I SMELLED BLOOD. A SLAUGHTERHOUSE'S WORTH. It was old, rotten, stinking. And it was everywhere, as if someone had painted the walls with it. My hand on the knob, I squeezed my eyes shut. I cracked open the door. The smell washed over me. I'd never sensed any­thing like it. The odor was hateful, oppressive, like it was attacking me. "There's something out there," I said. And it hated me. It had left all those signs that it hated me. Cormac, gun raised, displaced me in front of the door. "Stay back." His gun arm led the way as he stepped out, the weapon ready to face the lurking danger. His expression never changed. It stayed cold, stony —his professional look. Then he froze. "Jesus Christ," he said…