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attacker.
         He bent down and searched the body.    
         “Well hello there Mr. Grant” He said to himself. “Fifty bucks ought to be worth something.”
         He found some Camel cigarettes and a picture of a small boy who appeared to be about eight or nine years old, he also found a butane lighter in the shirt pocket, this was something he had not laid eyes on in some time and he flicked it a couple of times to make certain that it worked.
         He pocketed the money, the cigarettes and the lighter and then tossed the picture to the floor beside the body but then had second thoughts and retrieved it from the floor and as he was bending over the body he noticed a necklace around the neck of the corpse and yanked it free and stuck it and the photograph shirt pocket.
          The corpse’s hand was frozen around a weapon, he pried it out of the hardened fist; he also found two extra magazines on the gun belt. Almost as an afterthought he reached down and pulled the ski mask off of the body and was surprised to find that it was a woman.
         “Damn shame,” he exclaimed.
         He gathered his equipment and blankets and decided it was much too risky for him to stay here now and it was still dark out. He would either have to find some other place to rest or go without for the remainder of the night.
    The Wasters were active at night and the Resurrection virus had given them excellent low light vision but they were blinded by sunlight, in fact any type of light source created a pain response in them. They were quick to attack and could run at least thirty miles per hour and keep up that pace for three quarters of a mile.    
          He found a hiding place under a large cedar tree which had thick, low hanging branches and remained there until daylight.
     

     
    Chapter 8
     
     
         “It is always darkest just before the day dawneth.”
        He always seemed to remember that quote at times like these, he was not sure why and he was not certain the adage was appropriate any longer.
          When he was reasonably convinced that the Wasters had gone underground he built a small fire and made some coffee. Coffee was a luxury but he had managed to be able to trade or buy or steal enough for at least one cup a day. Whiskey on the other hand was a necessity that one could be killed for, good whiskey at any rate; he poured a taste in his coffee.
         He pulled a book from his pack, leaned back against the tree trunk and enjoyed his coffee while he read. He had read this particular book so many times he could almost recite it word for word, “The Grapes of Wrath” by John Steinbeck.
    He looked longingly at the now crumpled cover and wiped a gloved hand across the faded picture of the ancient gasoline powered vehicle on the front. He sighed and opened the book.
       After a while he pulled the picture of the boy from his pocket. The child was smiling and his front teeth were missing, it must be a school picture Charlie thought. He looked at the back of the photo,” Zeke” was written there in fading pencil.
         “Hi Zeke,” he whispered.
         Then he remembered the necklace and dug it out of his pocket as well. The chain was gold and had a charm hanging from it that was engraved with the words “Ezekiel 37:13. He put the picture in the book and returned the necklace to his pocket and lay it on his pack and allowed himself to soak in the sights and sounds of early morning. He thought how beautiful daybreak on the desert was and his mind began to wander.
     
          Curtains ghost dance in a listless breeze, electric blue streetlamp casts lacey shadows on the wall, forlorn twittering of a night bird calling to its mate in the darkness.
         The mattress quivered gently as father got out of bed. A sliver of soft yellow light spilled from the bathroom door out into the hallway. He pulled the blanket up around his chin.
      Frank Sinatra crooning