Wes gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
I got up on a knee, supporting myself against the roll bar in case Wes hit the gas, and I readied my spear. The first zed was less than ten feet away.
“Now,” Clutch said.
The Jeep lurched forward, then Wes slowed down somewhat.
Over the next block, I watched as the zeds behind us grew smaller. I yelled to Wes over the music, “Slow down! We’re going to lose them. Three miles, remember?”
I kept my spear ready for any coming at us from the side, but it seemed like every zed in town had been at the house.
The Jeep came to an abrupt stop, and I was thrown against the back of Clutch’s seat.
“The road is blocked!” Wes shouted.
I jerked up to see what looked like a nasty car accident blocking the entire street and debris littering the front yards. The wreckage was dusty, and the bodies inside the broken windows were little more than bones. The roads weren’t anywhere near cleared enough. Shit.
“Then turn around and take the last intersection,” Clutch said.
Wes did a hard U-turn, which put the zeds at our twelve o’clock. He stepped on the gas and sped toward the herd.
“Don’t turn left,” I said, noticing the dead end sign at the upcoming intersection.
Wes cranked the wheel hard left. Wheels squealed.
“I said don’t turn left!” I yelled.
“You said turn left!” Wes yelled back.
I hollered out a string of profanity.
Clutch killed the music, and winced, grabbing his ribs. “Get us out of here, Wes. In one piece would be nice.”
Wes whipped the Jeep around again. The zeds had come around the corner, blocking our escape route.
“Try that yard,” I said, pointing to a yard without a fence that looked wide enough for a Jeep.
Wes jumped the curb, and Clutch yelped in pain.
“Careful!” I yelled.
Wes kept driving, maneuvering between a garage and a neighboring house. He knocked off a side mirror on a wood play set in the backyard. He narrowly missed the trampoline in the next yard, drove through two more yards, a chain link fence, and plastic deer. I clung onto the roll bars, unable to do anything except to keep myself from getting thrown out of the Jeep.
“Charlie to Alpha,” Clutch said into the radio. “Charlie needs support.”
No response.
“Charlie team to Alpha.” After no response, he set the radio on his lap. “They must’ve moved in already. We’re on our own.”
I pointed to a large shed. “How about in there?”
“Let’s try it,” Clutch said quickly.
“Okay,” Wes said under his breath while he gripped the wheel. He pulled up to the shed with a sign that read Mac’s Auto Shop.
Panting from the wild ride, I jumped off the back, ran to the first garage door, and rapped on the metal. When no sound emerged, I yanked on the door. By some miracle it wasn’t locked, and the door slid easily to the side with an unoiled squawk. Wes pulled the Jeep inside, bumped into a VW Beetle that was sitting in the bay, and pushed it forward. I scanned outside. Seeing no zeds in on the vicinity, I tugged the door shut as quick as I could.
Wes cut the engine. The three of us watched one another, all with eyes wide open and breathing heavily. I swallowed and forced each breath out slowly.
Zeds were dumb, but they were damn good at sniffing out prey.
Chapter III
Wes was already out of the Jeep, searching for zeds around the car and behind toolboxes. With nothing looking or smelling out of place, I’d already figured the place was clean. Zeds were a messy, stinky bunch with no talent for stealth.
I looked at Clutch to find him still gripping the windshield, his head lowered.
I went over and rubbed his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah.” He raised his head. Tension highlighted the wrinkles around his eyes. “Just got a bit bumpy back there.”
I’d thrown my back out once, and it had hurt like hell. I couldn’t imagine how dislocating it would feel. I gave him the gentlest of hugs. “Hang in there,” I said softly.
He leaned back with a wince and closed his eyes.
When Doyle’s Dogs attacked Camp Fox last summer, Clutch had been crushed in the stampede of fleeing survivors. Two vertebrae in his back had been dislocated, thankfully not broken as Doc had first guessed. Doc was doing the best he could do. It had to be tough to work in a world without x-rays and emergency rooms. A person couldn’t just snap vertebrae back into place like a dislocated shoulder. Doc had been very, very careful to align Clutch’s back. The backpack Clutch had been wearing was likely the only reason his back hadn’t been broken; it had served as a buffer between his body and the trampling herds. Even then, the swelling on his spine prevented us from knowing yet if it had been permanently damaged or if it was simply the swelling that had paralyzed him from the hips down.
While his back had been his most serious injury, Clutch had also gotten three cracked—or at least badly bruised—ribs, two fractured—or badly bruised—legs, and a broken left wrist. He’d also had a dislocated shoulder and a nasty concussion. Any one of those injuries would have taken him out of action for a bit, but the combination of injuries had left him unconscious for three days.
It was a miracle he hadn’t incurred any internal bleeding, deep cuts, or bites in the stampede. At the Camp Fox medical clinic, if someone couldn’t heal on his or her own, there was little hope. After the attack, Doc warned me that if Clutch didn’t wake in the first hours, he would likely never wake up due to the severity of his injuries. Doc didn’t know Clutch. The Clutch I knew was too hardheaded not to wake up.
Aside from some minor memory lapses and random muscle spasms, he was well on the road to recovery. Despite Doc’s pessimism, I knew Clutch would walk again because he could feel pain in his legs and wiggle his toes not long after he woke. He’d even been able to lift his legs a bit a couple days ago. It shouldn’t be much longer until the pressure was off his nerve endings enough that he’d regain control over his legs and be able to stand on his own. I only hoped he could stand soon because being held prisoner by his own body was taking its toll.
My greatest fear was that if Clutch didn’t have use of his legs, it would kill him. Well, he’d kill himself more likely. The idea of the strongest man I knew giving up terrified me. If he couldn’t make it, how did Jase or I have a chance?
Wes stopped by the Jeep, his gaze darting to the garage door. “As long as they don’t break down the door, I think we’ll be safe in here.”
I nodded before holding up my hand. “Sh. They’re coming.” It was the faintest sound of shuffling feet and low moans. It sounded almost like a flock of sheep passing through. Except sheep didn’t tear apart anything that breathed.
This was the sound that caused me to wake up in a cold sweat every night. The herd that had followed us from the survivors had caught up. We stood frozen as the sounds outside grew louder. I exhaled as shallowly as I could and leaned on the Jeep, waiting for the zeds to sniff us out. Please don’t find us, I prayed over and over.
If they found us, it wouldn’t take them long to break through the old door. Clutch’s eyes remained closed, and I couldn’t even tell he was breathing, let alone conscious, though I knew he was listening as intently as I was. Wes kept his rifle aimed at the door. The sounds grew louder. My nerves felt like they were about to detonate. My tense muscles ached.
Something brushed against the shop, and the air in my lungs froze. With no windows on that side of the building, the zeds couldn’t see inside. It also meant we couldn’t see if they were stopping to sniff around the shop or merely passing through in their quest to find us.
* * *
Hours passed as the zeds checked out the shop, brushing against the walls on all four sides. They’d lingered for some reason, but whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to work them into a frenzy. None pounded against the building. It seemed like they wer
e more curious than anything.
And so we waited. My back ached from standing in one position. I sat on the ground as quietly as possible, knowing the smallest sound could draw attention. Wes had long since lowered his rifle and sat at a tool bench, but he still faced the door. I could tell by Clutch’s pale, pained expression that he needed to be lying down, but he didn’t dare move.
The sounds grew fainter until I could hear nothing but silence. Wes looked back and glanced from Clutch to me.
Wait, I mouthed. There’d be stragglers. There were always stragglers. Ones whose guttural wails would call the others back if they found us. And so we waited longer. I didn’t take even one step toward the door in case there were any zeds still out there. That they hadn’t sniffed us out meant that the various car and old oil smells in the shop had provided better cover than I’d anticipated. Or, the zeds’ senses were deteriorating right along with their bodies.
After a forced count to one thousand, I glanced at Wes and then crept toward the sliding shop door. When I reached it, I put my ear to the crack and heard nothing. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open an inch. The rollers squeaked, and I cringed. I peeked through the crack.
At first, I saw nothing. Then, movement in the corner of my eye caused me to scan again. Sure enough, a pair of slow moving zeds was focused on the garage.
“Is it clear?” Wes whispered at my side.
I jumped at the unexpected question. “Clear enough. But I don’t think we’ll want to stick around here all night.” I threw him a glance. “Let’s go home.”
“You don’t need to twist my arm,” he said before heading back to the Jeep.
Wes started the engine, and the two zeds continued their shamble toward the garage. I shoved open the door, grunting, finding it much harder to open this time. To my right, a zed that must’ve been pressing against the door spun around and was sent tumbling to the ground. I marched over, twirled my spear around, and skewered its head. The two zeds’ moans grew louder.
When it no longer moved, I walked over to meet the pair of zeds. Their groans rose as they reached out for me. I speared the male through its forehead, yanking my weapon back to knock out the ankles of the female zed. It went down on its back, its head making a solid thump against the ground. I stood over it and brought my spear down, putting it out of its misery. I didn’t know if zeds suffered, though they’d never wince whenever I cut off a limb or stabbed one. They just looked miserable.
I figured they just were. They existed—without feeling or thought—and with a single urge: to feed. At least that’s what I told myself to make it easier to kill what had once been a person. The worst part about zeds wasn’t their hunger or viciousness or stench. It was that each one resembled someone I knew before the outbreak. They were reminders of loved ones lost. Then again, maybe I was just trying to anthropomorphize something that was no longer human.
As Wes backed the Jeep alongside me, I turned away from the zeds, grabbed the roll bar, and swung myself onto the open back.
“Let’s get the hell out of this town,” Clutch muttered, his arm cradling his stomach.
Escaping a town where the herd of zeds potentially waited around any corner wasn’t exactly easy. We had no idea if the herd had kept moving or if it had stopped around the next house. Wes drove slowly, creeping up to every intersection so as to not draw attention. We’d gotten lucky today. Once we were back on familiar streets, I think we all breathed easier. The herd was nowhere to be found. At the intersection not far from the roadblock, I finished off a lone zed that approached the Jeep. A block later, another zed lumbered toward us.
Wes sped up.
“Hold up,” I said. “I’ll get this one.”
Wes slowed, and I waited until the zed was close enough that I could stab it from the safety of the Jeep. As we progressed through town, I took out every zed I could because every zed I killed was one fewer zed that would come across the park or join up with a herd later.
By the time we reached the church, the parking lot was empty. We drove by the house where the survivors had been. There were several corpses scattered around on the overgrown lawn outside, but fortunately no bodies wore Camp Fox fatigues.
Once we were safely out of town, Wes stepped on the gas. As we headed back to the park, I shivered in the October breeze. No one spoke. Without things like movies and sports, small talk had become an exercise of discussing what still needed done before winter hit. A person could only handle talking so much about the lack of skills and supplies.
As we approached the park’s entrance, I cringed inwardly at the sight of the newcomers standing outside the gate. It was a larger group than I’d thought. At least ten, but it seemed like a hundred for the amount of food they’d eat. Wearing my actuarial hat, I figured we’d have to add an additional seventeen percent to our calculations of food needed to get us through the winter. The numbers became more and more dismal with more stragglers arriving every week. We’d have to start turning people away or else we’d starve. The question was, would today be that day?
Most of Camp Fox’s scouts were on the other side of the gate, standing with their guns lowered but at the ready. Two scouts stood next to Doc while he attended to someone in one of the newcomers’ three vans, the same vans that had been parked outside the house in Freeley. The rest of the newcomers were busily drinking from plastic water bottles.
Tyler was sitting in the passenger seat of a Humvee, also drinking water, with his window rolled down, and I had no doubt a rifle sat on his lap. His blond hair was matted from wearing a helmet, yet it did nothing to detract from his good looks. He had a killer smile and when he talked, he made you feel like he was talking directly to you, even if he was standing in front of a group of hundreds. There was something charismatic about him that made men want to be his pal and women swoon. He was a natural leader.
Wes slowed the Jeep down to a crawl as we drove past the newcomers and toward the gate. They were a dirty bunch and looked like they’d been on the road for some time. Some waited at the gate with desperate pleas for help. Four ATVs sat nearby to run down any zeds or chase fleeing bandits.
Tyler would have already informed the newcomers that Camp Fox had protocols. Any newcomer had to be fully vetted by Doc for bites, fleas, illness, and other infectious things before being allowed through the gate. Still, it tugged on the heart strings to stand around when miserable, starving people needed help not even twenty feet away.
Seventeen percent, I reminded myself when sympathy rose in my chest.
Yes, they desperately needed our help. And, if I was on the run and came across a camp, I hoped they’d take me in. Still, I didn’t know these people. What if they stole our supplies or hurt Jase? Keeping an image of Jase in my mind helped gird myself against my desire to help them.
Little Benji Hennessey held Styrofoam cups as his grandfather Robert, whom everyone called Frost, filled them with water. Frost’s huge Great Dane, Diesel, lay sprawled out at his side. After each cup was filled, Benji handed it to a newcomer. Tyler always called upon the Hennesseys whenever newcomers showed up. It was a smart tactic that worked every time. A kindly grandfather and a young kid with Down Syndrome tended to put folks at ease. Little did any newcomer know that Frost would kill—and had killed without hesitation—anyone who threatened his grandson. Even more impressive, Benji had ridden a bicycle—with training wheels no less—miles and miles through zed-infested country to reach his grandfather. He hadn’t killed a zed yet, but he was a survivor, through and through.
Wes pulled onto the shoulder to get around the vans. Clutch let out a pained groan when the Jeep’s tires went off the edge of the pavement. I placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need to get you to the cabin and on your back.”
“What I wouldn’t do to get a woman to say that to me,” Wes said.
I rolled my eyes.
That Clutch didn’t argue was proof of the pain he was in. I was sure the jarring ride in the Jeep hadn’t helped the swelling
on his spine.
A small section of the gate opened, and we drove through, coming to a stop at Tyler’s vehicle. He stepped out of the Humvee, setting his rifle on the seat. After giving us a once-over, he frowned. “What took you guys so long? You usually beat us back by at least a couple hours.”
“Detour,” I said. “We really need to clear all the main roads in these towns.”
“I’ll add it to the list of infinity.”
He said it jokingly but it was true. Civilization had collapsed overnight, and it was going to take years to get it back, if it was even still possible.
“Any problems getting the survivors out of that house?” Clutch asked curtly.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Tyler replied quickly, and then he whistled. “You look like shit, Sarge.”
Clutch flipped him the bird.
I rolled my eyes. “In case you guys hadn’t noticed, we’ve got seventeen more mouths to feed standing at our gate.”
Tyler’s lips tightened before speaking again. “Doc’s nearly finished with checking them out. I’m not too worried about these folks. They seem harmless enough. To play it safe, I want every scout on watch once I let them into the park.”
“I’m no good to anyone right now,” Clutch said, the words sounding forced.
After a moment, Tyler gave a single nod. “Understood. Get yourself to bed.”
“I’ll take Clutch back to the cabin and get right back,” Wes said.
I squeezed Clutch’s shoulder just before I climbed out. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
He touched my hand briefly. The Jeep pulled away.
Tyler watched the Jeep disappear around a curve. “It’s too early. Clutch shouldn’t been out there today.”
“Our detour today jarred him around too much,” I said. “He needs more time in bed, but you know him.”
He sighed. “Yeah, I do.”
Doc waved toward Tyler and then gave him a thumbs up. The newcomers had been cleared. I walked with Tyler toward the ragtag group of newcomers. When we reached the gate, a middle-aged man with white hair and a scruffy beard stepped forward.
Deadland 02: Harvest Page 3