The police station felt bigger on our way out.
Not because it was empty—
but because everything had been taken.
Footsteps echoed where gunmetal had clattered minutes ago. Racks stood naked against the walls, hooks bent and useless. Open crates yawned like broken mouths. Even the air felt stripped—lighter somehow, like the room had exhaled and never breathed back in.
We stepped outside one by one.
The street greeted us with the low hum of St. Louis still breathing.
Wind pushed trash across cracked asphalt. A sign creaked overhead, metal tapping metal in a slow, tired rhythm. Somewhere distant, something screamed— infected or human, it didn't matter anymore.
The truck was gone.
Not overturned.
Not abandoned.
Gone.
Oil stains marked where it had been parked. Fresh tracks cut through old grime, clean arcs turning back toward the city's spine.
She hadn't rushed.
She'd reversed. Turned. Taken her time.
