As if realizing my train of thought, he grins. “Keep expecting to see zombies walking out of those trees.”

“If that happens, it’s every man for himself.” I lift one of the canvas bags and heft it onto my shoulder.

The front of the building is stucco that’s covered with green moss. The remainder is corrugated steel. From where I’m standing I see the remnants of what had once been huge roof fans, probably for dispersing heat and the stench in the summer. We don’t speak as we weave through weeds and sapling trees toward the front door. Around us the woods are alive with the echo of birdsong and cicadas. A faded wooden sign dotted with bird shit is propped against a scraggly looking juniper that had once been part of the landscaping. I can just make out the faded print, HEWITT HOG PRODUCERS, and the logo of a smiling white pig. Next to it a faded NO TRESPASSING sign welcomes us.

“SO know we’re out here?” Glock asks, referring to the sheriff’s department.

I nod. “I called and let them know we were going to take a look around.”

The front door hangs at a precarious angle by a single hinge and creaks in the breeze. The wood is naked of paint and warped from the elements. Beyond, I see what had once been a reception area of sorts and several offices.

Glock reaches the door first and slips inside. “What’s the story on this place, anyway?” he asks as he enters the reception area.

“It closed down after some kind of problem with the EPA. Paid a big fine for dumping waste into a watershed.” I follow him inside and am immediately met with the smell of rotting wood and the vaguely unpleasant odor of mildew. “Hewitt abandoned the business, didn’t tell anyone there were a dozen or so hogs left behind. Agents came out and euthanized the animals.”

Glock turns and looks at me. “Always hate hearing shit like that. People who abuse animals are fucked up.”

“I agree.”

“Bodes well for why we’re here, though.”

“Yes, it does.”

We’re midway through the offices. There’s not much left. Except for a single swivel chair with a missing base, the furniture is gone. The office doors are nowhere in sight. Graffiti covers most of the walls. Some of it’s colorful and creative, but most looks like the mindless work of paint huffers. I see a single glass meth pipe on the floor. Several aerosol cans strewn about. The tiny bones of what looks like a long-dead rodent. Dirt and lichens and other indistinguishable organic matter grow everywhere.