The next aisle contains miscellaneous household items. Most are useless, like light bulbs and printer paper. But I grab a few packs of batteries, emergency candles, and a weird little press-on light that we can hang on a wall somewhere. I find a pack of nails and a small hammer; maybe we’ll want to—I don’t know, fortify something? Next I grab toilet paper, then several flats of bottled water, a box of tampons. My cart is filling fast.

I’m scooting toward the magazine and book rack when I see the boot. It juts out on the floor from behind the coffee bar. It’s shabby-black with worn tread, and the toe is sticking straight up in defiance of all the laws of physics of the universe—except if there’s a foot inside it.

“Trey!” I call out. I release the cart and peer around the counter.

A man lies on the floor. He no longer has a face; his head is a wreck of bone bits and congealed blood and rotting flesh. Black-brown blood spatters the floor and the wall behind him. One hand is flung over his chest. It still grips a shiny black handgun.

I sense Trey come up behind me. “Oh, god,” he says in a strangled voice. “That’s . . . that’s . . .”

I stare at the dead hand. It’s shrunken and thin, the remaining flesh the color of wet cardboard. The reek is awful. “Look, Trey. He has a gun.”

“I . . . Yes. A gun.” He sounds far away, and I look over my shoulder to find that Trey has turned his back on the scene.

Emmaline snuffles the dead man’s pant leg.

“It would be a lot easier to find ammunition for that handgun than your rifle,” I point out. “We could probably get it at a Walmart. Or a sporting goods store.”

I watch the back of his head nod. “Sure,” he says.

Trey isn’t going to be any help. I’ll have to pry the gun from cold, dead fingers all by myself.

I creep forward, wary though I’m not sure why. It’s not like he’s going to jump up and attack me. His other arm is flung off to the side. Beside his wrist is an open wallet and a piece of paper, neatly folded. It’s damp with . . . body juices? . . . which makes the ink of the handwriting show through backward. My stomach turns over, but I think of Trey freaking out behind me and I ignore the nausea. One of us has to be strong.

I’m not sure what makes me do it, but I bend down and gingerly pick up the wet piece of paper. Carefully so it doesn’t rip, I unfold it.

The ink is blurred, but I can still read the writing. “Wow,” I breathe.

“What?” Trey demands. “What is it?”

“Listen to this: