35
Derelict tower blocks rose high with hollow windows. According to a sign on the fence surrounding the complex, scheduled for demolition.
Junkies and the homeless loitered in open doorways. There were four towers in total, forming an armed guard against the wind; a square courtyard in the middle.
The exodus of residents had worked in one respect. Even the gangs weren't interested in owning an unprofitable piece of turf.
Waverley Towers was that kind of place. Or at least, Chris Randall thought so. He lit his third cigarette and leaned back against his dark-blue Land Rover. He sniffed the air. Other than burning tobacco, it smelled of something dead and infected.
He couldn't wait to get out of there. Something about the towers—they gave him the creeps.
To make matters worse, Breaker
