A little rest stop along the wastelands west of Memphis.
The sign still flickers, stubborn as the land around it: “Rust Bucket Oasis”, half the letters dead, the rest buzzing like they’ve got something to prove. It sits just off a cracked stretch of old highway west of Memphis, where the trees gave up years ago, and the soil tastes like metal if you’re dumb enough to check.
The Oasis isn’t much, but out here, it doesn’t need to be. A pair of fuel pumps, one working if you hit it right. A low concrete building patched with sheet metal and old corporate signage, Cytek logos scratched out but still bleeding through like ghosts. Inside, the air smells like burnt coffee, ozone, and something faintly sweet, like leaking coolant.
Folks pass through. Runners, smugglers, drifters, the occasional convoy pushing through the wastes. Nobody stays long. The man behind the counter, “Old Jax,” keeps a scattergun under the counter and a quiet eye on everyone who walks in.
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