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.