He heard Walt whimper in his sleep and toyed with the idea of waking him up as well. In the end, Allen let him sleep. Maybe they were good whimpers. Plus, the boy probably needed the sleep. They all did. With that thought in mind, he closed his eyes and tried not to dream of Diana.
Upon waking up from a nightmare of being torn apart by cold hands in the dark, he decided not to try that technique again. Better to dream of Diana and her loss than to dream about being torn apart.
The third time he fell asleep, he managed to find a nice balance of the two, sadness mixed with fear as he walked through the fields with his father. He held a hunting rifle as he stalked through the cornfields around his parents' old house. They were shooting crows and the dead that drifted through the rows, unseen until they appeared out of nowhere, growling and reaching for him and his father. As always, his father was the better shot, but he didn't lord it over Izzy. They killed without speaking, the dust rising up around them, and the breeze making the corn rustle. His mom wasn't there, and that was the cause of the sadness in his father's eyes. But for a while, they had each other, and then he was being shaken awake.
"Go fast, I'm timing your asses. We need to be able to be packed and out of a place in no less than three minutes. Go, go, go."
It was Tejada's voice. Allen glanced at him only long enough to see him looking at the face of the old-fashioned windup watch he carried. He didn't look up from it as he said, "Come on, Allen, get the sand out. Pack up your kit, or we're leaving your ass."
Allen popped to his feet. With his mind still clogged with images of his own death and his body pumping adrenaline, he moved fast. He straightened his bag, zipped it up, and then rolled it up tight so it would take up hardly any space. He fastened the nylon cords around the ends to keep it in shape and then fastened it to his backpack. He threw his backpack on, situated his rifle, and then turned to look at Tejada.
"Time," Tejada called.
Allen looked around the room to see everyone else ready to go.
"Last place, Allen. I expect you to be quicker next time."
"Yes, sir," Allen said.
"Alright, everyone, grab some chow, then we're gonna get our ass out of here."
Tejada hobbled to a chair sitting around the conference table that dominated the room. He sat with a heavy sigh. Allen fished around in his bag to find something to eat. He came out with a can of chili, but he stuffed it back in. He wanted to save the chili for some other time. He was rooting around in his bag when he remembered the toilet paper situation. They didn't have a lot of it. The aisles had been mostly cleaned out. In a few weeks, it was going to be mostly a leaf situation when it came to number twos. He pulled the can of chili out and used the little can opener he had to pop the lid off. Might as well eat the chili now, just in case it turned into a nasty situation afterward.
With a metal spoon, he scooped a bite of the chili into his mouth. It only took a moment before he realized his mistake. It was hot. The chili was burning his mouth. He picked up the can and noticed the word "hot" centered in a red oval. "Hot" might not have been the right word to describe this chili. "Nuclear" seemed like it would be more accurate. He had never been one for spice and heat. Now he was suffering from it. He only hoped it didn't come out as hot as it went in.
"You ok?" Brown asked.
"It's hot," Allen said.
"Shoot. You white boys can't handle the spice. It's all that white bread you all eat when you're growing up. Kills your spice receptors."
A thin sheen of sweat broke out on Allen's forehead, and his nose started to run. The others laughed at him.
Brown said, "Here. Lemme trade with you. Can't have you dyin' from a little spice."
Allen gratefully traded with Brown, who handed him a can of beef and barley soup. "Thank you," he said. Allen could barely taste the soup as he spooned it into his mouth. The spice clung to his tongue and lips, and he wondered how long it would stick around. The soup was bland, but after the heat of the chili, he was in no position to complain.
They left their cans sitting on the table. There was no point in cleaning up. The assisted living facility would reek of rot until the day it crumbled. In pairs, they searched the building, keeping out of sight of the front doors. The dead were still out there, waiting for them—as if they knew the living were somewhere in the area.
In the kitchen, Allen and Epps rifled through the dry goods. They didn't touch the freezers. Whatever was in there would have gone bad long ago. The summer had been hot, and the power had gone out near the end of June. There was no way that anything in there would be good.
"Found some flour," Epps said.
"What are you gonna do with some flour?" Allen asked.
"I don't know. Bake bread?"
"Do you know how to bake bread?" Allen asked.
"Not really."
"Then
