RAIDER MURDER MART

They call it Raider Murder Mart now—like the world didn’t already have enough irony rotting on its bones. Once upon a time, before the bombs and the rot and the screams in the dark, that place was a nice family-owned grocery mart. 

When the raiders rolled through the valley, they gutted it. They took what was once a sanctuary of neighbors and families and turned it into a bazaar of brutality. The aisles are barricaded with barbed wire, the checkout counters draped with human bones and scrap trophies. Caps and chem trades go down there in the open, no shame about it. You can hear the laughter from the road—high, wild, and cruel. They sell anything you can imagine: blood packs that probably aren’t blood, “mystery meat” jerky, and guns that still smell of the last person who used them.

The worst part is that the place was the twisted vision of Cursed The Trapper—a name that makes even hardened raiders flinch. Word is, he built the whole thing himself, piece by piece, scavenging from nearby ruins like some demented architect of depravity. He strung up trophies from settlers and travelers who crossed him, nailed them to the walls as decorations, and called it “atmosphere.” The way they talk about him, you’d think he was some kind of legend—but to anyone with a shred of decency left, he’s nothing but a walking curse.

I passed through once, years back. I didn’t stay long. The air was thick with the smell of burnt oil and decay. A raider in a gas mask tried to sell me a child’s teddy bear with a knife duct-taped to it—said it was a “guardian spirit.” I turned around and left before my hand could find my rifle. There’s no soul left in that place, no memory of what it was. Raider Murder Mart is the kind of place that reminds you what the world became after the bombs fell: not just ruined, but rotten. A market for madness, built on the ashes of kindness.