The escape had turned into a nightmare. What was meant to be a strike at the cargo hauler had spiraled into chaos—gunfire echoing through the collapsing corridors, the screams of dying cultists mixing with the roar of the hive tearing itself apart. The gang had been forced to scatter and run, slipping through half-collapsed tunnels as the enemy closed in from all sides.

Liam stumbled through the smoke-filled dark, Hans dragging him by the arm while Gerald barked orders to keep them moving. Above, huge chunks of ferrocrete fell like rain, the hive itself groaning and shuddering as if it were alive and in agony. They had to keep running. If they stopped, they were dead.

Finally, they burst into an old vehicle bay—a forgotten garage half-buried under rubble and ash. And there, like a miracle left by the Emperor Himself, sat an ancient hauler. Its plating was rusted through, tires cracked and flat-looking, but it was whole. It was hope.

"Inside! Barricade the doors!" Gerald shouted, already scrambling toward the cab. The gang threw themselves inside, shoving aside old crates and tools. Liam pressed himself against the wall, chest heaving, praying it would work.

But the sound came before the relief: pounding footsteps, shrieking voices. The cultists had followed them. The doors buckled as the first wave poured inside, blades flashing, guns spitting fire. The garage became a slaughterhouse. Hans cut one down with his shotgun before disappearing under a mob of frenzied heretics. Charles screamed as a blade found his throat, collapsing in a pool of blood.

"Get it moving, damn you!" someone roared at Gerald, who was frantically hammering at the controls, wires sparking under his hands.

Liam fired until his pistol clicked empty, then swung it like a club, shattering teeth and bone as he fought to stay alive. Every second felt like an eternity, the hive above groaning louder and louder as if it too wanted to swallow them whole.

Then, with a coughing roar, the engine came to life. The old hauler trembled, then growled like some ancient beast. Gerald slammed his hand on the horn and bellowed for everyone still breathing to get inside.

Liam barely made it. He crawled over blood-slick metal as Gerald rammed the truck forward, crushing cultists under its wheels as it thundered across the garage. A few survivors clung to the side as they smashed through the doors and roared down a collapsing tunnel, the hive's walls buckling and burning around them.

Out. Out. Just out.

The tunnel ended in blinding light, and suddenly they were bursting into the open wastelands. Ash storms whipped at the truck's hull, the endless desert stretching before them. Behind, the hive loomed—an impossibly vast, rotting corpse of a city tearing itself apart in fire and ruin.

Liam lay in the back of the truck, body broken, vision swimming. He watched as the only world he had ever known collapsed into smoke and ash. The screams of the dying echoed in his ears, but he felt nothing now. No fear, no anger. Just emptiness.

And then, darkness took him.

End of Hive Mortis

This is the endpost for the hive Mortis Campaign, a very long time after it accualy ended. But this is also the setup for the next Necromunda Campaign that I hope will start sometime during the late autumn/early winter. 
When this happens will be announced in some way on the facebook page. But here is a little blurb for inspiration until such time

The truck rattled and groaned like it was about to fall apart with every mile. The engine coughed black smoke, gears screeched in protest, and the suspension was long gone, leaving every bump in the cracked wasteland floor to rattle through bone and muscle. But it moved. It carried them away from the corpse of the hive and into the endless wastes.

For days they drove, stopping only when the fuel gauge dipped into nothing and Gerald was forced to coax the machine back to life with spit, prayers, and scraps of salvage. The gang scavenged where they could — stripped metal from burned-out husks, siphoned foul-smelling promethium from broken rigs, and hunted the carrion-beasts that circled them at night.

The wastes were worse than the hive in their own way. The air was thick with ash storms that cut skin to ribbons, and the horizon was littered with the bones of machines larger than hab-blocks. Sometimes they saw movement out there — other gangs, other survivors, or things twisted by radiation and war. Sometimes they kept their distance. Sometimes they didn't.

The gang dwindled further. A storm took two, tearing them from the hauler's roof and hurling them into the dust. Another was gutted in the night by something too fast and too silent to see. Hunger and exhaustion clung to them like shadows.

But somehow, against all odds, they pressed on.

And then one morning, after weeks of dust and death, Liam stirred awake in the back of the hauler to see something new. Rising out of the ash like a mirage was a scattering of structures — ramshackle, half-collapsed, but alive. Thin plumes of smoke rose from chimneys. Shapes moved along the barricades. A settlement.

Gerald slowed the truck, and the gang stared in silence. At the center of the crossroads stood a cracked spire of concrete, painted with a crude sigil — a warning or a welcome, depending on who you asked. Traders, scavengers, and killers alike passed through here. A place to rest, to resupply, to find work. Or to die.

The hauler crawled into the settlement under the watchful eyes of guards armed with stub rifles and scrap armor. Liam leaned against the rusted side of the truck, eyes half-closed, his mind reeling. He had left the hive behind, left fire and ruin, but what lay ahead was no less dangerous.

The Ash Wastes had their own rules. Their own kings and monsters. Their own chances for damnation — or glory.

The gang had survived the fall of the hive. Now they had to survive the wasteland.

And so the story begins anew.