100 Days in Deadland (24 page)

“Why the hell didn’t you lock the door?” Clutch demanded in a gruff whisper, the moonlight casting him in an imposing silhouette.

“Clutch?” I asked, pointing the Beretta at him.

“Lower the gun, Cash. I’m coming down,” he replied before closing—and locking—the door above him.

A lantern in Clutch’s hand suddenly cast a gentle glow in the small space.

“I forgot the door locked,” I said in a daze as I watched him climb down the ladder. Sweat glistened off his shaved head. Then I dropped the pistol and jumped him from behind. “You’re alive!”

He was hot and sweaty and I didn’t care. He turned around and pulled me into a full embrace.

“How?” I asked, holding on tight.

He rubbed my shoulder. “Doyle sent out most of his Dogs that first night. He left me in the silo with only one guard.” He paused. “I got out. That’s all that matters.”

I pulled back to look at him. Emotion laced his words. “Let me guess. You pissed off Doyle in the process.”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand over his now-shaved head and grimaced, like he didn’t enjoy the feel. “Were you here when they…”

“No,” I replied quickly. “I got here after.”

“Good.” He paused. “Jase?”

“He’s at Camp Fox. He’s safe.”

Clutch sighed, and then looked around. “We can’t stay here. Dogs will be sniffing around my farm until I’m caught or dead. There were two waiting outside tonight.”

Probably the same two that I’d seen. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said softly. I felt safe with Clutch in this bunker, but I’d already realized it could all too easily become our tomb. Only one way in or out. Only one air vent that could be too easily blocked from the outside.

He slid to the floor. “The captain let you go?” he asked gruffly.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I couldn’t tell if he was playing to get you away from Doyle or if he was actually thinking of arresting you.”

“He let me go,” I said instead, sitting back down. Clutch didn’t need to be burdened with the details. Not with his home lying in ruins above our heads. I wrinkled my nose. “You smell.”

He grunted, resting his head against the wall. “Thirty-six hours in the woods will do that.”

I grabbed a bottle of water and tapped it on his arm. “Here.”

He took the bottle, and then grabbed my wrist. “What’s this?”

I tugged back my injured hand. “Just a cut I picked up yesterday.”

“Why weren’t you wearing your gloves?” He narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Whose clothes are those?”

I shrugged.

“Hell.” His jaw clenched. “Masden didn’t let you go, did he?”

“He let me go,” I replied. “I just had to find my own way back home.”

Clutch pounded the floor. “Sonofabitch. When I find him, I’m going—”

“You’re going to do nothing,” I interrupted. “We’ve got enough shit to deal with right now than take on Camp Fox, don’t you think?”

“And your gear?” he asked, hoarsely.

“Somewhere at Camp Fox.”

Clutch glared for a moment before taking a long draw of water and leaning his head back again, eyes closed. When his eyes opened, he leveled a hard gaze on me. “You all right now?”

I smiled and moved to sidle up next to him. “Yeah, I’m okay.” I laid my uninjured hand on his knee. “You?”

He grunted again—his typical response of consent—and rolled up his sleeve. “I got lucky.”

My eyes widened. “Holy shit.”

There, on his forearm, was a dark bruise in the perfect semi-circle outline of human teeth.

“I was lucky I had long sleeves. But still, when they lock on, they bite hard. The bastards have got jaws like pit bulls.”

I gingerly touched the marks and whistled. “I think you got
very
lucky.”

“Your turn.” He nodded to my hand.

“I cleaned it this morning,” I said as I pulled back the first Band-Aid. Even in the dim light, the skin around the cut was red and swollen.

His brow furrowed. He grabbed a first aid kit off a shelf and motioned for my hand.

I held it out, and he gently peeled off each Band-Aid. He pulled out a small plastic bottle and poured it into my palm. I hissed as liquid fire shot through my arm. “Jesus, Clutch. Are you trying to kill me?”

“It’s just alcohol. Don’t be a baby.”

I wasn’t being a baby. It seriously
burned
. He dabbed a cotton swab at it until the sharp agonizing pain numbed into a constant throb. He covered my palm with a bandage and wrapped gauze around it.

“I’ll clean your cut again in the morning,” He said after putting the kit back.

Then he grabbed my uninjured hand and rested his forehead against it.

I rubbed his thumb. “It’ll be okay.” And I meant it. I knew that as long as Clutch was with me, everything would be fine.

He chuckled drily, the sound devoid of humor. “We’ve got no weapons, no food, no shelter. Doyle crippled us with one easy blow. Jase is at Camp Fox. And Masden made it clear that if we go after Doyle, we’re attacking Camp Fox.”

“Doyle’s no longer with Camp Fox,” I said. “He zed-bombed them a few hours after we were separated.”

“Jesus.” Clutch’s muscles tensed under me. “So that’s where the Dogs went.”

“I guess Doyle saw a shot and took it.”

“Were you there?” he asked quietly.

I nodded and laid my head on his shoulder. “They lost one of their barracks along with several troops in the attack.” I thought of Nick. “They lost some good folks.”

“The Camp will be better prepared against Doyle next time.”

“You sure there will be a next time?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, his voice low. “Doyle has a hard view on how to survive, and he assumes everyone will see that he’s right.” He chuckled. “He actually believed I’d willingly join his Dogs. Doesn’t matter now. The only good thing is that Doyle will no longer get support from Camp Fox. I bet Lendt’s guys are keeping the Dogs running as we speak. That should distract Doyle enough until we can secure a new location. We’ll scout out places in the morning. How are we on weapons?”

“I’ve got a Beretta with nine rounds, a baseball bat, and two knives. And whatever else you have.”

“It’s not enough,” he said.

“It’ll be enough,” I said, snuggling closer. I wasn’t worried. I had Clutch back. I knew everything would be okay, and I found myself falling soundly asleep, safe in his arms.

****

I woke up with my entire body stiff from lying on hard, damp concrete. Being underground, I had no idea what time it was. I could’ve been asleep for only an hour or ten hours. I’d slept soundly, except for when Clutch’s nightmares began, and I’d held onto him until he fell back into a more peaceful sleep.

Unfortunately, PTSD isn’t curable. It’s a way of life.

Clutch was already awake and heating something in a tin can. When he noticed I was awake, he tossed me a Gatorade. I caught it with my injured hand and winced. He then handed me a metal
spork and a tin can wrapped with a towel.

I yawned. “What time is it?”

Clutch put another can on the tiny stove and glanced at his watch. “Five-forty. It should still be dark enough to take out the Dogs that are topside before they see us.”

After we ate our refried beans, Clutch rummaged through the shelves and pulled out a shotgun that had been vacuum-sealed in plastic. He loaded several shells into it. “I go first. If there’s more than two, we’ll wait them out. You stay by the shed and take out any Dogs who try to get away.”

I checked the Beretta and grabbed the baseball bat. “Ready.”

Clutch slung the shotgun over his shoulder and climbed the ladder. At the top, he slowly unlocked and opened the door a couple inches. No light came in. After a long moment, he held up a single finger and pointed to my right.

Only one Dog? Could we get that lucky?

I followed up the ladder and outside. The cool, damp morning breeze swept away any lingering sleepiness as I crawled behind a pile of tin while Clutch moved toward a four-by-four truck sitting in the drive. The Dog was sitting in his truck, facing away from us and watching the driveway.

It was too easy. Clutch snuck up behind the truck and had the shotgun leveled point blank through the open window before the Dog even noticed.

“Hands on your head,” Clutch ordered.

The Dog obeyed instantly. Clutch opened the truck door and stepped to the side. “Out of the truck and on your knees.”

“Don’t shoot!” the scrawny teen cried as he fell from the truck and onto his knees. An AR-15 tumbled harmlessly off his lap.

“How many are with you?” Clutch asked, kicking the rifle away.

“I’m alone. I swear it,” the guy answered, keeping his hands on his head. “Please don’t kill me.”

“I won’t if you keep telling the truth,” Clutch said.

“You…you won’t?” The young man sounded genuinely surprised.

I could’ve asked Clutch the same thing. I scanned the area and saw a shape shambling around the edge of the woods. I pulled out the bat and stalked toward it while keeping an eye on the Dog kneeling before Clutch.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Clutch said. “Take my advice. Don’t lie.”

The Dog nodded furiously.

“What are your orders?”

“Wa-watch for you. Call in if I see you.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes!”

“Why are you alone?”

The Dog didn’t answer.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Clutch said.

“Camp Fox invaded our camp,” the kid quickly replied. “A lot of guys are busy relocating their families.”

The zed had noticed the two men and was making its way toward them. At first, I thought it was bloated, but then I realized it was pregnant, probably near-term when it’d been bitten. Bile rose in my throat as I readied the bat. A purse hung across the zed’s body, and it hobbled in one sandal. It hissed and turned to me when I approached. I swung. Its head broke open like a beanbag.

“When’s the next shift arrive?” Clutch asked, turning back to the Dog after watching me kill the zed.

“Eight o’clock,” he replied, his voice cracking.

When I approached the Dog from behind, Clutch nodded, and I disarmed him, startling him. The Dog was young, not much older than Jase, and obviously scared shitless.

“Cripes, kid,” Clutch said. “You’re too young to be caught up with the likes of Doyle.”

The Dog jutted out his chin. “Doyle saved my life. We’re going to make Fox Hills safe again.”

“Keep telling yourself that, kid,” Clutch said.

I lifted a two-way radio I’d found on the Dog’s belt.

Clutch narrowed his eyes. “How often do you report in?”

The Dog swallowed. “The bottom of every hour.”

Clutch glanced at his watch. “Looks like you got seven minutes. What’s the code for all-clear?”

He didn’t answer.

“The code for all-clear?” Clutch asked more firmly, lifting his shotgun.

“The eagle soars,” he replied quickly.

Clutch held out the two-way radio. “Report in. This time, with the
right
code for all-clear, and I’ll let your last fib pass.”

The Dog’s jaw dropped before he snapped it shut. He nodded tightly. He took the radio, took a deep breath, and clicked the side. “Hamster reporting in. Over.”

“Base. Report. Over.”

“The swallow has flown, repeat, the swallow has flown. Over.”

A slight pause.

“Affirmative. The swallow has flown. Over.”

The Dog handed the radio back to Clutch.

“You aren’t a bad kid. It’s too bad you got hooked up with Doyle.”

“I owe my life to Doyle,” he replied.

“And he’s made sure he gets exactly that from you,” Clutch said. “Dammit, kid. You shouldn’t have lied on the radio.”

“Wha—what?” The Dog’s wide eyes shot up. “No!” he cried out the instant before Clutch blew his brains out.

My mouth fell open.

Clutch slung his shotgun back over his shoulder. “The Dogs need to work on their codes. The Swallow Has Flown is an acronym for the Shit’s Hit the Fan. Code 101.” He kicked at the gravel. “Goddammit, kid, why’d you have to go and force my hand?”

“How much time do you think we have?” I asked, staring at the Dog’s body.

“If he was telling the truth that Lendt hit Doyle’s Camp, then it may take them awhile. Then again, they could have a unit close by already.”

“We better hurry, then.”

We ran back to the bunker. Clutch disappeared inside and came back seconds later with a stuffed backpack. He fastened the door closed and set a combination lock that I hadn’t noticed on top of the door before. We covered the door with tin and debris.

Clutch eyed his big rig, which looked like the Dogs had fun taking a bulldozer to it. “She was a good rig,” he growled.