He stepped inside, examined the room, stopping at a bin full of ash and papers. He picked out a half–charred document, a science article titled: The Human/Pig Comparison by Dr Z.B. Goethe.

As he left the room and crossed the hallway, his boots made a dull, peeling sound. He shined the headlight down to his feet, showing a dark–red sticky substance on the floor. He made a brief note of it and moved on.

The next room was empty, except for a rundown leather chair and a tall standing birdcage. His headlight illuminated a tiny pile of feathered bones resting in the corner of the tray.

A stamp–sized piece of daylight on the opposite side of the room caught his attention. He discovered it was a tiny window, which somebody had covered with black paint. He peeked out and could see nothing but fields and hills and a blue car parked nearby.

A dull, peeling sound came from the narrow hallway. Baxter shut his light off, moved through the room with careful steps, and peered out into the blackness. A whisper came out of the dark.

"Baxter, that you?"

He switched his light on, catching Ward's dumb–struck face staring back at him.

"Jesus, Ward, what are you doing?"

"My light's broke," he said.

"Well, go to the van and get another one."

"But I can't see where I'm going. Please, let me come with you," he said.

Baxter lit a cigarette, took a drag, passed it to Ward.

"When the old fart finds out, it's your problem."

The din of dripping water echoed along the third–floor. Old Arthur examined a steel door at the end of the hallway, studied the floor plan, cocked his head.

Hello, he thought. You're not supposed to be here.

He squeezed the handle, nudged the door with his stout shoulder, it didn't budge. He pressed his ear to the cold door and could hear somebody moving around on the other side.

Bastard squatters, he thought.

"Whoever's in there better unlock this door."

He listened again. The noise scraped into silence.

"Come on, open this door," he said, jiggling the handle.

Old Arthur pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket.

"Okay," he said, "you asked for it."

Baxter and Ward lingered in the dark, comparing smoke rings in the pale beam of light.

"I can't wait to leave this job," Baxter said.

"Yeah, I know what you mean, this building's dreadful isn't it?" Ward said.

"No, not this job. I mean this job. It's always the same shit but a different toilet."

"Oh, right, I've wanted to leave since I started," said Ward, scratching his neck. "But you know Lola won't have anything second–hand for the baby. She insists everything has to be new. It was the same when we moved in together. I bought a second–hand washer, it was in brilliant condition as well, and she told me to get rid of it. She said second–hand washing machines don't clean your clothes. I told you, didn't I, about the time she refused to suck me off because she thought she'd get pregnant, and now she is, and she still refuses to—"

"We should head down," Baxter said to Ward, stamping out his cigarette.

When the two men approached the staircase, a small, white mouse appeared in the globe of light. Its dull, red eyes peered up at them. The rodent had a bumpy mutation bulging from its side. Baxter brought his boot down on top of it and kicked it to the wall.

"Jesus," Ward said, moving onto the stairs. "It looked like a walking ear."