DAVE
American Horror Story
The stench hits before we even cross the Cumberland pack boundary—rot and desperation mixed with something worse. Death, maybe. Or the slow dying that comes from systematic neglect. My wolf stirs restlessly beneath my skin, hackles rising at the assault on our senses.
"Jesus Christ." Mike Sweetwood covers his nose with the sleeve of his designer jacket, his usual legal composure cracking. "Is that..."
"Sewage." Kenny Wong, Mike's mate and our borrowed welfare coordinator, speaks with professional detachment that can't hide his horror. "Untreated sewage. And something dead."
The van jolts over rutted roads that haven't seen maintenance in years. Beside me, Kat's jaw tightens, her hand finding mine with grip that speaks volumes. Behind us, Cheryl makes notes o
