings and heroic sacrifices in late rounds if squad coordination and hand-off chains break down.
Prologue: How We Got Here
Two days ago, the regional evacuation corridor along County Route 9 collapsed under a human stampede. Our squad—exhausted, carrying two wounded civilians, and running low on ammunition—managed to commandeer an abandoned municipal ambulance from a pileup outside the county line. The heavy steel chassis and sirens gave us a momentary lifeline, but the retreat was brutal. Every highway exit was barricaded by jackknifed tractor-trailers or burning roadblocks. When the primary fuel tank began sputtering, Officer Ramirez steered the vibrating vehicle into the overgrown industrial outskirts of Oakhaven. We coasted downhill with the engine killed, gliding silently into the dark service bay of an abandoned auto repair shop just off the town square. The engine block gave one last metallic wheeze and died cold. We are stranded forty miles from the state border crossing, trapped inside a hostile urban pocket where every shadow groans with the hungry dead.
Mission Rationale & Operational Goal
- The Operational Imperative: The ambulance is completely out of fuel. Without at least five gallons of clean gasoline, the vehicle is an immovable two-ton paperweight. Furthermore, our onboard medical stores were stripped bare during the initial escape; our squad cannot survive another day on foot through the pine barrens without industrial antibiotics, trauma dressings, and coagulant from the clinic dispensary.
- The Strategic Destination: Securing fuel and medical stores allows the ambulance to hit State Route 4 North—the only mountain highway not yet closed by military barricades. This road leads directly to the Fort Baxter Federal Quarantine Redoubt, fifty miles north into the Appalachian foothills, where radio broadcasts confirm an active civilian reception center is still operating.
- The Stakes of Inaction: If we stay hidden in the garage, the ambient horde circling the town will inevitably sniff out our warm bodies as night falls. When the Doom Tracker runs out, the surrounding horde consolidates, cutting off all avenues of escape and tearing through the corrugated garage doors.
Sensory Reconnaissance & Environmental Profile
- Visual Profile: A suffocating twilight settles over the crossroads. A fractured neon Sunoco sign flickers erratically in pale yellow, casting rhythmic, strobe-like shadows across the cracked tarmac. Four-foot-tall weeds poke through the concrete. Three civilian sedans are crumpled in the intersection, their shattered windshields glittering like crushed ice under the dim sky.
- Acoustic Profile: A steady, mournful autumn wind rattles the overhead sheet metal of the garage bay. In the distance, every few seconds, the metallic tink-tink-tink of cooling automobile steel cuts through the silence, accompanied by the wet, rhythmic dragging of boots across loose gravel. Somewhere nearby, an open screen door on the pharmacy slaps lazily against its frame: creak... slap... creak... slap.
- Olfactory Profile: The sharp stench of sour rot and old motor oil hangs thick in the humid air, mingled with the nauseating, sweet stench of decomposing flesh coming from a pile of trash bags stacked against the clinic dumpster.
- Tactical Assessment & Choke Points: The crossroads forms a fatal 40-inch kill zone. The central intersection is flanked by narrow alleyways that funnel movement, but crossing between the garage, clinic, and gas pumps exposes survivors to open sightlines from four distinct sewer grates and alley mouths. The gas pumps themselves are heavily cracked and sweating volatile fumes—a single stray bullet or grenade will ignite a catastrophic fireball.