The cold storage tunnels beneath Chicago smelled like frozen beef and bad decisions.
Thomas O'Brien sat on an upturned crate and counted the food. He had two boxes of hardtack, a sack of dried beans that might have been beans three years ago, a jar of molasses with a crack in the side, and a pencil with two inches left. He wrote the numbers in a matchbook ledger because matchbooks were free and the paper was the right size for his pocket. Above them, the infected scratched at...
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