@archetypxl liked for a starter.
The soft morning sunlight and the gentle bustle of traffic belied the heavy, coppery scent in the air. The day had come in unseasonably warm, the storm clouds overhead had trundled away during the night, and all around the dewy grass seemed to promise spring was on its way--but the deep shadows in the darkest corner of the underpass carried the smell of blood so strongly that even the pigeons roosting in the struts had cleared out.
The passerby, for their part, remained obligingly oblivious; most puttered by in their cars, preoccupied getting to work and shielded from the stench by the vehicles’ overworked air conditioning. Others--those unfortunate enough to be treading the road on foot--knew better than to investigate a smell like that, especially alone and especially in so shady of a locale. So until noon, it festered, growing hot and sticky and repulsive as the sun reached its apex in the sky.
It was only then that anyone happened to chance upon the scene. Whether it was the scent that drew him or the cumbersome weight of fear and pain that hung in the air with it was uncertain, but by midday, the shadows beneath the overpass had lightened, somewhat. Those who peered closely enough into the murkiness might notice the thick nest of rotted bedding--blankets, clothes, a battered sleeping bag--tucked into the crevice between the slope of the pavement and the bridge above it.
And there beneath the mass of tattered fabric, a person lay, curled. Sleep erased the strain from their ghastly, pale face; they looked almost childlike in the twilight. As innocent as they seemed, it was easy to miss the the rent, skinless corpse tangled in the blankets beside them.
Except of course, for the smell of blood.
