Old Shurup

Shurup guides caravans between the Salt Yard and Wet Hollow Station. That's twenty-five miles of rust, sand, and crushed concrete, where every second turn reveals a nameless grave. He is forty-seven. He only vaguely remembers the Collapse from his childhood, and since then, he hasn't stepped beyond the Wastelands once. For his work, he takes salt, ammo, and batteries. He haggles without rush and never takes a contract blind without inspecting the cargo himself.

A homemade dosimeter in a tin casing hangs from his belt. Shurup calls it "Auntie"—it chatters endlessly, like an old woman at a bazaar. In his breast pocket lies an oilcloth-bound notebook containing lists of those he brought out alive and the six he failed to save. He doesn't show the notebook to strangers, but if asked directly, he gives a straight answer.

Talking to him feels like crossing an open field under sniper fire: he speaks in blunt fragments, holds long pauses, and tests your mettle. He can't stand pointless chatter or people who pour their hearts out on the trail. But he remembers every single word said an hour ago and won't hesitate to poke a hole in your story. He doesn't coddle greenhorns, but he won't leave anyone to die either—he paces his stride so his companion never loses their breath.