The staircase led to a small underground bunker. Dust motes floated in the weak light from a battered lamp on a worn desk. A makeshift cot sat in one corner, threadbare but clearly used. Jones’s pulse quickened, somebody has been living here.
His gaze shifted to the far wall, covered with dozens of missing dog posters. Faces stared back, worn edges curling with age. Jones’s mind raced. Why are there so many posters of missing dogs? Is that the reason why these dogs have been barking endlessly here?