by Rachel Aukes
I strung another tin can on the wire. “I’ll start inventorying food and supplies tonight, and I can start planting in the garden in a couple weeks. My mom and I had just picked up supplies for expanding her herb garden last weekend.”
I swallowed a lump, remembering that had been the last time I’d been with my mother. Focusing on surviving kept me busy enough to not dwell on Mom and Dad, but I still thought about them. Often.
“We’ll have to make a run into town for seeds.”
“Oh. Okay.” Until the outbreak, I’d never realized how dependent I’d been on stores for everything. While we could set up the farm for long-term survival, there were some bare essentials, such as seeds, that we needed from town to get us started. Once we had a garden, we could prep our own seeds for next year, though I had a lot to learn.
Not that I could even think of everything I’d yet to learn without stressing. Surviving each day was enough of a struggle. “How about all those bags of seed in your shed? Can we use those?”
“The seed corn and soybeans?”
“Yeah.”
“We can, but we won’t want to depend on them. Seed corn is bland. It doesn’t taste anything like sweet corn, but it would provide some basic nutrition at least. Soybeans are a solid option. But no matter what we plant, we’re going to have to go old school and plant by hand. The tractors and combine make too much noise.”
I nodded in acceptance. Funny thing, before all this, I’d always been the leader with both coworkers and with friends. Now, I found that I could follow just as easily. Strange how quickly people can change.
Clutch’s life before the outbreak had been completely different from mine. He knew his stuff. He’d served two tours in Afghanistan and became a doomsday prepper when the economy turned to shit a few years back. I had complete trust in him, even though I’d known him for only a few days. To be honest, I trusted him more than I had anyone in my life, maybe even more than my parents.
I still couldn’t reach them, though I continued to send them an email every day. The email became my journal, proof that I still existed. I’d never gotten a reply, so I could only hope that they were hunkered down somewhere safe without access to the Internet. I knew it was a weak hope, but I held onto it nonetheless.
The last news channel had gone offline yesterday, leaving nothing on the TV. We’d scanned radio stations every few hours. Nothing was left on FM, and only random updates were sent through AM, and most of those came from folks holed up like us. No one reported anything on Des Moines, and I had to assume that whatever was left of the military had pulled out. Each night, I prayed for my parents’ safety, even though in the pit of my stomach I suspected I’d never see them again.
“That should cover everything for now.” Clutch came to his feet after tying the last wire. “I’m heading out.”
Taken aback, I stood. “What for?”
“The chaos should have settled down enough by now. I need to scout the area to see what we’re up against. And I need to start stocking up our supplies before looters clear out the town.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said right away.
“No.”
“I can stay in the truck and watch for zeds. It can’t hurt to have an extra pair of eyes.”
His lips thinned before he released a drawn-out sigh. “Let’s get you some gear.”
Feeling a surge of anxious excitement, I headed back to the house with Clutch.
“Come on,” he said, and I followed him into the room he’d disappeared to every day. A metal desk sat in the center and a bookcase filled with books, magazines, and boxes covered much of one wall in the small room.
It looked like Clutch had an extensive library of manuals covering the spectrum from survival and first aid to gardening and canning. There was an entire section on organic farming. “Nice library,” I said.
“I like to be prepared.” He pulled out a book and then twisted on something. A loud click sounded, and he pulled the entire bookcase out. Behind it was an even smaller room, lined with metal cabinets and a rack of least a dozen guns, knives, and other weapons.
My jaw dropped. “Holy shit, Clutch. You’ve got a hidden room.”
“Gramps had this room put in way back during the Depression. He’d always said a person needed to be prepared for the worst.” He motioned me to come closer. “Give me your belt.”
I pulled it off, and held up my pants—an old pair of Clutch’s cargos—while he slid a sheath and holster onto the canvas strap.
He handed it back to me. I was still fastening the belt when he held out a knife. “This tanto is yours to keep. It’s a good blade, so take care of it. This should be your go-to weapon in close quarters, especially in dealing with zeds.”
I slid it into a black plastic sheath, which he then snapped shut.
“Have you ever fired a gun?”
“Sure. I had a BB gun when I was a kid.”
He gave me the same exasperated look I’d seen many times over the past few days. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’.” He held up a gun and stepped through the basics of loading the cartridge and firing it. He dumped bullets into my left hand and handed me the pistol in the other.
I looked at the gun in my hand, the gun rack, then at the gun in his holster. “Why’s mine so much smaller than yours?”
“That’s because mine’s a Glock and yours is a .22. Yours is a great starter pistol because it doesn’t have much recoil. Show me you can use it well, and I’ll let you try my 9mm.”
Dropping the extra ammo into a cargo pocket, I repeated everything he’d shown me to make sure I understood.
“We can’t afford to attract attention, so only go for your pistol as a last resort. And whatever you do, don’t fire unless your target is less than eight feet away. Save your bullets. The .22 is a baby and will just piss them off from any distance greater than that.”
“Thanks.” I holstered the gun.
“Be careful. If you’re bit, you’ll turn. There are no second chances out there. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
He locked up, grabbed a small backpack of extra gear, and we headed to the shed where his black 4x4 super cab pickup truck waited. He topped off the gas tank at one of two large cylindrical fuel tanks set up behind the shed. We were strapped in and heading down the lane in no time.
Clutch drove slowly down the gravel road, turning left, then left again. He continued until he’d made a full square loop around the house. The next time, he went one road farther out, and repeated the process. He slowed down near each of the three farmhouses we passed but never stopped. I saw no signs of zeds, but I also saw no people. Cattle still grazed in the fields. Everything looked deceptively normal, completely different than how busy Des Moines had been a few days earlier.
“We’ll check each one out later,” he said, moving on. We continued the scouting mission, me watching for zeds and Clutch watching for I-don’t-know-what until we pulled onto a paved road, and he came to stop.
“What if there are people still living there?” I asked.
“Then we leave them be. I’m not taking in any more strays.”
I had thought about that, too. And, though I knew it was selfish, I didn’t want to have another mouth to feed. We had a good thing going, and another person would only throw a wrench into that dynamic. I also felt guilty thinking that way, knowing we were equipped to help others. “At least we’ll know who’s in the area. We only clear out the places that have been abandoned. Mark the others off as off-limits.” I thought for a moment. “What now?”
He turned right. “Let’s check out town.”
I swallowed. It had been over three days, but it felt like an hour ago now that we were back on the road. “Are you sure it’s not too dangerous?”
“We have to know what we’re dealing with. Today will be a quick recon. Just to the edge of town. I need to hit two stores before they’re looted…if we’re not too late already.”
We drove for several miles without seeing a single car or zed. Only one house, with its windows boarded, showed signs of survivors. As Clutch didn’t know them, he quickly laid down the law that we’d avoid that particular farm for now.
My anxiety climbed when we passed a sign that read: Fox Hills, 3 miles.
I focused on breathing normally while scanning for zeds.
He stopped the truck at a roadblock. Cars and debris were piled across the road.
“Who do you think did that?” I asked.
“National Guard,” he replied. “I heard it on the CB during the outbreak. When they saw that zeds prefer to stick to flat surfaces, they blocked all the roads to contain the spread as much as they could.”
Clutch pulled the truck into the steep ditch, and I held on, waiting for the truck to tip over. It sure felt close, but once past the roadblock, he climbed back onto the road, nearly getting stuck in the mud at the bottom.
Just on the other side of the roadblock was a sign indicating that we’d just entered Fox Hills’s city limits. It wasn’t a huge town. According to the sign, 5,613 souls lived here. But the idea of 5,613 zeds lumbering around was downright petrifying.
We came to the Wal-Mart first, a new monolith standing alone on the outskirts of town. A couple dozen cars sat in the parking lot like the store was still open, and I wondered where the drivers to those cars were. “I need some things if we’re stopping.”
His brows furrowed. “What do you need?”
“Some clothes that fit would be good. A sports bra.” The lacey bra I’d been wearing was pretty but worthless for the work I’d been doing the last few days. “And…” I bit my lip. “I’m going to need some, uh, feminine products within a couple weeks.”
“I’ll see what we can find,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “You definitely need gear. My clothes are too loose on you. Too easy for a zed to grab. Same with your hair.”
“My hair?” I twirled a handful of the long, silky strands.
“A zed could grab it and pull you down.”
“Oh,” I said quietly, and disappointment flared. “I suppose I could cut it.”
I heard another engine and jerked my head to find the source. A red SUV came tearing around the corner of the Wal-Mart, and one of the cardboard boxes stacked on top tumbled off. As it approached and slowed, I gripped the arm rest. Inside, I could see three occupants. A male driver, a woman in the passenger seat, and a teenage boy leaning forward between the two front seats. Clutch stopped, and they pulled up alongside. The man was favoring his bloody arm, while the woman, who I assumed to be his wife, cried in the seat next to him. She was pale and bleeding profusely from her cheek and neck. Bitten.
“They’re neighbors,” Clutch said before rolling down the window. “Good people. They live a few miles west of me.”
The man leaned against his steering wheel as he rolled down his window.
“Frank,” Clutch said with a slight tilt of his head.
“Clutch,” the man replied, and I cocked my head. Everyone called him Clutch?
Clutch nodded toward the Wal-Mart. “How’s the pickings?”
“I bet there’s plenty in there,” Frank said. “But we just grabbed what we could off the back of a truck behind the building. There are zeds everywhere. Even in the unloading area.”
Clutch nodded. “You bit?”
The other man grimaced, and then looked at his wife and son. “Afraid so. We both are. We needed food and underestimated the bastards. They just never stop.”
My jaw tightened. Clutch and I were about to do the same thing, maybe even to the same store, and I wondered how many zeds were where we were headed.
“Sorry to hear that,” Clutch said before nodding toward the backseat. “And your boy?”
“Jasen’s too fast,” the man replied with a proud smile in his son’s direction. “The zeds can’t get close to him.”
I looked from the teenager to his parents and back again. Wet streaks lined his cheeks, and his eyes were red. Oh, the poor kid knew exactly what was in store for his parents.
“He’s not safe with you, you know,” Clutch said in a low voice.
Frank lowered his head. “I know.” He gave a long look at his wife. “We’re just going to get these supplies home for Jasen before…”
Silence filled the air.
Frank’s wife leaned forward. “Please, Clutch,” she said, sobbing and oblivious to her injury. “Please look after our son. He’s just a boy.”
“I’m not a boy, Mom,” the teenager replied. “I can take care of myself. I’ll be all right.”
Clutch didn’t speak for the longest time. When he did, his words sounded like they were weighted down. “Jase, how about you come on over and climb in my truck.”
Jase’s mother gasped. “Oh, thank you! Jasen’s a good boy. He’s strong and smart and you won’t be sorry. God bless you, Clutch.”
Frank’s face instantly lifted. “You’re a good man. I wish I could—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Clutch interrupted.
“I’m not leaving you guys,” Jasen broke in from the backseat.
“Jasen,” his father said, sounding exhausted. “You’ve got to go.”
“Not until you get sick. The guy on the radio said that he heard that not everyone got sick,” he replied.
“That’s just a rumor, Jase,” his father said.
“Besides, Betsy’s still at home,” Jasen said. “I’m not leaving her locked in the house to starve to death.”
“Betsy?” I asked.
“The dog,” Frank replied with a sigh.
“Your parents are going to get sick, Jase,” Clutch replied. “Soon.”
“I know,” he replied, the words barely above a whisper. “I can’t abandon them now. They need me.”
“Go with Clutch, Jasen,” his mother pleaded to her son. “You’ll be safe.”
“I’m not leaving you like this, Mom.”
Clutch sighed. “We’re burning daylight. The offer stands, Jase. You know where I live. Come on by anytime. I’ll be home in a few hours. Just be careful to not attract any attention.”
Jasen nodded before sinking back into the shadowed seat.
“No, Jasen,” his mother said. “You go with Clutch.”
Clutch rolled up the window and pulled away, and we could hear Jasen’s mother piteous cries for us to stop.
“He’s going to die, staying with them like that,” I said.
“Probably,” Clutch replied. “But it’s his choice. If he left with us, that regret of abandoning his parents would fester and eat him up inside. If he makes it through the day, maybe we’ll see him again.”
“Maybe,” I mused, wondering what it would be like to have to take in a kid. Clutch already complained about the amount of food I ate. A teenage boy could easily eat twice my share. If Clutch suspected there wasn’t enough to go around, would someone have to leave? The thought sat like a rock in my stomach, because I suspected if Clutch had to choose, he’d choose the son of a friend over an unskilled girl he didn’t even know four days ago.
“So everyone calls you Clutch?” I asked, forcing myself to change the subject. “I thought that was just your CB handle.”
“It came from a tractor incident back in grade school,” he replied.
My brows rose. “What happened?”
“Don’t ask.”
I smacked the leather and smirked. “You’re killing me here.”
“Well,” he drawled out. “When I was just learning how to drive the tractor, I hit the gas instead of the brakes, and drove into my dad’s shed.”
I burst out laughing. “I bet your dad wasn’t happy.”
“No. No, he wasn’t.”
I caught a movement that had been nearly hidden by a minivan, and I sobered. “Look,” I said, pointing at the blonde woman coming around the minivan.
Dark stains marred the front of her shirt and her mouth. Her arms, what was left of them, swung limply with each step. T
hen I saw the boy hobbling behind her, dragging his left leg. He couldn’t have been more than three or four. He was also covered in blood. He followed her like she was his mother, though according to the news, zeds retained minimal cognitive functions, let alone memories.
I shivered at the thought of a kid getting attacked. What kind of monster would go for kid?
“You can’t think of them as people anymore,” Clutch said, and I found him watching me. “That kid would kill you the first chance he got. Any of them out there would. They’re the enemy. Out here, you either have to kill them or be killed.”
“I know,” I said as Clutch drove past a row of new houses. A garbage can sat at the end of each driveway waiting for a pickup that would never come, a stark reminder that civilization had just stopped. “But knowing it is easier than seeing it.”
“You’d better come to terms with it quick because we’re stopping up here.”
I looked out the window to see Clutch pull up to a row of old brick buildings. He stopped in front of a pharmacy, wedged between a barber shop and a clothing store. The sign overhead read Gedden’s Drug. The store was small and easy to miss. The glass window next to the door was intact. Through it, I could see decently lit aisles, and everything looked quiet and nothing appeared out of place. A Closed sign hung on the glass door, and I hoped they’d locked up before any zeds got inside.
“No telling how many are wandering around outside so we’ll have to be careful,” Clutch said, and I followed his gaze to the end of the block, where another zed limped across the street. Tires squealed, and a truck lurched around the corner, barreling right over the zed. Someone let out a whoop, and the truck tore past us.
Clutch gripped his gun. Neither of us moved until they’d turned another corner.
“Trouble?” I asked.
“Don’t know.” He drove us around the store and down an alley alongside the building to the lower-level back entrance off the street. It only had one door, and it was closed. The small parking lot backed up to the river.