Dropping into a combat crouch, he sweeps the lab with the barrel of the 
Predator. The "lab" looks like a battlefield: everything smashed and scorched by
fire. Lots of technical equipment, recalling to Kirkland’s mind police reports
on the fire that swept through the place. Nothing moves. Nobody’s here. The
floor is midnight-black and it crunches under his feet as he carefully walks 
around, checking the place out. The stench is incredible, worse than week-old 
corpses, and the air feels cool, almost chilly. Kirkland pulls out his 
handkerchief and holds it over his nose and mouth. There’s a big cutout in one
wall, like for a window, about half the length of the lab. The room beyond is 
just as blasted as the main room. More technical gear, smashed, shredded, 
scorched.