The night was as quiet as ever.
The old cabin groaned around them as the wind pushed against its walls. Every step Saul took drew a creak from the floorboards beneath his boots, the sound seeming far louder than it should have in the suffocating silence.
Harry walked a few feet ahead of him.
Low.
Focused.
A pistol hanging loosely in one hand.
The beam from his flashlight swept across mold-eaten walls and collapsed furniture, revealing glimpses of a life that no longer existed.
A child's drawing pinned to a wall.
A family photograph lying face-down on the floor.
A dining table covered in dust.
Death had moved in years ago and made itself comfortable.
Rats scattered through the darkness.
Their claws scratched against wood.
Their bodies darted between piles of trash and rotting corpses.
Some of the corpses had been dead long enough to become part of the room itself.
Others looked newer.
Fresh enough that Saul could still recognize them as people.
