by Rachel Aukes
One of the other men stepped forward. “You’re taking things that don’t belong to you.”
“And it belongs to you?” Clutch countered. “I knew Mabel, and she’s lying dead inside.”
“It doesn’t matter, Clutch. It’s the rules,” Sean said. “All supplies must go through the Fox Hills militia for reallocation. We divvy them out to citizens based on need.”
Clutch chuckled, though there was no humor in the sound. “Based on whose need? Yours or theirs?”
“You’ll turn over the truck, the supplies, and that girl with you,” another man called out, pointing at me.
“Good luck with that,” Clutch said before turning back to Sean. “Where’s the government order establishing a militia?”
“There’s no government anymore,” Sean replied.
“Camp Fox has fallen?”
Sean stammered. “We—we’re working in collaboration with the National Guard. We’re helping them out.”
“And who’s in charge of this little militia?” Clutch asked.
“Doyle,” one of the men said. “And he’ll kick your ass for getting in our way.”
“Let me see the government order from Camp Fox instating Doyle as head of the militia,” Clutch said. “Until then, you’re all just bandits. And, I’ll shoot any man who tries to take anything of mine.”
The men kept their fully automatic rifles raised.
“But Clutch…” Sean pleaded
“You going to shoot me, boy?” Clutch guffawed at the man who looked about my age. “You might get in a lucky shot or two, but I guaran-fucking-tee that I’m taking every last one of your sorry asses with me. And I don’t give a flying fuck that you’ve sold seed corn to me before, Sean.”
“Let’s just kill this asshole and be done with it,” one of the men said, and I leveled the rifle to aim dead center in the middle of his forehead.
“Dibs on the girl,” the third man added.
“Fuck you,” I called out, keeping my aim steady.
“Soon, girly,” the man with the toothy grin said.
Sean patted the air. “There’s going to be no shooting today. We’re leaving.” The men around him raised an uproar. Sean snapped around to his compatriots. “We’re leaving! This place is going to be crawling with zeds soon enough the way it is.” Sean turned to Clutch, looking exasperated. “You can keep this stuff from today, just because we have a history. But the militia is in charge around here. You’d be best to join up or get out of our way. And your little girl over there needs to be moved in with the other civilians at our camp for protection. The rules have changed. I’d watch your back if I were you.”
With that final warning, they climbed into their truck. One of the men in the truck bed fired several shots into the sky. They whooped and one flipped us off as they sped away, kicking up rocks.
“Assholes,” I muttered, coming around to stand by Clutch.
“Sean was right.” He looked at me. “We’re going to have to watch our backs. They’ve seen us. Sean knows where I live. And they know I won’t play along with their games. That makes me an enemy. As for you…” He looked me up and down.
I shivered, even though the sun shone brightly in the sky. “Then we’d best avoid them.”
He locked the lift gate and headed to the driver’s side. “These guys are nothing but Doyle’s dogs, using the façade of a militia to take what they want.”
“Who’s this Doyle guy?” I asked. “Someone to worry about?”
“He’s a cocky asshole who’s owned the surplus store for decades. He’s also one hell of a survivalist. Armageddon would’ve been a wet dream for him.”
****
We spent the next two weeks converting the farmhouse into a fortress and planting gardens, all the while killing any zeds that made the mistake of stumbling too close to the farm. We set up a sniper’s nest not far from the gate to watch for Doyle’s Dogs—what we’d nicknamed the self-proclaimed militia.
Jase turned out to be a great asset. Even though he slept until ten every morning, once awake, he was boundless energy, and his ankle healed quickly. Between the two of us, we could lift nearly as much as Clutch could.
We covered the first floor windows with chain link fence to hold back zeds and fastened strips of fencing up to the second floor windows, giving us a way to get inside in case the front door was blocked. We even boarded up the front door, leaving the only entrance in and out through the cellar door, which could be better secured from the inside. We reinforced the gate at the end of the drive so that intruders with anything less than a tank or heavy bolt cutters would have a tough time cutting through the chains to get through.
Using the fertilizer we’d picked up at the greenhouse, Clutch introduced Jase and me to the art of setting explosive booby traps, multiplying the reliability of our existing perimeter protection tenfold.
But the three of us worked together only when absolutely necessary. Most of the time, we rotated shifts to have one person on guard duty. No more zeds passed through the yard, but more and more were showing up on the roads and in the fields. Only Clutch scouted the woods. Jase and I were neither gutsy enough nor good enough yet to go deep into the acres of tangled trees alone, though Clutch regularly reminded me that I needed to get familiar with those woods sometime. If the Dogs came at us, hiding in the woods could make the difference between life and death.
We figured that, at the speed zeds shambled along, it would take only a few months before they started spreading outward from Des Moines in a mass exodus. The four or five thousand zeds in Fox Hills were another story. We had to be ready for them now.
One thing that bothered me was that we hadn’t seen signs of any more uninfected humans. Clutch had said that they’d hide out as long as they could, but it had been three weeks since the outbreak. Most would’ve run out of food by now and would be forced to loot. Not hearing any other traffic made me wonder exactly how few of us remained.
The hours not spent on fortifying the farm were spent training for self-defense and killing. My strength and skills improved quickly, though I had a long ways to go. I could now do fifty diamond pushups without stopping. And, my caffeine headaches had finally gone away. Jase was already in good shape from playing in sports. Even with his still-healing ankle, he could run up to windows, check out a house, and be on his way back to the truck before zeds had a clue he was there.
Where Jase was our designated runner, I learned I had a natural affinity to being a sniper. Clutch, of course, was our diplomat should any Dogs show up. He excelled at hand-to-hand combat and could handle any weapon. He was also our strategist. Building on our areas of specialty, Clutch began to lay out plans—for both offense and defense. We were transforming from three individuals into a team.
Hoo-fucking-rah.
Clutch gave both Jase and me our own rifles. They were matching M24s with all the accessories. I hadn’t even heard of an M24 before the outbreak. Now, I spent hours practicing dry shooting, disassembling, and cleaning until I could use it in complete blackness. I could load the cartridges blindfolded.
Only when I’d perfected dry shooting—aligning my body position, sight picture, breathing, and trigger squeeze—did Clutch let me fire a real round. Rather than setting up a shooting range, Clutch had taken me several miles out until we’d come across zeds. At each outing, I was only allowed to use one cartridge to conserve ammo, which meant that I had to make every shot count.
The only differences between dry and real shooting were the noise and the recoil, both of which I’d been expecting and was ready for. It was during that first time, when I took out three zeds back-to-back at a hundred yards that I saw the rare glimpse of pride in Clutch’s eyes.
Back at the farm, I’d studied the art of learning my surroundings. I trained myself to look and listen while remaining focused on something else.
I could stab the sandbag head every time, better than Jase, and I’d even dodged a couple of Clutch’s moves. But I was nowhere n
ear Clutch’s class. He could still take me down any time he wanted. I gained a worship-like appreciation for Army Rangers after seeing what he was capable of.
“Every corner poses a risk,” he said after knocking me on my butt. Again.
“Silence is my friend,” I replied, coming to my feet.
“What is your best weapon?” He lashed out.
I dove to the side. “I am.”
“What is your second best weapon?”
“Anything I can use to shoot, stab, blow up, strike, or throw.”
Clutch moved, and I found myself in a choke hold.
“OODA?” he asked, loosening his hold somewhat.
“Observe. Orient. Decide…” I pushed back into him, but he anticipated my move and pushed forward, and I elbowed him in the stomach. He relaxed his grip, and I twisted away. “Act.”
He stepped back a safe distance and crossed his arms over his chest. “And your mantra?”
I smiled. He’d given me an assignment the night before to come up with one rule, which I could meditate on to prep for any mission, to keep from getting too nervous. His was Hit ’em hard and hit ’em often. I wanted something that spoke more to my own internal muse. “Get ’em where I want ’em.”
“Meaning?”
“To never be stupid. Never let them get me where they can overpower me or take me down. Turn my opponent’s actions to my advantage.”
Clutch nodded. “That’ll do.” He looked around the yard. “That’s enough for today.”
I tugged off my leather gloves. Clutch was adamant that we wore gloves any time we worked or trained so that they became like a second skin. They made me clumsy at first, but I preferred them now, even with the rifle. If they could keep me from getting a cut that could get infected, or worse, a zed bite, they were priceless.
Walking back to the house, I scanned the yard. Jase would be at the end of the lane right now, checking the gate. He ran six laps a day down the long lane to scout for zeds and raiders. He’d turned into a regular grunt. Even though we all were decked out in military gear, Jase took the style to heart. He practiced running, crawling, and combat like he was at boot camp. I’d even found him trying out different types of mud to camouflage his face the other day.
But I also knew what he did at the end of the lane. He’d pause at the gate, and stare wistfully down the road, in the direction of his old home. It was a hard reminder of what he’d lost.
Keeping busy helped me to not think about my parents.
I kept very, very busy.
We remained vigilant, day and night, watching for intruders, especially for Doyle’s Dogs. At night, we took three-hour rotations, to give each of us a solid six-hour sleeping break. With the physical labor, I could fall asleep the second my head hit the pillow on the sofa. I’d gotten into a routine and was pulling my own weight next to the guys. We needed more people, but the simple fact was, aside from Doyle’s Dogs and possibly Camp Fox, we’d come across no one else in some time. Even the house with boarded windows now appeared abandoned, with its front door broken wide open.
As for our house, even if zeds could get inside, which I doubted, Clutch had jerry-rigged the stairs with C4 that he could blow at a moment’s notice. I never knew C4 was even legal, so I had no idea how he had come to own it. Fifty foot of paracord was placed next to each upstairs window in case the house was overrun. In the cellar, we’d built a fake wall in front of the shelves to hide our food just in case looters managed to break in.
In the gardens, Jase stood watch while I planted, and then we rotated every hour. We’d planted nearly all the seeds we’d taken from the greenhouse. We’d even planted a few herbs so we wouldn’t be doomed with overly bland food all winter, though salt was already missed.
Even with all the food in the cellar, we only had enough food to get us into the winter. We had to grow a hell of a lot of food if we wanted to survive. The fields weren’t safe—too much open space, and we couldn’t eat the corn or soybean seed as it had all been treated with pesticides and herbicides. So we planned to plant by hand seed corn and soybeans in rows closest to the farm since he had all the seed already on hand.
Clutch estimated that we’d converted the backyard into one and a half acres of garden. Within a year, living off the land would become our only source of food. It was terrifying yet empowering.
After the quick seven-step process—which had to be done in order—of getting into the house without setting off a trap, Clutch headed to the kitchen and I turned on the small battery-powered radio and began my routine during every break of slowly scanning both radio bands. Like every other day, FM was quiet. AM had a couple of transmissions, but they must’ve been too far away because static drowned out the voices. As I continued to scan stations, Clutch said, “Wait. Go back.”
I tuned the knob, and turned up the volume. The man spoke in a slow monotone, which was why I’d gone right past the station the first time.
“…militia now controls the towns in southern Iowa and some in northern Missouri. I drove near Des Moines two days ago. Had to see it for myself. The rumors are true. It’s scorched. The military dropped H6s on it at least a week ago since there were only a few fires left burning.”
I suddenly found it hard to breathe, and I fell back on my butt. Des Moines…bombed? Mom. Dad. While I’d known their odds were hopeless, knowing with certainty…I pressed my hand to my heart.
Clutch handed me a glass of water. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe they got out.”
His words were clumsy and rushed, and I knew he didn’t believe them. “Yeah, maybe,” I lied right back, breathless. The finality of the situation forced me to finally admit to myself that I’d been clinging to a strand of false hope for too long. Jaw clenched, I tried not to think about my parents, focusing instead on the stranger’s words.
“…I heard all major cities have been bombed to contain the spread, and any intact military units have pulled back. Though, it’s safe to assume there’s not much government or military left. At least one National Guard base is taking in survivors in Iowa, and that’s Camp Fox. Camp Dodge was destroyed along with Des Moines. I don’t have status on any Iowa units at this time.
During the American Revolution, the active forces in the field against the tyranny never amounted to more than three percent of the colonists. We are the three percenters of today. We are the militia, and we will survive this war. We will defeat the zed scourge and rebuild. I’m wired into stations across the country and will broadcast every day at 0900. This is Hawkeye broadcasting on AM 1340. Be safe and know that you’re not alone. Three percenters, unite!”
Silence came from the speakers, and I sat and stared at the radio.
“Any news?” Jase asked, walking into the living room, sweaty from his run.
“Des Moines was bombed,” Clutch said in a low, rumbly voice.
Jase smiled. “Hopefully they cleared out all the zeds so they won’t be heading this direction.”
I tossed him a glare and then turned away.
“Oh,” Jase said after a moment. “Damn, Cash. I’m sorry. I forgot—”
“It’s time we head out,” Clutch said.
I turned back to see him standing and motioning me to get up. My limbs felt like they’d been filled with lead, but I dragged myself to my feet.
“Where are we going?” Jase asked.
“To check out the Pierson farm and pick up those chickens Cash has been wanting,” Clutch said.
“If they’re even still alive,” I mumbled.
Clutch ignored me. “But you’re staying back and guarding the house. We’ll be back within three hours.”
Jase looked relieved that he didn’t have to go. “You got it, boss.”
“Whenever we’re away from my farm, we’re at risk of being overtaken,” Clutch said to me. “So we’ll clear the house and buildings first. Then, if everything’s clear, we’ll grab the chickens, food, and supplies.”
“Do you think it’s safe?” I as
ked.
“I haven’t seen any of the Dogs on this road yet. Maybe it’s because they’re giving me this road as long as I stay off the others.”
I nodded, but I also knew any time he used the word “maybe”, he didn’t mean it. Besides, the men we’d come across at the greenhouse seemed too greedy to give up a few miles along one quiet gravel road.
I grabbed my helmet and gear before rustling around for a couple duffels Clutch had gotten from his surplus run. This time, I packed a bottle of water and a protein bar in my jacket, a lesson I learned after finding myself empty-handed at the elementary school. Clutch was already downstairs, geared up and eating a protein bar. We needed the chickens. Having fresh food would be a much-needed morale boost for all three of us.
In the truck, I asked, “How many lived there?” Up until now, we’d only grabbed anything off farms that didn’t require entering buildings, waiting for numbers to thin out. That was before we realized that zeds just kept on going.
We all knew we should’ve started cleaning out the nearby houses earlier, knowing that it was just a matter of time before the Dogs raided the area. But by the same token, they could’ve been watching us already, waiting for the time we left the safety of the farm to come after us or the supplies on the farm.
We had to be careful. We didn’t yet know which farmhouses hid infected inside. The only way to tell was to check them out. Chances were, occupants—infected or otherwise—would likely be hostile. I gripped the machete.
“Two. The Piersons were a young couple. Just starting out,” he replied, as we reversed the seven steps to get out of the house and headed for the truck.
Clutch drove slowly enough to not kick up any dust on the gravel road while I scanned for zeds and looters.
A creek meandered down the end of Clutch’s property line. With all the rains, the Fox River had flooded, filling its tributaries, this creek being one. The ground had given way not far from the road, and I saw why we hadn’t seen more than a few zeds for a couple days. “It’s better than a mousetrap,” I said, watching the zeds trapped in the mud.
