About 50 years ago, something capital-B Bad happened and the world ended. A fine dust covers everything, drifting in places to great depths, and strange creatures buzz and crawl and ooze amid the leftovers.

According to the before-stuff, this place used to be somewhere called North Carolina. Now it’s just a ruin: a city of grey concrete and broken glass, dust-choked and verminous, everything from venomdogs to glowflies to stone-cold hardcase bastards waiting to gack the unwary.

But there’s cool shit to be had in there too. Luxe goods. Tinned food. Hi-tech pre-fall gear. Scrap. Guns. And you know what people are like – they’ll settle anywhere they fall over too tired to go on.

Anywhere like… Fort BBQ.

The Song of Fort Barbecue