He rolls over, sticks his head out over the edge, peers down into the darkness, lets his eyes adjust. The undead file past in groups of five, thirteen, forty-two. They don't notice him; all they see or smell is the distant fire that used to be San Antonio. They are drawn to the light, at least while the sun is down. He wonders if they will walk directly into the flames once they arrive. Maybe that was the idea. Maybe it was intentional.
He rolls back over, closes his eyes. He should sleep now, while he can, while he's safe.