Steve wasn't a believer in the paranormal, never had been. But undeniably, there was something dark and gloomy about that old slaughterhouse; a sense of fear and torment of the many souls that had passed through here in one form or another, effectively sending chills down his back.
Taking a deep breath as he walked through a narrow aisle leading to a big open area at the southern end of the building, his experienced mind tried to envision what this place looked like when fully operational. Likewise, Steve couldn't help but wonder if the workers could ever get used to being surrounded by death every single day.
Then again, he did.
The open area proved to be the killing floor that surrounded an animal chute system attached to coral panels that could easily be moved from one pen to another. A large yellow box hanging against the outer wall seemed to be the remote to operate the overhead cranes.
In morbid fascination, Steve glanced up and followed the conveyor along the outer edges of the building and back to where Mike and he had entered. The light coming in through the back entrance lit up the area in a strange gray hue, causing the elongated shadows from various equipment nearby to paint the high ceilings into obscure scenes.
Deep in thought, it was a soft footstep off to the left that pulled him out of his daydreams.
Snapping his head around to the source of the noise, Steve saw a figure rush past the killing station and down a narrow corridor leading farther into the building.
"Hold it! Police!"
Giving chase immediately, Steve almost slipped and fell on the concrete floors that had recently been washed down. As the light changed the deeper he entered the hallway, he could make out the medium built figure of what had to be Amy Morrison several feet ahead of him.
The dark curly hair reaching to her waist bobbed up and down with every step she took, as she navigated the many aisles and equipment like an elaborate obstacle course. When he saw her slow down and rush into an office door, Steve hesitated, one hand across his chest on the grip of his .38, as he inched his way toward the doorframe.
When Steve heard no noise from within, he peeked his head around the corner to see a massive but sparsely furnished office filled with dust-covered boxes and shipping crates. Knowing that Amy could be hiding in countless spots inside, he unholstered his revolver and slowly entered, trying to keep his eyes trained on the old wooden desk ahead.
As he passed through the decent size room laying completely in the dark except for a crack in the back wall that let some daylight in, Steve quieted his breathing, hoping to remove any noise that could give his suspect an indication of his location.
He'd stopped right in front of the desk, hoping that some of the disturbed layer of dust on the surface would give him an idea where exactly Amy was hiding. With his eyes trained on the furniture ahead, he never stood a chance to see the mountain of shipping crates caving in right on top of him.
Temporarily incapacitated as he became buried underneath the boxes, Steve never heard the door getting shut and something heavy being pushed in front of it.