The perfumed scent of death clung to the darkened, mote ridden air, followed by an undertone of sour milk, stagnant piss and sort of smell that would come from uncooked meat being left out in the hot sun for two weeks straight.

As soon as Stryker had stepped foot in the place, he had been eyeing the door and if not for the hand on his shoulder, he would have walked right back out of it.

"I think the lights are over here," Kernal muttered, choking on a cough.

"Leave it off," Stryker countered. "Then I won't have to see how much worse this place gets."

He didn't. A pale...