The caretaker's house was in complete disarray. Granted, it was largely my doing, but even before I'd upended his drawers and emptied his closets, the place had been in a terrible state. Towering stacks of dirty dishes adorned the kitchen counter, alongside various pizza boxes, coffee mugs and cheap paperback novels. The caretaker himself still hung from ceiling like a grisly piñata. I didn't feel right, looting the house while the owner was still in it, even if he was dead. I cut through the noose and winced as the caretaker fell on floor in an undignified heap. I dropped the body outside and made a half-hearted sign of the cross. He was still human, after all, and I figured he would have appreciated it.
Careful not to knock over the leaning tower of dishes (the noise would certainly attract nearby walkers), I searched the kitchen for any foodstuffs still edible and stuffed them into my bag. It was largely bread, rice, oatmeal and a variety of raw vegetables. The fridge held a six-pack of cheap soda and a two-liter bottle of club soda. It wasn't much, but I was grateful for every scrap. I grabbed a small, battery-powered radio, a couple of disposable lighters and five boxes of matches.
A small shed behind the house produced a regular treasure trove of tools and building materials. I left the power tools alone, but made sure to bring a full array of normal ones, along with several dozen boxes of nails and screws in all shapes and sizes, three rolls of duct tape and a pair of safety glasses. With my bag and toolboxes full of supplies, I hurried back to the church. Before closing the doors behind me, I spotted something a little disconcerting. Half a dozen walkers were milling about on the street just beyond the graveyard perimeter. They hadn't spotted me, thank God, but something had drawn them here. Maybe they could smell me.
That thought made an unpleasant shiver crawl down my back.
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