He doesn’t drive for glory.
He doesn’t drive for rescue.
He drives because someone has to.

In the ash-stained ruins of what's left of America, one man still runs the road.
They call him The Highwayman.

From the irradiated hush of Arizona’s blast zone to the water-choked bones of old St. Louis,
he rides—alone.
Haunted by war.
Hardened by whatever came after.

He used to be a soldier.
Now, he’s something else.
A ghost with a diesel engine.
A supply runner.
A myth still breathing.

He can smell danger like rot.
Hear death before it sings.
And when he stops?
The engine stays running.
Because out here…
some things pretend to be human.

He learned that in Tuka Makari.
He heard a child crying in an abandoned gas station.
It wasn’t a child.

[CB static… wind howling… something whispers back.]

This isn’t just post-apocalypse.
This is post-truth.
Post-mercy.
Where the ghosts wear faces you remember.
And the monsters...
they don’t wait until dark.

He doesn’t ask for thanks.
Doesn’t ask for prayer.
He asks one thing:

Keep your lights low.
And stay off the highway.

Because he’s still out there.
Somewhere between memory and myth.
Still running the last route left.

The Highwayman.
He delivers.
Or he dies trying.