Officer Graham Church knew it was bad before they made it to the door. There was a rookie not much older than him who was puking his guts out beside a parked squad car. Graham stared at the decrepit cabin wondering just what was inside. He’d only been on the job just over three weeks and already seen a woman dead over a month. No one had noticed her gone until a stray cat delivered a finger to someone’s doorstep. That had been sort of zombie gross. More surreal like a movie than the real thing. He still could piece it together in his head, but it didn’t make his stomach churn.

He’d also seen a pretty bad car accident which left a man in pieces. That one had made him spew. The senior officer he was paired with, Detective Strand, had just patted him on the back and told him he’d get used to it, and that car accidents were some of the worst kind of gross they’d see.

Except this time around even Strand was tense through the shoulders. All over a cabin that looked like it was falling down. The property was surrounded by overgrowth and weeds. A fence had been erected, but was mostly hidden by brambles. The stench of shit was in the air making Graham wonder if one of the alpaca farms was close. He’d been lucky to get the job with the San Juan PD, and Friday Harbor had a list of tourist traps of which the alpaca farms were just one. He just hadn’t had time to explore them yet.

Another cop came out and barely made it to the side of the beat-up stairs when he started throwing up. Graham had to put a hand to his nose and fight his gag reflex. Strand had warned him that cops who started vomiting at the sight of other people vomiting didn’t last long.

Inside the cabin wasn’t any better than the outside. Light shown through the roof. The walls and floors were rotted. What little furniture there was appeared to be moldy and wet. The kitchen, if that was what the room could be called, had a couple counters and a sink that didn’t appear to work. No appliances. There was a room off to the side in which the windows were boarded shut and there appeared to be no leaks in that roof. There was a single double bed in the room, which looked dirty and worn. There were several pairs of handcuffs linked to the heavy iron-looking bedframe. They were each placed at the corner, and under the ring attached to the frame were scrapes along the metal, like they’d been used a lot. Graham swallowed back a lot of unpleasant thoughts at the sight.

The trail of cops led out the back and to the fenced in part of the yard. It was an odd set-up. Like a junk yard of tiny sheds, dozens of them. There was trash strewn everywhere. Tarps and wood planks patching together tiny roofs on top of small wood-rotted huts. Each shed was probably four feet high and maybe barely that wide. The ground was covered in feces. The stench of urine overpowering.

Maybe that was why the cops were throwing up. Graham wondered if it was dogs. They’d taken the man out in cuffs already. He’d been a scruffy sort of mountain looking man, but hadn’t put up much of a fight. If he had dogs back there in each of the little hovels that was bad, but Graham could handle it. He hated animal cruelty, but somehow it had to be easier than people strewn across a road.

No one was moving through the sheds. The first one off to the right was open, and another cop was spewing not far from it. The whole group seemed frozen, confused, as though at a loss of what to do. Strand approached the hut, stood in the open doorway and stared.

It took Graham a moment to pick his way around the worst of the grime to the detective’s side. Only to wish he hadn’t.

It wasn’t dogs. And nothing with a pulse deserved to live like that.

Whatever was in that shed, had been human at one time. Sightless eyes stared out of the curled mass of bones, matted hair, and withered skin. It was chained to a pole built into the side of the shed. Graham couldn’t tell if it had been male or female, but it was small. Curled around itself in the tiny space, without enough room to stand up or lie flat. Even crouched into a ball, it was tiny. Too small to be an adult.

His gorge rose and he fought it. He stepped back and almost slipped on a pile of shit. There were more than a dozen sheds. Most unopened. Everyone appeared immobile, shocked to stillness perhaps. Graham moved without even thinking, throwing the door open of the next, and the next. Only to be met with corpse after corpse. Children. Dozens of them. Oh God.

His vision swam. He didn’t know if it was from the rising nausea or the stench. He went through a dozen huts before something made him stop.

This pile moved. This little batch of emaciated skin and bones breathed. “Fuck!” He screamed. “Medic. We have one alive in here. Get a fucking medic!”

Whatever stupor the rest had been in seemed to be broken by his shout and they all began to move. Strand was throwing open doors and other older cops were checking the bodies for signs of life. The young ones like Graham, the rookies, seemed to have all abandoned the area, like it was just too much for them to handle.

But Graham went to his knees beside the barely moving form, not caring that various bits of excrement were soaking into his uniform. “Hold on, okay? Help is on the way.” Graham gently brushed a mat of grimy hair back to stare into startled green eyes. They were so wide. Terrified. But Graham kept muttering calming words. He heard shouts come up a couple more times. There was more than one child alive back there. Though most were long gone. Graham’s heart pounded as he prayed that he could save at least this one.