DREADLOAD

One to four haulers drive a battered truck into a dead zone after dark, scavenge what the Company will pay for, and load it into the bay before the gate closes at dawn. The truck is your base, your hiding place and the only way home — and everything you emit, from the engine to your flashlight, tells the things in the fog where you are. You can't win a fight. You can only hide, distract and drive.

You work for the Company. The Company owns the truck, the debt and the quota. Every night you and up to three friends drive into a quarantined zone, leave the cab, and search gas stations, motels and warehouses for anything that still sells — fuel cans, electronics, engine blocks too heavy to carry with one hand.

The zone is not empty. Monsters hunt by sound and light: your engine, your headlights, your footsteps, a dropped crate. A threat meter shows how close they are to finding you, and a strip of indicators shows exactly what is giving you away. A crowbar buys you a second. Bear traps, spike strips and thrown rocks buy you a route back to the truck.

Get out before the gate shuts and the bay is paid against the quota; stay too long and the night ends without you. Between nights, spend what's left on repairs, fuel and upgrades — or pay down the debt that never stops growing. Every price is a choice. Nothing is free, and the Company never forgives.