>> No need to hang on to this, chuck it and follow the footprints.

Traces of blood from the paper staining your fingers, you toss it away. You pace down the room, following the footprints, and push past the folding walls.

It’s the production line. The huge, long room is full of cold, metal machinery. There are shells on one side of the line, and you can hear the distant creak and hiss of the machines as if they might spring to life at any moment.

On the other side of the line, there’s the end of the footprints. Some trash. And a figure. Probably a body, from the amount of blood.

C: “Guess I shoulda expected a body at the end of a trail of blood and bullets…”