Ava
The harsh plasticky crinkle of the hazmat suit was the only sound that filled my ears as we stepped into the deathly-silent Packhouse. The familiar scent of wood and pack life was overwhelmed by the acrid smell of decay and chemicals, even through the plastic shield covering my face.
My eyes widened behind the protective visor as I took in the devastation around us.
“Oh, Goddess,” I breathed, momentarily grateful for the way that my cracking voice was muffled by the suit. Tears pricked at my eyes as I surveyed the damage that had wrought our dear Packhouse.
The once-beautiful wooden walls were now marred by patches of inky black fungus, the paintings on the walls that hadn’t been removed in time practically dust now, wholly consumed by the substance.
In some place
