100 Days in Deadland (25 page)

“We’ll take the Dog’s truck,” I offered, not seeing Clutch’s pickup truck or Jeep anywhere. “I left a car at Jase’s house along with enough supplies to get us by for a few days.”

We sprinted back to the truck and tore down the lane. Clutch turned onto the gravel road, and fortunately, there was no dust in either direction indicating that Dogs were on their way. “We got lucky this morning,” Clutch said.

“I’ll take every bit of luck I can get,” I said.

Clutch nodded. “We can’t risk stopping and grabbing the car right now. We’ll come back for everything else in the bunker and the car after we’ve secured a new location.”

I leaned back, a weight on my chest. I’d already been thinking through how soon I had to transplant the seeds from the garden before it was too late. Not to mention having to start all over with looting runs. It was hard the first time, when we had so much to work with. Now? We were fucked. I swallowed. “Any thoughts on where we can hide that’s safe from Dogs?”

Clutch shrugged. “They avoid Chow Town.”

“Oh, hell, no,” I said in a rush. When he eyed me suspiciously, I tacked on, “Trust me.”

“Any farm we move to won’t be any safer than mine was,” he said. “That leaves our only option to head out of the area. Or…wait a second.” He snapped his fingers. “I got it.”

He cranked a hard left on the next road and stepped on the gas.

“Where are we headed?”

“Fox National Park. It’s as far from any town as we can get without venturing into unknown territory.”

Thirty minutes later, we drove through the park’s winding narrow roads. Clutch took us deep and high into the hilly park, and we saw no zeds, though I knew the monsters lurked in these woods just like they had everywhere else. Clutch stopped at the DNR office that seemed to be near the park’s highest point. Only a park ranger’s truck sat outside.

“This might be the best location for our camp,” Clutch said, reloading his shotgun. “We’ll check the cabins, too. They should keep keys to all the cabins somewhere inside.”

I looked around. The A-line cabin sat on a ledge, leaving only three sides vulnerable to zeds. The narrow park roads would be easy enough to block. The place gave me a good vibe. I picked up the rifle I’d lifted from the Dog. “Let’s do this.”

Birds chirped in the distance, and a warm breeze blew scents of evergreens over me. Side-by-side, we moved to the two-story cabin.

Clutch checked the door. It opened.

He glanced at me, and I nodded, clutching the rifle. He rapped on the window. Nothing. He rapped again. Still nothing.

After a moment of waiting, Clutch took the lead inside. A familiar stench polluted the air.
Dammit.

Clutch grimaced.

I sighed before calling out, “Hey, stinkface. Where are you?”

Something shuffled from above. My gaze shot upward to see a lone zed move around the open loft. It was wearing a brown DNR uniform and had wild, shaggy hair. It groaned and tried to walk toward us, but the railing stopped it. It continued to batter the railing, reaching out, until finally it toppled over and crashed to the ground floor.

The zed landed head-first, the impact sounding like a shattered light bulb. Its brittle skull collapsed into itself.

“That was easy,” I said. Then the stench hit me. I pinched my nose. “God, that’s awful.”

Clutch held his forearm over his nose. “Let’s hurry up and get Smelly outside.”

Each grabbing a foot, we dragged the corpse outside and sent it off the deep slope that went off each side of the cabin. It tumbled down, disappearing into the trees below.

The rest of the office was thankfully clear, and the zed had made surprisingly little mess upstairs.

“He was here alone,” I said.

“He must’ve gotten infected before he came into work.”

We stood on the second floor, looking out through the two-story window over the wide expanse of the park. Trees went on for as far as the eye could see. No signs of violence.

“I like it here,” I said.

“Yeah. Me, too,” Clutch replied.

It was even more peaceful than the farm. Here, it was as though we were alone, free, and safe. As long as everyone thought we were dead, we had a chance.

But, we weren’t safe.

Because as long as Doyle and the zeds were still out there, we’d never be safe.

The Eighth Circle of Hell

Ten days later

The wet spring had turned into a humid summer. The park was lush and green, with only the sounds of nature as background music.

It was a pleasant mirage.

Clutch and I tried to make the best of the shitty situation. Despite having no fences, the park turned out to be a decent camp, its hills a natural deterrent to zeds. Another huge perk: the park’s water supply was fed by a rural water tower, so water had suddenly become the least of our worries.

We were careful in our movements in case any Dogs passed through. After losing our stockpile, we had to start nearly from scratch. Fortunately, one of the rooms in the park’s DNR office contained boxes of stuff either left at the park or confiscated by park rangers.

I used several hours of sunlight every day fishing and setting snares. But, living on protein alone was draining us, especially with the exercise regimen Clutch had us on. In just over a week, I noticed I had less stamina and energy. Even the cut on my hand was taking longer to heal.

I’d been sifting through the park’s library to find out which plants and berries were edible in the area. The park no doubt had a wealth of food that could be eaten, but getting to it was the challenge. There was no telling what trees a zed could be lurking behind. And so I started to dig up soil around the edges of the office’s parking lot for a new garden.

“Ready to hit the road?” Clutch said, coming down the stairs.

He looked set for battle in his camos while I’d been stuck in the same designer jeans for the past ten days, though we’d both been wearing T-shirts from the gift shop.

I grabbed the plastic water bottles I’d been refilling every day. “Ready.”

Clutch gave a quick nod and headed for the door. Stubble covered his head now and would be as long as my thicker hair in no time.

“We need fuel,” he said over his shoulder. “The truck has less than a half tank left.”

“Seeds are critical, too,” I added. “Ooh, and gardening tools. Maybe a net. Definitely food. Weapons would be nice.”

Clutch raised a brow. “Anything else?”

I smirked. “I’ll be sure to let you know.” I followed him to the truck. “Do you know any farms in the area?”

He shook his head. “No, but there’s a gas station not far from here. It was a hotspot for day-trippers loading up on ice and beer before heading into the park. They might also have some camping supplies.”

I climbed in and rolled down the window. “Did you bring the hose?”

He held up a five-foot length of rubber water hose I’d found at the office and cut into sections. My life had become a state of improvising. Finding tools or weapons in everything.

He started the engine. “If we can get gas from the tanks, then we’ll be able to head farther out for your wish list items. It’s pretty rural around here and far enough away from where Doyle’s camp was that it may still be good for looting without running into anyone.”

As Clutch weaved through the maze he’d been making of the park roads, I kept an eye out for intruders. When I was working on food, he was busy blocking off the roads and marking safe routes on park maps. The roadblocks signaled that there were survivors in the park, but—more important—the roadblocks would slow down zeds and especially Dogs in getting to us.

Only three zeds had passed near the park office since we moved there, and they’d been on the roads. Since the roadblocks went up, no zeds had passed through. We figured the hills and trees caused too many problems for the decomposing shamblers, so they likely wouldn’t show up at the office unless they were lost or had homed in on us. And we were far enough inside the camp, that zeds should have no way of hearing, seeing, or smelling us.

Still, without much for weapons, we’d been brainstorming ways to corral zed stragglers into traps. We had plenty of ideas, but so far no manpower or tools to make anything work.

We passed several of the park’s cabins in the heart of the park. With over two dozen buildings, we could set up a small town of survivors here, though the park’s rough and wooded landscape wasn’t exactly ideal for growing food or scouting for zeds. When I mentioned the idea of bringing others onto the park, Clutch changed the subject. I suspected the loss of Jase to Camp Fox had hit him harder than he let on.

Ever since the run-in with Doyle, Clutch’s PTSD had worsened. His nightmares lasted longer, and during the days, he often had a distant look. Whatever had happened had really hit Clutch hard. Since he refused to talk about it, all I could do was hope that time would help heal the wounds on his soul.

I pointed to a cabin nearly hidden by trees. “That’s our bug-out cabin, right?”

“Yeah. You’re starting to get the park figured out.”

I smiled and leaned back. Clutch had covered more of the park than I had so far. He’d found us the most secluded rendezvous cabin should we get separated and couldn’t get back to the office. He’d shown it to me a couple times already, but it was easy to get lost in hundreds of wooded acres with no straight roads.

I noticed the time on the truck’s clock. “Oh, it’s almost nine.”

“Got it.” He clicked on the radio to AM 1340. Every day, for a mid-morning break, we’d sit in the truck to listen to Hawkeye’s broadcasts.

Like clockwork, the usual static silenced in favor of a voice. The broadcaster was either a hundred miles away or had poor equipment. We could barely hear his broadcast unless we turned the radio all the way up.

“This is Hawkeye broadcasting on AM 1340.

I have more news about zed-free zones for you. It sounds like Montana has built a city with high walls. But, if you are thinking of making the trip to Montana City, think again. Right now, they are only allowing Montana citizens into the city. Anyone else will be turned away. But, what’s important is that there are zed-free zones out there. There is hope from the plague monsters wandering our lands.

For news closer to home, Lt. Col. Lendt’s announcement last week that requires any Iowa militia to be commanded by a military officer has stirred backlash across the state. I’ve heard rumors that some militias are banding together against Camp Fox rather than submitting to Lendt’s power play.

The militias are made up of good people, folks who’ve stepped up and volunteered to fight against the zed scourge. And now the government is trying to control them.

Here’s my question for today: if all militias are forced to report into Camp Fox, what’s to stop Lendt from misusing his power and becoming a despot over us survivors? I leave you with a warning: absolute power corrupts absolutely, my friends.

This is Hawkeye broadcasting on AM 1340. Be safe, stay strong, and know that you’re not alone.”

Hawkeye rarely had good news and showed no love for Lendt, but the final words he spoke every day grounded me.

You’re not alone.

Even though we hadn’t seen another living soul for ten days.

A large sign displaying gas prices that would never change again peeked out from the trees. As we neared the station, the stink hit me, and I wrinkled my nose. “Oh, that’s horrible.”

“Jesus,” Clutch said, holding his forearm over his nose. “Smells like the sewer backed up.”

“Lovely,” I muttered. Add one more annoying trait of the apocalypse to an every-growing list.

Today, we at least had the benefit of dealing with fewer zeds at the gas station than we would have if the outbreak had hit during tourist season. Even so, there were still a half-dozen cars in the lot. Four zeds wandering nearby bee-lined for our truck the moment we approached. One was covered in dried mud, one was naked and chewed up, and all four were shriveled by months under the sun.

“How the hell do some of these guys end up naked?” I asked. Seeing a zed was bad enough. Seeing
all
of a zed was enough to make a stomach roil.

Clutch shrugged. “Caught on the shitter, maybe.”

They stumbled in our direction as though coming to greet us, and Clutch stepped on the gas, taking down two with his first hit. He put the truck into reverse and rammed into the third. The naked zed moved too slowly and was too far away to be a problem.

Clutch stopped near the underground gas tank cover.

I swung open the door and clobbered the female zed struggling to get up with two newly broken legs. Clutch was out of the truck with a tire iron and taking down the least rotted of the bunch, and I walked up to the crusty mud-covered zed and gagged.

Shit.
Not mud. My eyes watered, and I swung extra hard to make sure I finished it off quickly and moved away.

When I turned to Clutch, he was just finishing off the naked zed that had finally reached us.

“Keep an eye out.” He got down on his knees and pulled out his knife.

I stood at his back, gripping the bat covered in layers of dark stains, and analyzed the wide one-story building. The gas station was covered in slate and had three glass doors, one to each section: the gas station in the middle, the liquor side to the left, and a small café to the right. The glass was shattered on the large door to the gas station. Two zeds lay dead in the shadow of the overhang.

“Damn,” I muttered. “Looks like we aren’t the first here.”

With some muscle, he pried the cover open and peered inside. “At least there’s plenty of gas.”

“How do you know it’s not diesel?” I asked.

“Smells like gas,” he replied, going for the hose. He dropped one end into the underground tank, and held out the other with a smirk. “Want to do the honors?”

I handed him the bat and grabbed the hose. “Sure.” I opened the gas cap, and then sucked hard at the hose.

I’d never siphoned gas before, but it looked to be a relatively easy thing to do.

Nothing happened.

I looked up.

He smirked. “Keep sucking.”

I scowled but did what he said. At first there was nothing, then came the fumes, then the liquid.

“Ack!” I coughed out in between spitting out gasoline and shoving the hose into the truck’s gas tank. Tears ran down my face. “That shit burns.” More coughing
.

Clutch chuckled while he pulled out a five-gallon red gas can from the back of the truck. “That’s why I didn’t want to do it.”

I flipped him the bird before spitting again. At least I couldn’t smell the sewage anymore. “Next time, you siphon,” I muttered when I could speak again.

After we finished fueling and resealed the underground tank, Clutch backed the truck up to the building. When he jumped out, he looked at me. “Ready to do this?”

I blew out a lungful of air. “Yup.”

It was times like these when I especially missed the farm. We’d had enough weapons and ammunition to start a small war, over six months’ supply of food stockpiled, and had it secure as any place could be without being a high-security prison. We’d reached the point where we didn’t have to go into high-risk places like these to survive. I sighed. We had no choice now.

We either adapted or we’d die.

I held the baseball bat tight in my grip as Clutch rapped on the broken glass, sending several shards crashing onto the concrete. Every sound was razor blade to my nerves.

A distant thump greeted us. There was definitely something waiting inside. Clutch gave me one more look before stepping through the door. I quickly followed and pulled back the bat to swing, but no zeds attacked. Instead, a stack of pastel Easter bunnies smiled at us in front of long aisles shrouded in shadows.

The place gave me the creeps.

Whoever had come here before us couldn’t have left with much. All of the shelves looked fully stocked. When I noticed the cash register open and a near-empty shelf of Marlboros, I rolled my eyes. Money and cigarettes. Whoever had that kind of shit for brains was likely shuffling around the countryside now.

Then again, their idiocy was a good sign. It meant more goodies for us.

“I look out, you fill?”

I turned to see that Clutch had grabbed all the plastic bags off the counter. I swiped a small item from a shelf behind the counter, pocketed it, gripped the bat, and did a three-sixty to scan for zeds. Hearing no signs of any predators—other than the constant thumping coming from the back of the store, I grabbed the bags.

“Let’s do this.”

With tension prickling my nerves, I started in the grocery aisle, filling up five bags with soup, canned meat, saltines, and anything else with a decent shelf life. The bags were flimsy and couldn’t hold much weight, and I slid each bag onto my arm to start another. I skipped most of the candy bars, instead going for nuts and fruit chews. Then, out to the truck to drop off full bags and back inside for more.

While grabbing batteries, something thumped on the bathroom door behind us, startling me. Memories from a different bathroom on the day of the outbreak doused me with ice, and I dropped a bag.

“Don’t worry. It can’t get out,” Clutch said, picking up the bag.

“I know.” I hastily grabbed a few bottles of water, more for the reusable bottles than for the water and made another drop of supplies into the back of the truck.