Nick caught the scent shortly after crossing under the interstate. The walk had been uneventful; they passed a police station, parking lot, and railroad tracks before going beneath I-4. The streets thinned. The buildings grew more dilapidated. Roads and sidewalks were cracked, uneven, littered with random papers, plastic bags, and shattered glass. There were signs of renovation, but in its early stages. They passed within sight of the arena and its parking garage, but kept south of it and walked into the heart of the residential district. There, near the burnt-out remains of a single-story apartment building, the deathly reek assaulted him. A six-foot-high chain link fence protected the charred concrete. None of the wood had survived, apparently, and very little of the structure was lighter than charcoal. Three concrete buildings stood within the fence, all burned, with a sign: “Keep out, by order of the Orlando Fire Department.” “Fireman training,” Nick said. “She’s in there.”
