Ollie hated looting. Plainly put, nothing else to it. He hated it. And he hated it even more when people compared looting to stealing. There was no effort in looting. You broke into a house that was already decrepit and raided things that people were probably wishing they could have. That wasn't like stealing, not at all.
Before the world went to hell, Ollie had only ever really raided one house. It had been a plan of Allie's: a rich, holier-than-thou new family in moved in down the street from Uncle James' house, and they instantly started talking down on Ollie, Allie and Uncle James, because they looked foreign. They couldn't just stand for that, could they? So, with Allie's brilliant plan in hand, they broke into the assholes' house while they were out to a family dinner and stole over half of the contents of their jewelry box and a priceless Matisse painting that had been hanging in their dining room.
The funds they got from that heist had funded a family vacation to Maui, where they made another few thousand dollars in a casino heist.
This was hardly as satisfying as that. His lockpicking tools hung unused and unneeded on his hip with his glass cutter, because none of the doors were really locked and he walked down the hall like he owned the place, completely unchallenged save for a couple of zombies in his path, which were easily dispatched with his gold Berettas.
Heaving a sigh, he approached the next door down the line. The door was already open. Even less fun.
Sighing, he made his way inside and looked around. The place was barren. It had been picked clean and there was nothing left to speak of. He'd been about to turn for the door when he heard a whine, sounding like it had come from a dog. He stopped in his tracks and his hand went to his right side gun as he made his way toward the noise, vaguely concerned about what he'd find.
"Hello?" he called out before he reached the corner.