The rail depot feels dead except for the wind. Rusted locomotives sit half-swallowed by tall grass, and the open food truck hatch hangs like a warning. Fresh tracks cut through the weeds toward the loading side.
Seth
Those tracks are recent.
Seth edges closer, the depot’s metal bones groaning somewhere in the fog. The food truck smells wrong, old rot under stale grease. A soft scrape answers from behind the nearest railcar.
Elena
Seth, we are not alone out here.
Miller shifts beside the locomotives, rifle up, scanning the grass. Ahead, a dark shape moves low between the train cars, then vanishes.
Kaley
If we want what is in that truck, we move now. If not, we fall back to the depot doors.
The choice hangs in the air as the grass stirs again, closer this time.