"You gonna make condiment soup?" Allen asked him.
Brown paused before pushing through the swinging door. "Hey, that's not a bad idea."
Allen just shrugged. It couldn't be worse than some of the stuff they were already eating. They set their goods down on one of the tables.
"Anything back there?" Tejada asked.
"Just some spoiled meat. Don't open the freezer door if you value being able to smell."
"Copy that," Tejada said.
Masterson and Gregg appeared from a door that led to the area behind the beer coolers, a green bucket dangling from Gregg's hand.
"What the hell is that?" Tejada asked.
"A pickle bucket," Gregg said triumphantly.
"This fucking thing is filled with pickles. You think they're still good to eat?" Masterson pulled the lid off the bucket. They shined their lights down into the briny water. Allen looked inside to see the dark shape of pickles floating in the water like underwater slugs.
Tejada shrugged his shoulders. "Only one way to find out. Whiteside, you're up."
It was no coincidence that Tejada picked Whiteside to be the food-taster. Coming from a long line of backwoods chefs, Whiteside had eaten everything that could be eaten. His diatribes on the flavor of squirrel and possum were notorious among the men. There wasn't anything that he wouldn't eat, and he claimed he had a cast-iron stomach. He also boasted about the fact that he hadn't gotten the shits in over a decade.
"Oh, don't eat that, man. You're gonna be spraying mud all over the place," Epps said.
"Spraying mud?" D.J. asked.
"Don't worry about it," Rudy said to the boy.
Tejada cleared his throat and said, "Maybe he's right. Can't very well march very fast if you have to slow down to…" Tejada glanced over at the children and changed what he was about to say, "… to make a poopy every five minutes."
Without warning, Whiteside plunged his hand into the water and pulled out a pickle. He looked at it, sniffed it, and then took a great bite out of it. He chewed slowly, and then he smiled. He gave a thumbs-up, his hand still dripping with pickle juice, and he said, "It's good."
"Too bad you dipped your whole shit mitt in the pickles. I'm not eating that shit now," Masterson said.
"What?" Whiteside asked, confused by Masterson's response.
"Your dirty hand, man. You could have used some tongs or something, but you threw your whole damn hand in there, and don't get me wrong, I ain't sayin' you're dirty or nothing, but you ain't the cleanest motherfucker on the planet."
"Come on!" Whiteside said, looking for support. "It's just a hand!"
Allen shook his head. There was no way he was going to eat one of those pickles now.
Tejada clapped Whiteside on the shoulder. "Look at it this way. On the bright side of things, you got all those pickles to yourself. On the bad side, that's all you're getting tonight. The rice, the rest of our shit, none of it for you."
"You're serious?" Whiteside asked.
Tejada's smile dropped from his face, and he stepped up to Whiteside. They were of comparable height, but Whiteside's slender shape seemed dwarfed by Tejada's boxy form. "Whiteside, I'm gonna need you to think a little more out here. You may have an iron gut, but the rest of us can't afford to get sick. You see any doctors around here? If one of us gets sick because you put your dirty ass hand in our food, that could be the end of one of us. So, yes, I'm serious. Deadly serious. Is that a problem?"
"No, sir."
"Good. Now enjoy your pickles." Tejada turned his back on him then, and so did the rest of the soldiers. Rudy and Amanda hustled the children over to a corner, and they sat together, trying to keep warm.
Though the inside of the pub was somewhat warmer than being outside, it wasn't really all that warm. Allen moved to the area behind the bar, rolling up the slip mats behind the counter and throwing them in a corner. He placed his backpack on the ground and pulled his sleeping bag free. He unrolled it, pleased to find that it was completely dry. He draped it around his shoulders like a cape, and then he moved over to the beer coolers.
"Don't go getting shitfaced," Tejada said from behind him. "We still gotta walk tomorrow."
Allen nodded without turning around. He pulled open the door of the cooler. Outside, the first Annie appeared, stumbling past the windows. He wished they had something to cover the windows so that he could turn on a light. The labels of the beers were hard to read in the darkness of the pub, but a flashlight would give away their position. He grabbed an armload of nondescript beers and carried them into the kitchen area where there were no windows.
Once in the kitchen, he set the beers on the counter and then shined his flashlight on the bottles. He had brought six beers with him. Their labels were bright and colorful, the color of the beer inside hidden by the brown glass of the bottles. He stood soaking in the labels, artistry on display, marketing design at its height. He smirked at one of the labels on the beer, Audrey Hopburn Belgian IPA.
He smiled at the stupid pun and grabbed the beer. He put the edge of the cap against the steel prep table, and then he slapped his palm down on the bottle cap. It came free with a hiss. By the light of his flashlight, he saw a small wisp of carbonated fog escape the bottle, coalescing for a moment before dissipating into the air.
He held the beer in
