New Vance City

The Weller Street Overpass cuts a jagged silhouette across the decayed sprawl of the Shambler’s Graveyard—a collapsed freeway bridge that once funneled evacuees toward safer districts. Now, it stands fractured and forgotten, its upper deck partially intact and its lower lanes buried beneath concrete and bone. Survivors call it "the drop zone," a common waypoint for scavvers hoping to escape the ground-level hordes by climbing into its heights. But the overpass is no sanctuary. The shamblers don’t always stay below, and more than one traveler has vanished while resting in the upper shadows. Weathered signs warn of structural instability, but most can’t read them through the grime—or don’t care. Makeshift ladders lead up to hollowed-out husks of delivery trucks and bus shells where temporary camps flicker to life and burn out again. It’s not a stronghold, and it’s never safe. But it’s high ground. And in the Graveyard, sometimes that’s enough.

The Weller Street Overpass looms like a wounded ribcage above the desolate streets—its crumbling supports braced by rust-streaked beams, and its surface fractured into jagged, uneven slabs. Rebar juts from the edges like barbed wire, catching in the wind alongside fluttering scraps of tarp and faded emergency banners. The lower half of the structure has caved in, forming a debris choke full of crushed vehicles and blackened wreckage, while the surviving span arches out into the fog like a severed limb. Atop the deck, abandoned cars rest on flattened tires, their frames scorched, scavenged, and scrawled with graffiti. Tents made from plastic sheeting cling to corners, their insides dimly lit by glowsticks and burning trash barrels. Below, the shattered asphalt teems with quiet motion—shamblers wandering, waiting. The whole overpass seems to groan when the wind picks up, echoing with the hollow whistle of a city that once fled but never escaped.