Chapter 13
THE PACKING plant was a dismal two-story cinderblock cube, with a jolly sign out front that read “Billy Butcher Meats.” The flaking white rolldown garage door looked solidly closed, but a hefty metal pail propped open the conventional door beside it. Someone inside shouted wordlessly in pain. Heart in my throat, I bolted in.
Gleaming, shallow metal buckets dangled chest high from chains that ran up to overhead tracks. The fluorescent lights were off, but scattered solar-driven emergency lights drizzled bright pools and drove away the worst of the shadows. The stench of old blood and guano glazed the air. Near a metal table along one wall, two people jerked and flailed at each other. I barely noticed them before focusing on the severed chicken head crawling across the floor at
