We round the corner to Choi's office, still shaken from our encounter with the man with the sickle, only to stop dead in our tracks. The fluorescent light above Choi's office door flickers erratically, illuminating a scene that makes my throat constrict.
A mass of figures stands clustered around his door - seven, maybe eight of them - but they barely look human anymore. They sway slightly in unison, like seaweed in a dark current. Their flesh bears the same signs of decay as the man with the sickle: patches of skin sloughing off, exposed areas black with rot, clothes hanging in moldy tatters from their bodies. The smell hits us like a physical wall - that same sickly-sweet decay mixed with something chemical and wrong.
"Dear god," Han whispers beside me, his gun raised but trembling slightly. "Are those... are those our missing officers?"
