The dilapidated factory would be torn down once the case ended. Eleven dead in a mysterious fire. I would have liked to get a picture of the fire. Better still, one of the men burning… banging on the door screaming… hands flailing… Could have made good money out of that.
Stepping over rotting planks, I inhale deeply. Charred smell lingers, almost like last weekend’s barbecue. The thought makes me laugh.
A sudden waft and the door bangs shut plunging me into darkness. Groping inside my bag, I pull out the flash light. That’s when I see them, singed, smoky; and as they walk towards me, the flames flare again.
In response to the Friday Fictioneers challenge of 29 September 2017 based on a photo by J. Hardy Carroll.