As I enter the dimly lit room, of the abandoned apartment, the smell alerts me, to what is coming. It's sulpher. Like somebody has been playing with matches. My eyes are quickly adjusting to the semi-dark quarters. It looks like a massacre of all that was orderly and functional. Shredded papers, broken dining room chair parts, record albums out of their cases, smashed ceramic table lamps, all littering the patchwork carpet and tile floor. A hole in the wall, where the large, flat screen, television had been mounted.

A nearly imperceptable, fleeting, glimpse of movement from my left, down the hall. Zero sound, aside from the pounding of my own heart. Nights like this really get the blood pumping.

When you're a hunter, every step you take, your breathing, your focus, are all fine tuned to your surroundings. You move your whole body, syncronizing it for efficiency, no wasted energy. Timing is everything. With a practiced, fluid movement, I drop to a near squat position, using the remains of the floral-print sofa for cover, drawing my sidearm.

Another waft of the pungent odor, carried by a sudden breeze, from the kitchen window being slightly open. Still no sound, odd. Very odd. With my eyes darting side to side, I strain my ears to pick up any sort of audial affirmation. Nothing. Not even myself.

It is at this moment, my thoughts jumble, briefly. I am not the hunter. I am the hunted. I feel the hot breath, slowly enveloping the back of my neck.