by M. D. Massey
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.
“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.
MALICE
The Eighth Circle of Hell
18
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.”