100 Days in Deadland (19 page)

Clutch’s lips tightened. He headed back to the Jeep and grabbed his backpack. “Let’s go meet Doyle.”

Tyler didn’t look pleased, but he motioned to the young, clean-cut man behind him, who walked up to us. “I’ll leave Corporal Smith behind to help bury the minutemen and guard the place.”

“How do I know I can trust your man?” Clutch countered.

I put a hand on Clutch’s forearm and looked at Tyler. “If he stays, he’s not allowed in the house, and he does what Jase says. Aside from the MREs, you haven’t exactly proven that we can trust Camp Fox.”

Clutch’s jaw was clenched, but he nodded. He turned to Jase. “You get all that?”

Jase looked up from where he and Eddy were playing with Mutt. “Yeah. Want me to start working on the gate?”

“No,” Clutch said. “That truck isn’t going anywhere. It’s a better barricade than the gate was right now. We’ll get it fixed tomorrow. Just keep an eye out.”

“Can I stay, Captain?” Eddy asked.

“Eddy and I were in the same class. We played football together,” Jase added, and then stuck out his chest. “Of course, I could outrun Eddy any day of the week.”

Eddy razzed Jase right back while Tyler smiled. “You both stay out of trouble. We’ll be back in a couple hours.
Smitty has a radio, so have him call me if you need anything.” The corporal jumped the fence and Clutch gave him a once-over as he walked over to the two boys.

“Let my mom know I’m all right, okay, Captain?” Eddy asked.

Tyler gave him a thumbs up before turning back to us, and he looked at my M24. “You won’t need your rifles on this trip.”

I clutched it harder as I climbed over the gate. “I always need my rifle.”

He opened his mouth to speak but shut it. He waved at the Humvee. “Nick, Griz, Tack, you’re with me.”

Clutch hopped the fence, his Blaser in tow. He brushed past Tyler, and opened the back door of the Humvee. I climbed in, followed by Clutch who sidled next to me.

Tyler took the front passenger seat, and I noticed another soldier behind the steering wheel. In the rear of the vehicle, I found two more soldiers: a black man at the .30 cal and a younger, lanky white man who, after seeing us, closed his eyes and leaned his back against the side. Even though neither looked aggressive, I was glad Clutch had sat next to me.

“Meet some of my team,” Tyler motioned to the other men. “Tack and Griz are handling the .30, and Nick’s our fine driver. Guys, meet Cash and…” Tyler turned in his seat to face Clutch. “I didn’t get your name and rank.”

“Seibert, Joseph. Sergeant First Class,” Clutch replied.

“With what unit, Sarge?” Tyler countered quickly.

“75
th
Ranger Regiment.”

“Hoorah,” the soldier manning the .30 cal called out.

Tyler nodded to the man who spoke. “Griz back there is a Ranger, too.”

“Hoorah,” Clutch replied, lifting a fist in the air.

“Being with the Rangers, I’m guessing you saw some action, then,” Tyler said.

Clutch gave a tight nod
. “OEF-A. Two tours.”

Tyler whistled. “Two tours in Afghanistan? Yeah, that counts as action.
Have you thought about joining up at Camp Fox? We could use a soldier with your experience.”

“How long do you think the Camp will be safe, Captain?” Clutch asked. “All those people confined in one place are going to attract zeds. And, all that heavy equipment is going to attract no-
gooders. I’ll support your efforts, but I’ve got my own people to protect. I can’t relocate my people to Camp Fox until I know you can maintain a defensible position.”

“I could order you to relocate to the Camp, Sarge,” Tyler said. “All troops, including retired and inactive, were recalled to service when the outbreak started. And all remaining able-bodied men were called in for the reserve militia.”

Clutch jutted out his chin. “Too bad I didn’t get the memo.”

Tyler pursed his lips. “I’ll let that slide for now. I don’t want to force you, but we need you. There may come a time when I’ll have to order you back to duty, and that time could come soon.”

Clutch’s lips thinned and the tension thickened the air. “Yes, sir.”

“If the militia is tied to Camp Fox, why do you let them do whatever they want?” I asked.

“What they did wasn’t right,” Tyler replied. “I’ll make sure we get to the bottom of it, though it won’t matter much longer. The militia is just a temporary structure until order can be restored.” Then he gave me one of those warm smiles. “Have you thought more about moving to the Camp? As you saw, one of your folks has a classmate there.”

“Jase can make his own decisions. But I go where Clutch goes.” Feeling a hard gaze on me, I turned and found Clutch scrutinizing me. Did he want me with him? Did he want me to go to the Camp? It drove me nuts that I couldn’t make out his expression.

“Well, there’s a lot of folks counting on our help at the Camp, and Sarge could make a big difference helping us rebuild,” Tyler said.

“I’m a patriot, Captain, but I’m not suicidal,” Clutch said. “Any notion at rebuilding is delusional until you put an end to the militia and fold them under your command. Do it before it’s too late.”

“Zeds!” Griz yelled behind me, and gunfire blasted from the Humvee.

The noise was deafening, and I gripped my rifle tighter. I snapped my eyes from one window to the next. Then I saw through the windshield several zeds collapse on the road.

“Are we clear?” Tyler called out after the shooting stopped.

“All clear,” the gunner yelled, and the Humvee sped up.

I leaned back and caught my breath. I looked at my window, contemplated rolling it down so I could shoot if needed, but decided to leave it up—the glass would provide some protection against zeds. I glanced to my right at Clutch. He gave me a questioning look. I forced a half-smile, and he turned his gaze back outside.

Tyler made a couple calls on his radio. Every few minutes, the gunner fired, and a zed fell. When we crossed Fox River, zeds floated in the water. Some lay on the mud banks. All dead. In a muddy field not far from the river, sat a tractor riddled with bullet holes. Inside, a body lay slumped over the steering wheel. “You’ve cleared out this entire area?” I asked.

Tyler nodded. “As much as we can. But more show up every day. Most are coming down from Chow Town. There’s simply too many there for us to clean out without risking lives and burning through too much ammo. So we wait and hit the ones that migrate in our direction.”

“How about the survivors still in town?” I asked.

“We used to make drive-throughs every day. At first, we’d fill our trucks with survivors. But after a couple weeks, we were lucky to find one or two, if any. Then a mob of zeds took down one of our Humvees. So Lendt cancelled the drive-throughs. The risk wasn’t worth the payout.” He pointed outside. “We’re almost there.”

In the middle of a flat marshland stood an old farmers’ cooperative. Three large grain silos reached for the sky, with smoke billowing from the top of one. Tall chain fences reinforced with plywood and two-by-fours buffered the buildings from the road. What hung outside those walls made me grimace. Surrounding the militia camp, every fifty feet or so, a dead zed hung from a pole like a scarecrow.

“Do you think the zeds get the hint?”

“Doubt it,” Clutch muttered.

On an ancient-looking billboard was written faded letters. I had to squint to read the words:

Doyle’s Iowa Surplus

& Paintball Supplies:

Open Seven Days a Week.

The paint had long since faded, leaving only the bold capital letters
D-I-S
on the first line easily legible from a distance. Still, I shivered when I read Doyle’s name. This made what we were about to do feel all the more real.

“It seems odd to have a surplus warehouse in the middle of farm country,” I said while Clutch rolled down his window.

“Camp Fox is only five miles straight east of here,” Tyler said. “This place is owned by a retired farmer, Dale Doyle. He had a connection with some brass at Fox a while back, and he worked out a deal to buy surplus at a hefty discount. It was right about the time they built the new farmer’s co-op on the other side of town, so he bought this place at a rock bottom price.”

“And it looks like the deal has already been sweetened,” Clutch muttered, nodding toward the two armored vehicles sitting at the gate. “How many M1117’s did you guys hand over to Doyle?”

“They needed lead-in trucks for survivor runs,” Tyler replied quietly.

“Christ, Captain,” Clutch said. “You’re handing Doyle everything he needs to take over the Camp.”

“Watch your tone, sergeant. The militia has been instrumental in clearing zeds from the area and locating survivors. Doyle may have one hell of a temper and a superiority complex, but he’s turned farmers and kids into a militia that gets results.”

The Humvee slowed to a stop at the gate.

Guard towers stood behind the fence, one on each side of the gate. A man in each tower had his rifle aimed at us. Two more men—one of them Sean—with automatic rifles stepped through a small door next to the gate.

Sean saw Clutch and visibly tensed. After a moment’s hesitation, he warily walked up to Tyler’s window, while the other man stood back several feet with his rifle leveled on the Humvee.

Sean nodded toward us in the backseat. “What are they doing here, Captain?”

Tyler rested his arm on his door. “Open the gate, Sean. I’m here to see Doyle.”

Sean pursed his lips, clutching an AR-15 that matched the rifles Tyler’s team carried. “I’m afraid I can’t, sir.” He nodded in Clutch’s direction. “I can’t let in any unauthorized people. Not until I clear it with Doyle.”

“It’s not the reserve militia’s place to turn back any citizen,” Tyler gritted out.

“Doyle’s orders,” Sean replied.

“I have the authority here, Private,” Tyler snapped. “Open the damn gate!”

The man behind Sean lifted his rifle. “You assholes from Camp Fox don’t tell us what to do. That bastard killed our friends!” His wild-eyes homed in on Clutch at the same time he aimed his rifle.

I sucked in a breath. Pulled up my rifle. Clutch was in the way. I couldn’t get a clear shot.

“Fuck this,” Clutch muttered as he lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger.

The Sixth Circle of Hell

The Dog yelped, dropped his rifle, and cradled his hand to his chest.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Tyler yelled, jumping out from the front seat.

I waited for the Dogs to gun us down, but they never did. Clutch sat, unmoving, next to me, with his Blaser leveled on the whimpering Dog.

"Beware the man with only one gun, because he knows how to use it. Ain’t that right, Clutch,” an older man with a voice that sounded like he’d smoked a pack a day for forty years straight said as he emerged from the door at the gate.

“Doyle,” Clutch muttered under his breath.

I frowned.
This
was Doyle?

This man could have been anyone’s grandfather. He was tall and slim, with a casual swagger in his step. His cap and sunglasses hid many features, though weathered skin and tufts of white hair curling out from his cap hinted at an advanced age.

Nevertheless, I held my breath as he picked the rifle off the ground and handed it back to the whimpering man who now sported a bullet hole through his hand. Tyler stood between the Humvee and Doyle, as though protecting us.

“At ease, men,” Doyle said. “We don’t turn folks away. Especially one of our own.”

“But, Doyle,” Sean said with a frown, not lowering his rifle from Clutch and me. “You said—”

“But,
nuthin’,” Doyle interrupted. He motioned to one of the guard boxes above the fence. “Open up.”

Metal clanged and two Dogs pushed open the creaky gate.

Wary, I kept an eye on Doyle as he stopped in front of Tyler. The older man looked harmless enough, though I knew to trust my gut. And my gut was screaming at me to shoot him already, grab Clutch, and get the hell out of there.

I’d seen enough. We needed to get as far from these guys as we could and fast.

“Sorry about the confusion, Captain,” Doyle said. “My boys simply tend to get a bit energetic in protecting their families.”

“Bullshit, Sergeant Doyle,” Tyler snapped. “You need to get your minutemen in line.”

Doyle smirked, and then shrugged. “Guess you’re just going to have to eat that bullshit, Masden. I report to Lendt, not you. You can’t touch me, not as long as my little militia is handling your zed problem. You know it, and I know it.”

I watched Tyler tense as he seethed with anger. “
Lendt’s given you leniency, true, and I trust his judgment. But he also trusts my judgment. And after the stories I’ve been hearing from several survivors—including the ones with me today—I’m not convinced your militia should remain separate from Camp Fox, let alone continue to receive supplies.”

Doyle narrowed his eyes at Tyler but said nothing before moving around Tyler to lean on Clutch’s door.

Clutch was clearly tense but he pulled his rifle back inside the window and rested it on his lap. I readjusted mine so that I could take out Doyle in a split second if I had to.

The older man looked me over. His gaze narrowed and his lips turned downward. When Tyler slammed the front door shut, Doyle returned his focus to Clutch. I knew he’d already made his mind up about me: he didn’t like me, plain and simple.

My lip curled in return.
Feeling’s mutual, bud.

“We need to talk,” Clutch stated.

“We’ll talk,” Doyle said, giving Clutch a wide smile. “But first, let’s get you folks inside where it’s safe. Damn zeds are starting to come out of the woodwork.” He swaggered back through the now-open gate.

An ominous feeling grew heavy in my gut as our Humvee passed through the high gate and several Dogs closed in around us. “Well, we’re in,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “And I’m ready to leave.”

Clutch watched me for a moment and then gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

I cradled my rifle as I kept an eye on the Dogs. The man Clutch had shot held his injured hand to his chest as he disappeared inside the first building. Except for one, the remaining men warily watched Clutch like he’d do the same to them. The only guard who didn’t seem concerned was the one too busy leering at me.

I’d seen him once before, when he’d called dibs on me at the greenhouse. I had wanted to shoot him then, too.

When we made eye contact, the weasel wagged his tongue and blew me a kiss. I would’ve flipped him the bird if I wasn’t holding my rifle so tightly. Instead, I turned away to find Clutch watching me, his jaw tight. “Don’t leave my side,” he said gruffly.

I swallowed a nervous chuckle. Like I’d even want to. “I just want to get back to the farm as fast as possible.”

Tyler turned in his seat. “No matter what happens, there’s not to be one more shot fired here, understood? This situation is a tinderbox that’s been getting hotter for some time.”

“Unless we’re forced to protect ourselves, you mean,” I corrected. “Where’d Doyle get these guys? Prison?”

Tyler’s lips pursed. “Stick with me, and everything will be okay. Doyle knows better than to fuck with Camp Fox. Still, I’m surprised none of them got trigger-happy when Clutch shot one of their friends. We’re damned lucky to be alive,” Tyler replied.

“That shit-for-brains was less than a second away from opening fire on us,” Clutch grated out.

“How do you know that for sure, Sarge?” Tyler asked.

Clutch inhaled and then narrowed his gaze on Tyler. “I’ve seen that look before, plenty of times. I know.”

Clutch’s words evidently sunk in because Tyler seemed to accept them and turned away.

Inside the fence wasn’t any more pleasant than outside. I counted twenty armed men in the camp. No telling how many more were either hidden behind doors or out looting the countryside. I looked at Tyler. “How many Dogs did you say there were?”

“Eighteen,” he replied quietly.

Which would’ve made sixteen after their latest garbage drop-off today. “Looks like Doyle’s been adding to his ranks.”

“Yeah,” Tyler replied, sounding none too pleased.

Doyle stepped in front of the Humvee, and Nick brought us to a stop. The gate behind us closed with a loud clank, locking us inside the camp, which appropriately, felt like a prison.

“They’ve got quite the setup here,” I noted, and Clutch nodded, not looking any happier than I felt.

Second-guessing Clutch’s idea to gain intel on the militia, I stole a glance at him when he reached for the door. He had on his “hard” look, making it impossible to see any emotion except badassness. “Stay with me,” he repeated his words from earlier as he opened the door, grabbed his pack, and climbed out.

Rather than opening the door next to me—and closest to the leering Weasel—I slid across the seat and followed Clutch.

“Seen enough yet?” I whispered.

“I don’t know what Doyle’s endgame is yet,” he replied just as softly.

Nick remained with the vehicle, while Griz and Tack got out to stand next to Tyler.

“Leave your gear in the Humvee,” Doyle said as he walked toward us. “You’re safe within these walls. You won’t need guns here.”

“No,” Clutch said simply, adamantly.

Doyle looked at me.

I gripped my rifle harder.

“As long as there are zeds, they can keep their weapons,” Tyler said. “That’s an order.”

After a guffaw, Doyle relented with a brush of his hand. “Have it your way. Keep them, but you won’t need them. You’re under my protection here.”

I didn’t exactly feel safe under Doyle’s “protection,” an
d from the look on both Clutch and Tyler’s faces, they felt the same.

“While we’re here, you can also brief me,” Tyler said. “I’ve told you this before: I’ve got concerns about how many rations you’ve been going through lately. And you have no authority to grow your numbers, not without
Lendt’s approval.”

Doyle grunted and turned, leading our group through the militia camp. Three rundown grain silos towered into the sky. A line of smoke trailed out from the dome of one. A faded Iowa Hawkeye logo was painted across one silo. A large white cross was painted on the side of a long tin building with writing and graffiti all along its side. Overgrown grass and dandelions cropped up everywhere not covered by gravel. People milled about, including even a few children.

Woodsy smoke corrupted the fresh spring breeze. As we passed a small fire with a turkey fryer filled with boiling water, I asked, “What are all the camp fires for?”

“Cooking. Purifying water,” Doyle replied. “Our generators aren’t big enough to power the entire camp, so anything we can do the old fashioned way, we do. Besides, the smoke also helps keep the smell down.”

“Not worried about smoke or the smell of smoke attracting zeds?” I countered, knowing that we only cooked at night to mask the visibility of smoke.

Doyle smiled. “I say, let ’em come.”

As we moved into the shadows of the silos, I noticed two young women stirring a pot on a fire. The scraping of metal against metal overpowered the crackling wood. As we walked past, one of the women jerked up, revealing a black eye. Utter despair radiated through her swollen, red eyes. She quickly looked away, focusing all too intently on the pot.

My jaw tightened. “Tell me, Doyle. How many folks are here by their own free will?”

“Everyone is given a choice when they arrive,” he replied without turning. “They can choose to abide by my rules and stay here or go it alone outside the walls.”

“But only the minutemen and their families stay here,” Tyler added, while watching the young woman. “The militia has strict orders to bring all other survivors to Camp Fox.”

“Of course,” Doyle replied. “And others have chosen to stay to support the militia.”

Glancing back at the young woman, I doubted Doyle’s words. If Clutch hadn’t been with me that day at the greenhouse, I suspected I’d be in her situation now: trapped. I found both Tyler and Clutch stopped, still eying the woman, before glancing at one another. Whatever passed between them, I couldn’t see, but they both started to follow Doyle again.

The gravel crunched under my feet as Doyle led us alongside a long warehouse. The words “Gone but not forgotten” were painted on the faded wood siding under the white cross, with dozens of names painted around it.

Many names were separated into smaller groupings, each under a different last name.
Lynn, Wahl, Hogan …
the names went on and on, and I realized that while I didn’t trust the Dogs, many of them had suffered as much, if not more, than I had.

At the end of the building, Doyle opened a door and gestured, “Welcome to my office and my home.”

Tyler stepped inside, followed by his men. Clutch waited for me, his hard expression impossible to read. Just as I was about to step through the door, I heard a wretched cry. Pausing, I turned to the smallest of the silos. Then another cry, louder, almost forlorn, and I could make out a single syllable in its whimper.
Please.

I shot a glance at Clutch before looking to Doyle. “I didn’t realize zeds cried.”

His lips curled upward. “Didn’t you, now.”

He turned and disappeared inside, and I stared at Clutch, frozen.

Because we both knew that zeds didn’t cry.