Heath was a wanderer. Nowhere had been his home, and any unguarded dwelling with a roof was his bed. Since he was a small child he had taught himself to sneak silently, to pilfer, and to never remain too long in one place to avoid detection.
The last sliver of sun had disappeared before he found the warehouse. Vast, unmarked and a dull grey against the scraggly trees, Heath could tell this place was safe. The awning offered little shelter so he found the back door and peered through the grimy window.
There was no visible thing inside. Satisfied, the man slung his pack over a scrawny shoulder and tried the door. When it swung open he smiled at his luck- the place was empty. He knew better than to make noise. Once he had stayed in the basement of a mansion, entering via trapdoor, and spent the night there while the owners held a dinner party upstairs.
But this floor, Heath realized with distaste, was wet. It shimmered in the light of the moon and when he shone a light on it, his brows furrowed. It was too dark to be water, and clung to the soles of his boots. Curious, he knelt down and grimaced when the stench hit him. This had to be blood.
Cursing, he crossed the room and felt for a light. A switch turned on a bare bulb in the ceiling, showing a concrete, cell-like structure and a squat table perched in one corner. When Heath approached it he saw the many shining blades, and upon inspection, all were stained with the same blood as that of the floor. His stomach twisted and he was grateful he hadn't eaten a substantial meal today.
Almost hidden in the wall was another door. Heath hesitated to try it. Maybe there would be people in there, or more blood. From what he could guess this wasn't a warehouse, perhaps a building for hunters to clean kills.
Pressing his ear to the wood, Heath listened for sounds of life. This room seemed as silent as the current. This door was unlocked as well, but the moment the room was revealed he froze in horror. Hanging carcasses of pigs were suspended on rusted metal from the ceiling, and rotted entrails covered a wide metal grating. Only feet away, Heath could see maggots gnawing the putrid flesh of the pigs like living white sores.
There were such huge gaps in the floor that the man stumbled, and his foot became stuck in the sharp, broken metal. When he tried to move his leg slid down to the knee, slicing the skin most of the way. Now he couldn't move without a bolt of agony. He was unable to escape and face-to-face with a mountain of gore.
A buzzing mass of flies was settling at the blood from his leg. They didn't disperse when he swatted them, too hungry for fresher sustenance. The moon had faded once Heath bled to death.