Page 67 of Buried in Blood
So why the fuck does it feel like I’m about to die?
Every mile is a question.
Every headlight in the distance?
A threat.
Every bump in the road?
A detonator.
I hit the industrial corridor within twenty minutes—rows of rusted-out factories, busted fences, forgotten trucks. My kind of place. It smells like fire and history.
I cut my lights.
There’s no one here.
And yet—Ifeelthem.
Behind me.
Beside me.
Beneath my skin.
I check the rearview mirror again. Nothing but darkness.
No cars.
No drones.
No movement.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pressing harder on the gas.
I follow the route to the first checkpoint—an abandoned weigh station I set up months ago, complete with fake security tape and a rusted-out dummy camera bolted to the corner.
I stop.
Wait.
One minute.
Two.
Nothing.
My hands grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles crack.
No sirens.
No shadows.
No fucking Dante.
And that’s what’s wrong.
He should’ve come.
