New Vance City

Spitlock Terminal sits along a disused freight loop south of the Perimeter Outskirts, deep enough to avoid surface patrols but close enough to stage ambushes. Claimed by a loose Raider pack called the Bile Dogs, it’s more slaughterhouse than station. The Raiders use it as a checkpoint and butcher bay, where they strip gear from the dead—civilian or infected—and melt down anything salvageable in drum-burners. The loading dock has been converted into a crude vehicle bay for jury-rigged bikes and carts. Shamblers still creep in from the tunnel mouths, and the Dogs have turned that into sport, holding pit fights and shooting contests against the infected. The Dogs don’t care about containment. They just want a spot to regroup, resupply, and get high before the next raid. Everything here is temporary, except the smell.

The station’s walls are spray-painted with sigils made from blood and oil, some freshly scrawled, others half-faded under layers of soot. Fluorescent tubes flicker above, hung from steel cabling lashed together with rebar and cloth, casting jittery shadows across the graffiti. Chains and car parts hang from the ceiling like trophies. Bones—human and otherwise—are strung along support beams like wind chimes. The floor is a mess of blood-slick concrete, cracked tiles, and spent shell casings. Improvised barricades made from vending machines and railcar doors block off the far tunnel, though movement still stirs behind them. A burn barrel in the center platform doubles as both cooking fire and trash pit, surrounded by scavenged lawn chairs and skull-marked crates. The air reeks of alcohol, sweat, and wet meat.