100 Days in Deadland

by Rachel Aukes

  Clutch tried to give me one of his hard looks but failed. When his lips curled upward, I knew he’d also seen the light in Jase’s eyes.

  There were too few moments like that to brush them off.

  “Let’s check the gate,” he growled. “The kid’s going to be worthless the rest of the day.”

  I tried not to grin as I jumped in the Jeep, and Clutch shrugged off the backpack of extra gear he always carried now and drove us down the lane. About midway there, we heard the now-familiar sound of the garbage truck.

  “Those sonsabitches just won’t quit,” he muttered before gunning the engine. “Get ready.”

  I lifted my rifle.

  He stopped at the bend in the lane, and we got out and took cover behind the trees.

  The garbage truck had stopped and was in progress of backing up. Either someone different was driving today or Sean was drunk off his ass, because the truck nearly backed straight into the ditch.

  It would’ve been a lot easier for us if it had. But the driver overcorrected at the last moment and nearly went into the ditch on the other side. The back of the truck smashed into the gate, and the dump box opened. The box needed a couple more feet of space behind the truck to rotate. Terrible metal-on-metal screeching sounds ensued as the box tangled in the gate, lifting it, until something broke, and both the box and gate slammed to the ground, taking several feet of the barbed wire fence with it.

  One zed caught between the box and gate was cut in half. The remaining five zeds began to crawl over it and onto the ground.

  “You got to be fucking kidding me,” Clutch cursed. “You got the zeds?”

  My first shot went through a zed’s eye. “Yeah,” I said.

  “Good.” Clutch walked straight toward the truck that was now trying to pull away, but it was locked onto the gate. It wasn’t an ordinary garbage truck. They’d welded metal over the wheels so we couldn’t shoot the tires. Same with the windshield and windows. With the exception of a few peepholes, everything had been covered by sheets of metal. Otherwise we would’ve shot them the first time they’d invaded our territory.

  Its tires spun, trying to break free, and the collapsed gate protested.

  I took down the next four zeds with easy back-to-back shots as they tried to drag themselves to their feet. One final shot took down the half of zed still caught between the gate and truck.

  Clutch came to a stop less than a dozen feet from the truck. Its engine and wheels suddenly calmed. A barrel poked through the slot in the driver’s side window, but Clutch fired first. His shot was close enough to hit or scare the driver because the barrel disappeared back inside the cab, and the truck engine roared. The gate moved several feet with the truck.

  Clutch jogged up to the window, stuck the barrel of his rifle through and started firing.

  I sprinted toward Clutch, holding my rifle ready. He quit firing by the time I reached the truck. Everything had stilled, with only the sound of the truck’s engine going.

  I reached for the door handle and looked up to Clutch. He took a step back, aimed, then nodded. I flung the door open and jumped back, pulling up my rifle. But the two men inside didn’t move. Blood had splattered the interior. The driver was slumped over the wheel, and the passenger was lying back, sprawled across the vinyl seat. Neither was Sean.

  Clutch took a step closer and fired two shots, one into each man.

  A couple months ago, I would’ve found that action heartless. Now, I would’ve done it myself if he hadn’t shot first. These Dogs had attacked my home and the only people left in the world that I cared about. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do. The only thing that scared me was how quickly and easily I’d slid into a ruthless way of thinking.

  Jase came tearing down the lane on his bike. He jumped off and jogged toward us, holding his rifle. “What the heck happened here?”

  “We won this round,” I said since Clutch was busy examining the mangled gate.

  The pouch attached to Jase’s belt wiggled and whimpered. I cocked my head. A furry head with big ears poked out and looked around before disappearing back inside the pouch.

  “It’s okay, Mutt,” Jase said, patting the pouch. “Just taking care of bad guys.”

  “The gate’s fucked,” Clutch said, walking up to us. He sighed and then kicked the gravel. “Godammit. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

  “Without their truck and two men down, it should take them some time to regroup,” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Clutch said. “The game’s changed. This is the second time I’ve killed Doyle’s men. He’ll up the ante next. I need to see what we’re up against.”

  My brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he turned to me, “that I need to see what kind of numbers and firepower Doyle’s got at his disposal.”

  My jaw dropped. “Going to see Doyle is suicide.”

  Of all the shitty timing, the Humvee pulled up outside the gate. When Tyler stepped out, I kept an eye on Clutch to make sure he wasn’t going to gun down the newcomers. He didn’t shoot. Instead, he stomped forward to meet Tyler at the gate. I followed, not trusting the situation.

  “What happened here?” Tyler asked as we approached.

  While I knew Clutch had been in the military, it surprised me when he saluted Tyler.

  Tyler’s brows lifted, and he saluted back.

  “Captain,” Clutch said. “You can’t control your own goddamn militia.”

  “They attacked again?”

  “Every fucking day.” Clutch pointed at the truck. “Take a look. It’s pretty clear who the aggressor was here. We’re being forced to defend our home against the militia.”

  Tyler walked alongside the truck, pausing at the open cab and again at the zeds, before returning to the gate by us. He leaned toward me. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “No thanks to the Dogs.”

  Tyler looked at Clutch. “You have my word. I’ll do my best so that this won’t happen again.”

  “That’s what you said last time,” Clutch said. “No. I’ll make sure they won’t bother us again.”

  Tyler ran a hand through his hair. “Those two minutemen lying dead in that truck were sworn in. Attacking the militia is the same as attacking Camp Fox. Even though this was a clear case of self-defense, I can’t let you go after Doyle on your own. We have to go through the proper channels.”

  My hands flung to my hips. “So the Dogs have get-out-of-jail cards to kill, steal, and rape?”

  “I’m not saying that,” Tyler replied quickly. “You have to understand. It’s a tricky situation.”

  Clutch paced, stopped, and paced some more. “If you want to help, take us to Doyle.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tyler cautioned.

  Clutch spun on his heel and pointed at Tyler. “I’m going to see Doyle with or without your help, Captain. You can either take me to him or stay out of my way. Doesn’t matter.”

  Tyler frowned and stared at the truck for several agonizing moments. Finally, he spoke. “I was going to see Doyle today, anyway. You can ride along.” He held up a finger. “But I have to take the lead. Doyle can be a bit…difficult.”

  “Difficult?” I asked. “You said he reported to this Lendt guy.”

  “He does, but Lendt’s offered him some leniency as long as the militia delivers results,” Tyler said before motioning toward the Humvee. A soldier stepped out from the back, followed by a teenager in jeans and a T-shirt carrying a cardboard box.

  “Eddy!” Jase called out, coming out from where he’d taken cover behind a shrub.

  The new kid nearly dropped the box in his rush. Tyler grabbed the box, and Eddy hurdled a collapsed part of the fence. “Jase!”

  While the two teenagers slapped each other’s shoulders and bantered, Tyler set the box on the gate. “MREs. Enough to feed six for one week.”

  Clutch took the box, set it on the ground next to him, and rummaged through it. “How about ammo?”
r />   Tyler shook his head. “I can’t authorize the transfer of ammo. Even if I could, Camp Fox is an armory, not a munitions site. We barely have enough for ourselves.”

  Clutch’s lips tightened. He headed back to the Jeep and grabbed his backpack. “Let’s go meet Doyle.”

  Tyler didn’t look pleased, but he motioned to the young, clean-cut man behind him, who walked up to us. “I’ll leave Corporal Smith behind to help bury the minutemen and guard the place.”

  “How do I know I can trust your man?” Clutch countered.

  I put a hand on Clutch’s forearm and looked at Tyler. “If he stays, he’s not allowed in the house, and he does what Jase says. Aside from the MREs, you haven’t exactly proven that we can trust Camp Fox.”

  Clutch’s jaw was clenched, but he nodded. He turned to Jase. “You get all that?”

  Jase looked up from where he and Eddy were playing with Mutt. “Yeah. Want me to start working on the gate?”

  “No,” Clutch said. “That truck isn’t going anywhere. It’s a better barricade than the gate was right now. We’ll get it fixed tomorrow. Just keep an eye out.”

  “Can I stay, Captain?” Eddy asked.

  “Eddy and I were in the same class. We played football together,” Jase added, and then stuck out his chest. “Of course, I could outrun Eddy any day of the week.”

  Eddy razzed Jase right back while Tyler smiled. “You both stay out of trouble. We’ll be back in a couple hours. Smitty has a radio, so have him call me if you need anything.” The corporal jumped the fence and Clutch gave him a once-over as he walked over to the two boys.

  “Let my mom know I’m all right, okay, Captain?” Eddy asked.

  Tyler gave him a thumbs up before turning back to us, and he looked at my M24. “You won’t need your rifles on this trip.”

  I clutched it harder as I climbed over the gate. “I always need my rifle.”

  He opened his mouth to speak but shut it. He waved at the Humvee. “Nick, Griz, Tack, you’re with me.”

  Clutch hopped the fence, his Blaser in tow. He brushed past Tyler, and opened the back door of the Humvee. I climbed in, followed by Clutch who sidled next to me.

  Tyler took the front passenger seat, and I noticed another soldier behind the steering wheel. In the rear of the vehicle, I found two more soldiers: a black man at the .30 cal and a younger, lanky white man who, after seeing us, closed his eyes and leaned his back against the side. Even though neither looked aggressive, I was glad Clutch had sat next to me.

  “Meet some of my team,” Tyler motioned to the other men. “Tack and Griz are handling the .30, and Nick’s our fine driver. Guys, meet Cash and…” Tyler turned in his seat to face Clutch. “I didn’t get your name and rank.”

  “Seibert, Joseph. Sergeant First Class,” Clutch replied.

  “With what unit, Sarge?” Tyler countered quickly.

  “75th Ranger Regiment.”

  “Hoorah,” the soldier manning the .30 cal called out.

  Tyler nodded to the man who spoke. “Griz back there is a Ranger, too.”

  “Hoorah,” Clutch replied, lifting a fist in the air.

  “Being with the Rangers, I’m guessing you saw some action, then,” Tyler said.

  Clutch gave a tight nod. “OEF-A. Two tours.”

  Tyler whistled. “Two tours in Afghanistan? Yeah, that counts as action. Have you thought about joining up at Camp Fox? We could use a soldier with your experience.”

  “How long do you think the Camp will be safe, Captain?” Clutch asked. “All those people confined in one place are going to attract zeds. And, all that heavy equipment is going to attract no-gooders. I’ll support your efforts, but I’ve got my own people to protect. I can’t relocate my people to Camp Fox until I know you can maintain a defensible position.”

  “I could order you to relocate to the Camp, Sarge,” Tyler said. “All troops, including retired and inactive, were recalled to service when the outbreak started. And all remaining able-bodied men were called in for the reserve militia.”

  Clutch jutted out his chin. “Too bad I didn’t get the memo.”

  Tyler pursed his lips. “I’ll let that slide for now. I don’t want to force you, but we need you. There may come a time when I’ll have to order you back to duty, and that time could come soon.”

  Clutch’s lips thinned and the tension thickened the air. “Yes, sir.”

  “If the militia is tied to Camp Fox, why do you let them do whatever they want?” I asked.

  “What they did wasn’t right,” Tyler replied. “I’ll make sure we get to the bottom of it, though it won’t matter much longer. The militia is just a temporary structure until order can be restored.” Then he gave me one of those warm smiles. “Have you thought more about moving to the Camp? As you saw, one of your folks has a classmate there.”

  “Jase can make his own decisions. But I go where Clutch goes.” Feeling a hard gaze on me, I turned and found Clutch scrutinizing me. Did he want me with him? Did he want me to go to the Camp? It drove me nuts that I couldn’t make out his expression.

  “Well, there’s a lot of folks counting on our help at the Camp, and Sarge could make a big difference helping us rebuild,” Tyler said.

  “I’m a patriot, Captain, but I’m not suicidal,” Clutch said. “Any notion at rebuilding is delusional until you put an end to the militia and fold them under your command. Do it before it’s too late.”

  “Zeds!” Griz yelled behind me, and gunfire blasted from the Humvee.

  The noise was deafening, and I gripped my rifle tighter. I snapped my eyes from one window to the next. Then I saw through the windshield several zeds collapse on the road.

  “Are we clear?” Tyler called out after the shooting stopped.

  “All clear,” the gunner yelled, and the Humvee sped up.

  I leaned back and caught my breath. I looked at my window, contemplated rolling it down so I could shoot if needed, but decided to leave it up—the glass would provide some protection against zeds. I glanced to my right at Clutch. He gave me a questioning look. I forced a half-smile, and he turned his gaze back outside.

  Tyler made a couple calls on his radio. Every few minutes, the gunner fired, and a zed fell. When we crossed Fox River, zeds floated in the water. Some lay on the mud banks. All dead. In a muddy field not far from the river, sat a tractor riddled with bullet holes. Inside, a body lay slumped over the steering wheel. “You’ve cleared out this entire area?” I asked.

  Tyler nodded. “As much as we can. But more show up every day. Most are coming down from Chow Town. There’s simply too many there for us to clean out without risking lives and burning through too much ammo. So we wait and hit the ones that migrate in our direction.”

  “How about the survivors still in town?” I asked.

  “We used to make drive-throughs every day. At first, we’d fill our trucks with survivors. But after a couple weeks, we were lucky to find one or two, if any. Then a mob of zeds took down one of our Humvees. So Lendt cancelled the drive-throughs. The risk wasn’t worth the payout.” He pointed outside. “We’re almost there.”

  In the middle of a flat marshland stood an old farmers’ cooperative. Three large grain silos reached for the sky, with smoke billowing from the top of one. Tall chain fences reinforced with plywood and two-by-fours buffered the buildings from the road. What hung outside those walls made me grimace. Surrounding the militia camp, every fifty feet or so, a dead zed hung from a pole like a scarecrow.

  “Do you think the zeds get the hint?”

  “Doubt it,” Clutch muttered.

  On an ancient-looking billboard was written faded letters. I had to squint to read the words:

  Doyle’s Iowa Surplus

  & Paintball Supplies:

  Open Seven Days a Week.

  The paint had long since faded, leaving only the bold capital letters D-I-S on the first line easily legible from a distance. Still, I shivered when I read Doyle’s name. This made what we were about to d
o feel all the more real.

  “It seems odd to have a surplus warehouse in the middle of farm country,” I said while Clutch rolled down his window.

  “Camp Fox is only five miles straight east of here,” Tyler said. “This place is owned by a retired farmer, Dale Doyle. He had a connection with some brass at Fox a while back, and he worked out a deal to buy surplus at a hefty discount. It was right about the time they built the new farmer’s co-op on the other side of town, so he bought this place at a rock bottom price.”

  “And it looks like the deal has already been sweetened,” Clutch muttered, nodding toward the two armored vehicles sitting at the gate. “How many M1117’s did you guys hand over to Doyle?”

  “They needed lead-in trucks for survivor runs,” Tyler replied quietly.

  “Christ, Captain,” Clutch said. “You’re handing Doyle everything he needs to take over the Camp.”

  “Watch your tone, sergeant. The militia has been instrumental in clearing zeds from the area and locating survivors. Doyle may have one hell of a temper and a superiority complex, but he’s turned farmers and kids into a militia that gets results.”

  The Humvee slowed to a stop at the gate.

  Guard towers stood behind the fence, one on each side of the gate. A man in each tower had his rifle aimed at us. Two more men—one of them Sean—with automatic rifles stepped through a small door next to the gate.

  Sean saw Clutch and visibly tensed. After a moment’s hesitation, he warily walked up to Tyler’s window, while the other man stood back several feet with his rifle leveled on the Humvee.

  Sean nodded toward us in the backseat. “What are they doing here, Captain?”

  Tyler rested his arm on his door. “Open the gate, Sean. I’m here to see Doyle.”

  Sean pursed his lips, clutching an AR-15 that matched the rifles Tyler’s team carried. “I’m afraid I can’t, sir.” He nodded in Clutch’s direction. “I can’t let in any unauthorized people. Not until I clear it with Doyle.”

  “It’s not the reserve militia’s place to turn back any citizen,” Tyler gritted out.

  “Doyle’s orders,” Sean replied.

  “I have the authority here, Private,” Tyler snapped. “Open the damn gate!”