Deadland Saga (Book 3): Deadland Rising

by Aukes, Rachel

  I stared in the same direction and then finally spotted it. “Holy shit. Are those our trucks?”

  “Yeah,” he replied and handed me my binoculars.

  In the distance, I could make out a church—St. Dominic’s according to the stone sign up front. Tucked nearly behind the church were, sure enough, our trucks. Their beds were still filled with supplies. We never would’ve seen them from the interstate; someone had hid them carefully. But, they hadn’t planned on us coming up on this overpass.

  Clutch turned around to face the rest of our traveling companions. “Load up and regroup below this overpass. Let’s see about getting our trucks back.”

  “But, it’s too dangerous,” Tom said.

  I patted Tom’s shoulder. “Look at the bright side. You said you were disappointed not getting to go to church on Thanksgiving. Here’s your chance.”

  Chapter XII

  We moved in without waiting for the sun to set, figuring that if the thieves were halfway decent at surviving, they would’ve seen us long before we ever saw them.

  Clutch was as hardheaded as they came, but he was also practical. We weren’t going after the thieves, only our four missing trucks. The thieves had carried no guns when they’d stolen our trucks, so Clutch figured they had no ammo. Still, the plan wasn’t without risk.

  The plan was as simple and safe as we could make it: drive cautiously up to the trucks, check each truck for its keys, and drive off, all the while keeping an eye out for trouble. If the thieves tried anything, we were going to hightail it out of there.

  Jase drove the Chevy. We’d emptied out the bed, leaving the drum of gas and extra supplies with the other vehicles under the overpass. Now, four men—Clutch, Griz, Marco, and Tom—rode in back, with each one going for a specific truck. I rode in back with them to look for any signs of trouble and to lay down cover fire if things turned messy.

  I searched for movement as we approached the parking lot. Other than seeing some candles lit inside the church, I saw nothing. The parking lot was open, with few trees or shrubs to hide danger.

  We didn’t need the trucks and supplies. We could find more of both, but finding supplies wasn’t easy or risk-free. The squadron had loaded all the canned food from the Costco into the trucks before they’d been stolen. To find as much food, we’d have to find another large store. Finding stores that hadn’t been destroyed, looted, or infested was like finding needles in haystacks. Simply put, going after these trucks was safer than the alternative.

  More important, it was a matter of honor.

  Jase pulled in slowly, the engine a notch above idle. That I saw no one worried me. They had to have seen us or at least heard the truck. Noise carried more now without the constant hum of traffic, jets, television, and phones. My ears had become more sensitive to sound in the past several months.

  Still, the only sound I could hear was Jase’s truck. The only movement I could see was us. As soon as I started to wonder if the thieves weren’t around, I noticed a figure move within the church. I homed in my scope to count six people inside the glass doors, watching us.

  “We have at least a half dozen people inside the church,” I announced. “They’re standing inside the entrance.”

  “I have them,” Clutch said, soon echoed by Griz and Marco.

  “None have rifles. I see only spears and blunt weapons,” Griz said. “These don’t look like high-risk bandits. But, keep your eyes peeled for any of their friends.”

  It was hard not to stare at the people staring right back at us, but I forced myself to scan the bushes and under the trucks for snipers.

  Jase slammed on the brakes, and I nearly went flying over the roof.

  “There are nails all over the ground,” Jase yelled. “They could pop my tires.”

  I looked forward to see the concrete glistening with metal. They were trying to cripple us, to either send us limping off, scared, or to chase us down and finish us off on the road. Worse, I didn’t know how we could possibly make it far with the trucks since there was a field of nails between them and the road.

  Clutch tapped the roof of the truck. “Stay here, Jase, but be ready to hit reverse and haul ass out of here if I give the call.”

  He set down his sword, stood in the truck, and faced the church. “We’ve come for our trucks. You stole items that didn’t belong to you, and we’re taking it back. No one has to get hurt. Don’t show any aggression, and we’ll take our trucks and be on our way. You can have everything else in the store. I’ll give you ten seconds to respond. ”

  On the other side of the glass door, the figures moved, and I could hear a murmur of voices talking over one another. After a moment, the door opened, and an older man stepped outside, though he was quickly flanked by a young man wearing a gray SMSU sweatshirt and gripping a bat. Since he had the weapon, I narrowed my scope onto his chest. In small letters, above and below the acronym, his shirt read Southwest Minnesota State University, and I frowned.

  It couldn’t be possible. I’d been there. After the herds passed through.

  The older man spoke. “We meant no ill will, but what you took from the store belongs to no one and everyone. You claimed it because it sat on shelves. We claimed it because it sat on the beds of trucks. There’s no difference.”

  “Like hell there’s no difference,” Clutch said. “We laid claim the moment we sweat on that cargo. We’d earned it, fair and square.”

  “Clutch,” I said to his back, and he cocked his head slightly to show he was listening. “These guys might be from Marshall.”

  Clutch stiffened. “How do you know?”

  “Look. The kid’s sweatshirt,” I replied. “SMSU.”

  The older man began to say something, but Clutch cut him off. “Where are you from?”

  The man frowned. “Why does that matter? Regardless of where we’re each from, we all have rights to what’s in that store.”

  “Where’d the kid get that sweatshirt?” Clutch countered. “Are you bandits? Did he take it off another survivor?”

  The younger man visibly bristled. “It’s my shirt. I’m a freshman at SMSU. We ain’t bandits, you son of—”

  “’Aren’t,’ Nathan,” the older man said, placing a hand on the student’s shoulder. “We aren’t bandits.” Then, he turned back to us. “I’m Professor Dominic Caler. I served on the faculty at SMSU. Nathan here was one of my students. Southwest Minnesota State University is a small university in Marshall, Minnesota.”

  “I know exactly where it is,” Clutch said. “I was there after the herds passed through.”

  The man stood straighter. “After the herds, you say? Did you find survivors?”

  Clutch shook his head. “No. We went there to look for survivors, but the herds hit it pretty hard.”

  The professor’s eyes narrowed. “Now it’s my turn to ask if you’re bandits. Why else would you travel so far north unless you’d heard of a group of survivors to raid?”

  “We’re not bandits. A few of us are from Fox Park,” Clutch said as though it would mean anything to the professor. “You happen to know a guy named Manny? About this tall?” He leveled his hand at his shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m familiar with him.”

  “Manny had a small group with him. They had gone out looking for supplies when the herds hit and couldn’t get back to their families at Marshall. They went south to stay ahead of the herds and joined up with our camp.”

  “I spoke with Manny’s people during the first few hours. Many of them had family stuck in Marshall. They would’ve gone back for them.”

  “We had a pilot at the camp,” Clutch said, referring to me. “She flew a few of us, including one of Manny’s guys, to Marshall. But, when we got there, all we found was infected.”

  The professor’s lips pursed. “We were last there about a month ago. It took us awhile to move around the herds and make it back, but we made it. When we saw the community center had been opened up, I’d hoped everyone had come out and connected wit
h other survivors, but we haven’t been able to track any of them down yet. We’re still looking. We’d only planned to stop here to recuperate and restock for a week before heading back out again.”

  “Where’s Manny now?” the professor asked.

  I swallowed.

  Clutch shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry to give you the bad news, Professor. We had a bad run in with some bandits. They took down nearly our entire group, including Manny and all of his people.”

  “That is bad news, indeed,” the professor said. “And that sort of news seems to be all we hear nowadays.”

  “I tell you what,” Clutch said. “Since you’re from Marshall, we’ll leave you two trucks and take two trucks with us. But you have to help us clear these nails.”

  “That is an acceptable deal. However, you must secure your weapons. I give you my word my people will do the same. My people will not raise a hand against you unless you threaten one of ours.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” Clutch said. “But, you try to hurt one of mine, and you won’t like what happens.”

  The professor smiled. “Trust is earned in small steps.”

  Clutch had Jase cut the engine, and we left our larger weapons in the back of the truck. We still wore our side arms, knives, and whatnot. Clutch also hadn’t mentioned that we each carried a radio and would call for backup the second shit went south.

  The SMSU kid—his name was Nathan—found a couple brooms inside the church. This Marshall group was smaller than I’d expected. Where Manny had a dozen with him, I’d only seen four so far with this group. Aside from Professor Caler, the other three were college students. Peter had no interest in meeting any of us. He was thoroughly closed off from the rest of the world and had his nose buried in a book the entire time we worked at brushing nails away. Joachim, on the other hand, didn’t trust us. He kept a safe distance and watched us from the corner of his eye. With his skepticism, he was probably the best equipped of his group to survive in this world.

  The professor talked the most of any of them, though when I got closer to him, I noticed how frail he was.

  “Cancer,” he said when he caught my expression. “I gave cigarettes too many years of my life, and now they’re demanding more.”

  After we cleared a path for the trucks, Nathan took the brooms back.

  I caught Clutch and Griz looking out at the sky. I strolled over to them. “It’s getting late,” I said.

  “We’re going to have to hunker down soon or else we’ll get caught in the dark,” Griz said.

  Clutch glanced over at the church, his lips tight.

  “You’re welcome to stay the night,” the professor said, walking over. “You need a shelter for the night, don’t you?”

  “We should hit the road,” Clutch said. “We’ll find a place.”

  “The church offers plenty of room. We’ve already set up our camp in the undercroft. You can have the nave.”

  “The what?” I asked.

  “We’re in the basement,” he replied, not sounding like I was an idiot for asking what was probably obvious to Catholics far more devout than I ever was. “You can stay where mass would’ve taken place, if you so choose. The pews should make adequate beds. I saw two other vehicles earlier. I imagine they would also stay.”

  “Give us a minute, and I’ll check with them,” Clutch said and turned away.

  “Certainly,” he said and headed into the church.

  Clutch looked at me. “Where’s that place you three stayed at on your way to find us?”

  I thought for a moment. “A little over an hour from here, I think.”

  “That would put us there after sunset,” Griz said.

  “There was another group less than two miles up the road,” I said. “I suspect they knew we were in the area, but we didn’t stop to chat.”

  Clutch frowned. “I don’t like going into a situation with an unknown quantity. Even though we don’t know this group much better, my gut says we can trust this guy. What do you think?”

  “I’m with you,” Griz said. “If they were bandits, one of them would’ve given off a suspicious vibe by now.”

  “I agree,” I said. “I get why they took our trucks. It’s what most would do. I think they’re just trying to get by.”

  Clutch nodded. “We’ll stay the night. Let the others know. We’ll run a double security detail to play it safe.”

  One hour later, we had camp set up within the church and had Jack slouched in a pew. He’d lost his color and was sweating profusely, and we all worried the infection he’d picked up from the dog bite was rabies. When the professor found out, he frowned. “I wish we could help, but we have no antibiotics here. There’s a veterinary clinic a couple miles to the north, but we’ve already been through it. There’s nothing but empty shelves and dead animals inside.”

  “Hang in there,” Clutch said after checking Jack’s bandage. “We’ll get you back to the clinic tomorrow, and they’ll get you fixed up.”

  Jack winced and leaned back. As he rested, we moved the rest of our weapons inside, despite the professor’s complaints. He could complain all he wanted. It was one item which Clutch—or any of us—refused to negotiate.

  Our trucks, including the two we’d reclaimed, were backed up to the church in case we needed to make a hasty exit. The only thing that stood between the doors and the trucks were two large concrete statues of lions, and they weren’t going anywhere.

  The Marshall survivors totaled seven—eight if you counted their small dog named Boy—but we’d only met six of them so far. Bonnie and Hugh had come upstairs only because Professor Caler had asked them to introduce themselves before they quickly returned to the basement. They were skittish and tended to stay to themselves. I was glad they didn’t stick around. The only member of their group we hadn’t met yet was “taking some much-needed rest after a long night.”

  We’d carried in two boxes of food to have a bona fide Thanksgiving dinner, if canned meat and gravy, instant potatoes, and canned cranberry sauce counted. We set out the food across the altar. I’m sure the professor saw some kind of symbolism in it, but it was really the easiest place to put everything.

  Boy, the black-and-white dog that had been adopted by the Marshall survivors, anxiously sat as the lone guard of the feast. I think if he could’ve reached the altar, he would’ve pulled everything down. But he was a small mutt, and despite trying over and over again, he couldn’t jump high enough.

  While the food heated on small makeshift stoves, Tom walked around the pews, collecting bibles.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “We don’t have room for all those books.”

  “They’re not books, they’re bibles,” he replied. “And we don’t have enough at New Eden.”

  I didn’t bother arguing with him. I figured he’d find a way to fit boxes of bibles onto the trucks regardless of what I said. So I returned to the altar.

  My stomach growled at the smell of warm food, and I inhaled the aroma. When I bent down to steal a spoonful of gravy, Jase slapped my hand. “You have to wait, just like everyone else.”

  I scowled at him before turning away. “I saw you sneaking a bite,” I mumbled.

  “I was tasting it for flavor. A chef’s prerogative.”

  Professor Caler was examining the spread on the altar. “We’re missing wine. I’ll see what I can find in the priest’s quarters.”

  “I’ll help out,” I offered.

  The professor snapped around faster than I’d ever seen him move. “No, no, that’s quite all right. I can manage.”

  I frowned at his sudden stubbornness and glanced to Jase.

  He frowned before watching Caler disappear around the corner. “He must be hiding the good stuff back there.”

  “Or something,” I murmured.

  He stood and lifted the steaming pot with both hands. “The feast is ready.”

  “Woot!” I cheered and cleared a spot for the stew of meat, gravy, and vegetables Jase had
mixed together from a couple dozen cans. That stuff alone was better than we had, but the coup de grace was the spice. They’d found boxes of salt, pepper, and seasonings at the store. I couldn’t remember the last time my food had been seasoned with anything except some fresh-ground herb we’d found. I was more excited for this Thanksgiving feast than any other Thanksgiving in my life.

  The professor carried food to the three members of his team staying in the basement. Everyone else sat around the altar, on the steps, or on pews, and ate. It felt like a real Thanksgiving, with old friends and new acquaintances sitting together around a feast.

  All the church’s candles were lit. We didn’t bother covering the windows, since it was cold enough the zeds were frozen, and the church was far enough off the main roads that no one would see the light unless they were going directly by the church.

  The seasoning was strong, nearly overpowering the stew, but I still went back for seconds—and thirds. The church wine the professor brought out was the worst I’d ever had, but I still had another glass.

  Clutch took tiny sips from his bottle of whiskey, and I knew the only reason he was showing moderation was to stay sober. Once we were back within the safety of New Eden’s fences, I knew that bottle would empty fast.

  “Time for a toast,” the professor said, and we all raised our glasses. “Here’s to new friends and new starts.”

  “Cheers,” we all said.

  As everyone ate, drank, and conversed, the professor looked at Clutch. “I have a doctorate in human psychology. I consider myself a respectable judge of character. And, I believe you and your group are decent people.”

  Clutch nodded while he chewed.

  The professor continued. “Our group used to be four times this size. We ran into trouble a little over two weeks ago. Some men who called themselves the Black Sheep demanded a toll for traveling through their territory. What they demanded, we couldn’t pay. They attacked, and we defended ourselves. We fended them off, but our losses were terrible. You’ve met Bonnie and Hugh. They both lost their spouses, and struggle to get by. We wandered for two days until we reached Omaha. The sun caught off the stained glass windows of this church just right to catch my eye. It was a rainbow drawing us in. And, we’ve been here ever since.”