It takes a lot of effort to get the buckled door moving again. Beyond it lies a small storage space rendered an orgy of destruction. Shelving in flinders lies scattered across the shattered floor, where boards have been rent up for a thorough investigation of what lies beneath. Glass fragments glint in the light; a chunk of rag, torn and stuck to a savaged shelf, flutters in the manufactured gust of air.
Whatever was hidden behind the door has been looted.
Whatever could not be carried off was torn asunder and left behind.
All that remains is the fading scent of blood and the bloody hand imprinted on the wall.
Over a week with no posting. I'm bringing this to a close.