by M. D. Massey
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 r
an 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.
After two more trips, one to the automotive aisle and one for soap and cleaning supplies, I leaned against the truck. “What else?”
“The best part.” He headed left, and I followed him into the liquor section. Most of the top shelves were empty, and several bottles were broken on the floor. Clutch slid the bat under an arm and grabbed a couple bottles of whiskey and I pointed at the Everclear. He dumped the bottles into bags, and I grunted at the weight.
I glanced out the front window to find the parking lot still wide open. “Still looking good. Knock on wood.”
Clutch shot me a glare. “Cash, don’t jinx us,” he warned.
I shook my head. For being a badass, he sure was superstitious. Smirking, I followed him back through the gas station and toward the front door. Before stepping through, I had a feeling of being watched and I paused. I looked to my left toward the café.
“Clutch,” I whispered, and he stepped back in.
“What is it?”
I glanced at him before looking again.
A glass door separated it from the rest of the station. When we’d first entered, it was empty. Now, on the other side, two jaundiced pairs of eyes stared at us. Two zeds—one who’d been a boy no more than twelve and one who’d been a slightly younger girl—stood. They were likely siblings, with the same hair color and similar features, but it was always hard to tell after bodies started to decompose.
Neither moved nor pounded on the glass. They simply watched. That was eerie enough. But what spooked me more was that they were holding hands.
Clutch tugged me outside. “Let’s get out of here.”
19
It had been a surprisingly low-key day. Zeds were blissfully few and far between, and we’d yet to see a Dog.
After the gas station, we hit two farms. The first was a quaint white house with an old couple inside who’d taken fate into their own hands by blowing out their brains. They were ripe, had likely killed themselves not long after the outbreak. Annoying flies buzzed around my head while I said a silent prayer for them.
“…Amen.” I tugged the shotgun from the old man’s stiff grip and went about my looting.
We’d gained some spices, home-canned foods, and much-needed canning supplies (even though neither Clutch nor I had any idea how to can), taking a load off our biggest stressor of not having any way to store food for the winter. The old couple had also been avid gardeners, but all the sprouts in the garage had long since wilted from lack of water. I’d found a few packets of squash and several gardening tools. It was a start.
At the next farm, the only sign of the outbreak were two graves with blades of grass just starting to break through the dirt. Hope pinged at my heart for the survivor who’d dug these graves. We’d spent several minutes calling out and searching, but no one answered.
Inside, we found the cabinets empty and little else in the house. Though, I discovered that the clothes in a teenager’s room were a near perfect fit, even though they were boy’s clothes. When I stripped out of my jeans, I paused in front of the mirror on the back of the door.
I had a solid farmer’s tan from spending nearly every day in the sun without sunscreen. Messy dark spikes did nothing to soften my blunt features. My curves had disappeared, leaving behind straight, hard lines. No wonder I could wear a boy’s clothes. Sure, Clutch had become leaner, too, but he’d been in good shape before so the change didn’t seem so severe. Me? Even my parents wouldn’t recognize me.
Mia Ryan truly was gone.
In a daze, I emptied the pockets of my old jeans, grabbed an armful of new clothes, and headed outside.
Frowning, I scanned the open area. “Clutch?”
He poked around the corner of a tin building, and he was grinning like a schoolboy. “There’s a fuel farm here. They’ve got an entire tank of gasoline. You won’t have to suck gas for a while.”
I couldn’t help but return his smile. Another backup plan to our backup plans. “I’ll mark it on the map. But you’re sucking gas next time.”
By the time we had everything unpacked at the park, it was time to cook my morning catch: two trout, one bass, and a small rabbit. It was a typical meal. Most days we burned more calories than we took in.
Every day, I’d wait until twilight to start a fire, when the darkness smothered the smoke, though I couldn’t do anything about the smell of fire attracting notice downwind. After a couple dismal failures in the first days at the park, I had finally gotten the hang of cooking meats so that they’d last through the next evening.
It was the first night in a long time we had seasonings for our meat. I closed my eyes. “Mm, I never knew salt could be so decadent.”
Clutch leaned back, rubbed his shoulder, and took a long swig of amber whiskey.
“Oh. I almost forgot…” I reached in my pocket and threw the can at Clutch. “Happy birthday.”
He frowned. “My birthday’s in December.”
I
shrugged. “I had no idea when it was, so I took a guess.”
He looked at the can of chewing tobacco and smiled. “My brand, even.”
I smiled. “I know.”
He tucked it into his pocket.
“You’re not going to open it?” I asked.
“Nope,” he replied with a smile. “I’m saving it.”
After a moment, he came to his feet and stared out the window. The park office had no generator. The two-story A-line window of the cabin faced the west, so we had plenty of light up until sunset. After the sun went down, we either had to use precious batteries (we had even fewer candles) or get by in the dark. Fortunately, the days were getting longer, so sunset meant bedtime, or as Clutch called it, rack time.
Clutch turned. “I’m going to lock up.”
I wiped off the tin dishes we used, and arranged our weapons near the two twin-sized mattresses Clutch had taken from one of the cabins. I made sure the shotguns were loaded and looked over our bleak inventory. An AR-15 with three clips, the two shotguns along with an extra shotgun we’d found in a locked cabinet in the office, a box of shotgun shells, a baseball bat, a camping axe I’d found in one of the lost-and-found boxes, and a few knives. We’d also found a tranq gun in the same cabinet as the shotgun, but we figured we’d have to be pretty desperate to try that on a zed.
Darkness had taken over the world by the time Clutch came upstairs. With only the two of us and few zeds in the park, we no longer did patrols like we had at the farm. Since the office sat on a ridge, it was the safest lodging in the park, but it didn’t yet have a fraction of the security features we’d built around Clutch’s house. If someone managed to break through the door or windows we’d yet to board up, we were fucked.
He lay down without a word, and I watched the stars wink peacefully back at me until I drifted off.
I awoke to the sounds of Clutch’s nightmares, just like I did every night. He mumbled and tossed and turned. Like every night, I crawled over to him and wrapped an arm around him. He rarely woke, but when he did, he’d roll over and pull me to him like I was his anchor.