100 Days in Deadland (16 page)

He looked outside, thought for a moment, and then nodded.

I opened the door, lifted my rifle, and took aim. The naked zed went down. I fired again. Fourteen shots. Twelve dead zeds. I needed to work on my aim.

“Happy now?” he asked when I settled back in.

I smiled. Twelve fewer zeds to trespass onto the farm. “Very.”

The Pierson farm was only another mile down the road, just past a farmhouse much in need of a new paint job. “Since it’s so close, we can check out this one next,” I mentioned as we drove past.

“Earl’s,” he replied. “A bit of a hermit, so he may have ridden out the outbreak. If he’s not around, we may be able to pick up an extra gun or two.”

A new green combine sat next to a machine shed. I thought back to the zed I’d decapitated a couple weeks back. “Was Earl a tall, skinny guy? Wore a John Deere hat?”

Clutch narrowed an eye at me. “Yeah, why?”

“We don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I guess we’ll check out his place next, then.”

He stopped before turning into the Pierson’s driveway, while we scanned their farm, but it looked quiet and untouched. But we knew that wasn’t the case.

We knew at least Tom Pierson was home. The house was close enough to the road that on two different drive-
bys we clearly saw a man staring blankly out the window. Close enough for the man inside to see us and start thumping bloody fists against the glass. I suspected the only reason he hadn’t broken the glass yet was because zeds seemed to have a limited ability to retain focus.

Even though he wasn’t standing in the window now, we knew better than to believe the house was safe. We had at least one zed waiting inside. The question was, where was Tom’s wife? She could be in the house, or she could be lurking around the chicken shed. Or, if she was lucky, she got away.

I’d already learned that very few people tended to get lucky in this world.

Thunder boomed in the distance, startling me.

“You okay?” Clutch asked.

I nodded. “Sounds like another storm’s coming.”

Clutch parked the truck behind the Pierson’s Ford truck and cut the engine. The garage door had been left open, and the driver’s door was left ajar.

“We’ll clear out the house first since we know Tom’s in there. Then the yard,” Clutch rumbled in his rough voice. “Be ready.”

We moved with slow, silent steps into the attached garage. Putting my back to Clutch’s, we scanned the two stalls. He checked out both vehicles. I bent down to check under the vehicles. When I came to my feet, I gave him the sign for
okay
.

We stopped at the door leading from the garage to the house. Streaks of dried blood marred the paint. Clutch reached for the handle and turned it slowly. The hinges protested with a small creak. He looked inside and then took a step in. I immediately followed, checking behind the door and then taking the side of the door opposite from Clutch.

Even wearing a Kevlar helmet with the face shield down, the stench of decay and excrement was overpowering, and I forced myself to breathe through my mouth. No zed had emerged yet, which meant that maybe it hadn’t heard the door open.

Or maybe it just moved slowly.

A zed that I assumed had once been Tom Pierson ambled around the corner right when Clutch took a step forward. It saw us and gave a guttural hiss. I was closer. I swung, cleaving the top section of its head clean off. Some brown goo hemorrhaged from the wound, but not nearly as much as had come from Alan’s head in the back of Clutch’s rig. It seemed like the longer they’d been infected, the less “wet” they were…and a hell of a lot more smelly. I gagged and tried to block the stench that made me think of what moldy cottage cheese, rotten eggs, and putrid ground beef blended together would smell like.

Clutch kneeled by the body, and lifted its shirt. “Looks like someone unloaded a small caliber into him. If I had to guess, I’d say it was done after he turned.” Then Clutch stood, stepped over the body, and moved into the next room.

I followed, hoping the smell would improve. It didn’t. The living room was a mess. Broken glass and suitcases littered the floor. On the coffee table sat a purse with several hundred dollars scattered about. It looked like the guy’s wife was planning an escape. Too bad money couldn’t have helped her. I noticed the pistol then. It was a .22, similar to my first pistol. I picked it up and checked the cartridge.
Empty
. I frowned and slid the .22 into the back of my belt. “I don’t think she got out.”

Clutch’s lips thinned and he nodded before moving through the room and into the hallway. He took the stairs with silent steps, and I had to concentrate to be as quiet. Upstairs, there were no signs of struggle, though there were clear signs that someone had been in a hurry to pack. Drawers were pulled open, clothes draped the bed.

But no dark stains or bodies.

I checked under the bed while Clutch checked the closet. We repeated the process with the next three rooms. “Clear,” I said, though fear nagged at me. Where had she gone? Had she managed to flee the house before she turned?

We headed back down the stairs and finished off the rest of the ground floor. When we came to the last closed door, I groaned when I saw the blood on the handle. “It had to be the basement, didn’t it.”

I reached over and pulled out the flashlight from Clutch’s belt, and clicked it on. He motioned
three-two-one
before opening the door. Pitch black and vile stench greeted us. Beneath the smell of decay that haunted the entire house, the basement also smelled of wet earth and mildew.

With no windows to let in light, I realized that this must be a cellar like the one at Clutch’s house. I shone the light down the stairs to reveal dried blood stains on the steps but no movement. I glanced at Clutch. With a shrug, he called out, “Any zed-fucks down there?”

Something clanked, and then something grunted. The sounds of moaning, shuffling, and banging continued.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I sang, shining the light across the floor to draw it out. There’d been plenty of blood, and I suspected this was where Tom’s wife escaped after being attacked. Dark water covered at least a third of the floor, and I realized that without power, sump pumps could no longer do their jobs.

At the edge of the water, the light fell on a horribly damaged carcass of something small that had tufts of yellow fur still attached. I cringed. “Ah, geez. She ate the cat.”

A shape fell forward, and I jumped.

“And there’s the missus,” Clutch said drily.

Mrs. Pierson must’ve been brutally attacked by the man she’d trusted most in the world. Bites spanned the zed’s neck, hands, and arms. Scratches covered its face, but I suspected those were from the cat fighting for its life. The zed stumbled forward, reaching for the light with each step. Clutch pulled out his Glock but didn’t fire.

The zed kicked the first stair step. Bumped into it again. The third time, it fell forward.

“How about that,” I said. “They can’t climb stairs.”

As it dragged itself up, it started the process over again.

“But they never get tired,” Clutch replied. “I bet if it kept at it long enough, it’d get lucky and fall
up
the stairs.” He fired the gun, and the zed fell backward, its hand making a small splash in the standing water.

“Let’s make this quick,” he muttered, taking the first step.

I kept the light in front of us, moving it to scan the sides. It was an unsettling feeling, entering the literal bowels of the house, not knowing what else could be down here. At the foot of the stairs, Clutch motioned for the flashlight. He took it and shone it across the basement. I held the machete in front of me.

Fortunately, the basement was wide open, with no doors or rooms, let alone shelves or boxes. In fact, the only things down there were two corpses, one zed and one tabby housecat. “There’s nothing down here. Maybe they’ve always had flooding issues with it,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Good,” he muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”

He wasted no time hustling back up the stairs.

“Don’t like dark basements?” I asked when he shut the basement door behind us.

“Not one bit.”

I chortled.

“What?”

“I never would’ve guessed you to be afraid of anything.”

After a moment, he shrugged. “I’m only human.”

The thought of Clutch getting hurt—or worse—quickly sobered me. “Yeah. Guess so.”

With the house clear, we moved quickly through to inventory food and supplies to load later. The
Piersons weren’t very good planners. They had little to offer, so we went ahead and loaded everything we found into one suitcase. I was about to open the refrigerator when Clutch pressed his hand over mine. “Before you do that, I’d hold my breath if I were you.”

I bit my lip. “Oh. Good call.”

Clutch stepped back as I sucked in a breath and opened the refrigerator. And I was glad I did. Milk, leftovers, and raw meat filled the shelves. I moved quickly, grabbing only the items I was hoping to find. Aluminum cans.

I pulled out the twelve-pack of light beer and the four cans of soda and slammed the door shut. I lifted the beer and smiled. I made the mistake of inhaling to brag about my find, and gagged from the lingering stench from the refrigerator.

Clutch smirked and opened the door to the garage.

I pushed past him and sucked in fresh air. He came out behind me and dropped the suitcase into the back of the truck. He pulled out an old wire carrier he’d found somewhere along the way. “Let’s wrap this up.”

I put the twelve-pack and soda in the back and followed. We’d only burned a half hour clearing the house, leaving us plenty of time for the only other building on the farm. It looked like an old hog house that had been converted to store machinery. A large caged-in chicken area had been built onto the side with a door leading into the old shed. The door was closed, likely blown shut in the storms. Four chickens and one rooster pecked at the grass. Their feathers were matted, and they were scrawny. They had to be near starving, with nothing to eat but what they could find in the twenty-by-twenty area of grass fenced in for their home.

They seemed agitated, ruffling their feathers and chattering away. I realized why when I saw the furred shape nearly hidden in the shadow of the tractor. It was big, maybe a wolf, and I nudged Clutch and pointed.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones eying these chickens.”

He took several steps toward the beast and waved his hands. “Shoo. Get out of here.”

It growled, showing its teeth.

Clutch stomped closer. “Sorry, bud. But we need these chickens as bad as you.”

It kept growling even as it backed up with every step Clutch took forward, until it turned and ran off. It was actually a mutt, big but skinny. Probably some farm dog in the area. I felt a bit bad that he’d probably suffered as badly as any of us had since the outbreak, going from an easy diet of dog food to having to fend for himself. But I didn’t feel bad enough to toss him a chicken. Clutch was right. We needed them.

Other than the dog, there was nothing to scare up around the building. Only a tractor and lawn mower sat in the shed, making it easy enough to check for zeds.

Inside the building stood a chicken coop made out of plywood, probably used to protect the chickens at night and during cold weather. I knocked on the door and listened for any movement. When I heard none, I opened the door, with Clutch at my back. Inside was hay and wooden roosts. Eight white-feathered bodies lay dead across the floor, likely from starvation or thirst, if the empty water and food bowls were any sign. A few eggs rested undisturbed in the nest boxes, but I left those, unwilling to test their level of rottenness.

There was another door across from us, and I opened this one without worry, having already seen where it led from the outside. “Hey,
chickies,” I said, taking a step onto the grass.

They came running to me, clucking happy little welcomes, and I grinned. “They’re tame.”

“Get them loaded up,” Clutch said from the doorway. “I’m going to check out the fuel situation, and see if the vehicles have anything worthwhile.”

“I’ll take it from here.” I didn’t even look up. I was too busy enjoying being the center of chicken attention.

“And be careful,” he warned.

I was sweating by the time I got three of the five chickens loaded into the carrier. Just because they were friendly creatures that couldn’t fly didn’t make them easy to catch.

Taking a break, I grabbed the three large bags of chicken feed from inside the building and tossed them in the truck next to the portable fuel tank, which Clutch was finishing siphoning gas into from the Piersons’ two cars.

Finished, he disconnected the portable pump’s cables from his truck battery, and slid the pump handle behind the tank. He’d used the portable tank for his tractors in the fields, but it hadn’t taken him long to dump the diesel from the tank so we could use it for gasoline.

Clutch eyed the two chickens still milling in their fenced area and raised an eyebrow.