100 Days in Deadland

by Rachel Aukes

  The man behind Sean lifted his rifle. “You assholes from Camp Fox don’t tell us what to do. That bastard killed our friends!” His wild-eyes homed in on Clutch at the same time he aimed his rifle.

  I sucked in a breath. Pulled up my rifle. Clutch was in the way. I couldn’t get a clear shot.

  “Fuck this,” Clutch muttered as he lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger.

  ARROGANCE: The Sixth Circle of Hell

  Chapter IX

  The Dog yelped, dropped his rifle, and cradled his hand to his chest.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Tyler yelled, jumping out from the front seat.

  I waited for the Dogs to gun us down, but they never did. Clutch sat, unmoving, next to me, with his Blaser leveled on the whimpering Dog.

  "Beware the man with only one gun, because he knows how to use it. Ain’t that right, Clutch,” an older man with a voice that sounded like he’d smoked a pack a day for forty years straight said as he emerged from the door at the gate.

  “Doyle,” Clutch muttered under his breath.

  I frowned. This was Doyle?

  This man could have been anyone’s grandfather. He was tall and slim, with a casual swagger in his step. His cap and sunglasses hid many features, though weathered skin and tufts of white hair curling out from his cap hinted at an advanced age.

  Nevertheless, I held my breath as he picked the rifle off the ground and handed it back to the whimpering man who now sported a bullet hole through his hand. Tyler stood between the Humvee and Doyle, as though protecting us.

  “At ease, men,” Doyle said. “We don’t turn folks away. Especially one of our own.”

  “But, Doyle,” Sean said with a frown, not lowering his rifle from Clutch and me. “You said—”

  “But, nuthin’,” Doyle interrupted. He motioned to one of the guard boxes above the fence. “Open up.”

  Metal clanged and two Dogs pushed open the creaky gate.

  Wary, I kept an eye on Doyle as he stopped in front of Tyler. The older man looked harmless enough, though I knew to trust my gut. And my gut was screaming at me to shoot him already, grab Clutch, and get the hell out of there.

  I’d seen enough. We needed to get as far from these guys as we could and fast.

  “Sorry about the confusion, Captain,” Doyle said. “My boys simply tend to get a bit energetic in protecting their families.”

  “Bullshit, Sergeant Doyle,” Tyler snapped. “You need to get your minutemen in line.”

  Doyle smirked, and then shrugged. “Guess you’re just going to have to eat that bullshit, Masden. I report to Lendt, not you. You can’t touch me, not as long as my little militia is handling your zed problem. You know it, and I know it.”

  I watched Tyler tense as he seethed with anger. “Lendt’s given you leniency, true, and I trust his judgment. But he also trusts my judgment. And after the stories I’ve been hearing from several survivors—including the ones with me today—I’m not convinced your militia should remain separate from Camp Fox, let alone continue to receive supplies.”

  Doyle narrowed his eyes at Tyler but said nothing before moving around Tyler to lean on Clutch’s door.

  Clutch was clearly tense but he pulled his rifle back inside the window and rested it on his lap. I readjusted mine so that I could take out Doyle in a split second if I had to.

  The older man looked me over. His gaze narrowed and his lips turned downward. When Tyler slammed the front door shut, Doyle returned his focus to Clutch. I knew he’d already made his mind up about me: he didn’t like me, plain and simple.

  My lip curled in return. Feeling’s mutual, bud.

  “We need to talk,” Clutch stated.

  “We’ll talk,” Doyle said, giving Clutch a wide smile. “But first, let’s get you folks inside where it’s safe. Damn zeds are starting to come out of the woodwork.” He swaggered back through the now-open gate.

  An ominous feeling grew heavy in my gut as our Humvee passed through the high gate and several Dogs closed in around us. “Well, we’re in,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “And I’m ready to leave.”

  Clutch watched me for a moment and then gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

  I cradled my rifle as I kept an eye on the Dogs. The man Clutch had shot held his injured hand to his chest as he disappeared inside the first building. Except for one, the remaining men warily watched Clutch like he’d do the same to them. The only guard who didn’t seem concerned was the one too busy leering at me.

  I’d seen him once before, when he’d called dibs on me at the greenhouse. I had wanted to shoot him then, too.

  When we made eye contact, the weasel wagged his tongue and blew me a kiss. I would’ve flipped him the bird if I wasn’t holding my rifle so tightly. Instead, I turned away to find Clutch watching me, his jaw tight. “Don’t leave my side,” he said gruffly.

  I swallowed a nervous chuckle. Like I’d even want to. “I just want to get back to the farm as fast as possible.”

  Tyler turned in his seat. “No matter what happens, there’s not to be one more shot fired here, understood? This situation is a tinderbox that’s been getting hotter for some time.”

  “Unless we’re forced to protect ourselves, you mean,” I corrected. “Where’d Doyle get these guys? Prison?”

  Tyler’s lips pursed. “Stick with me, and everything will be okay. Doyle knows better than to fuck with Camp Fox. Still, I’m surprised none of them got trigger-happy when Clutch shot one of their friends. We’re damned lucky to be alive,” Tyler replied.

  “That shit-for-brains was less than a second away from opening fire on us,” Clutch grated out.

  “How do you know that for sure, Sarge?” Tyler asked.

  Clutch inhaled and then narrowed his gaze on Tyler. “I’ve seen that look before, plenty of times. I know.”

  Clutch’s words evidently sunk in because Tyler seemed to accept them and turned away.

  Inside the fence wasn’t any more pleasant than outside. I counted twenty armed men in the camp. No telling how many more were either hidden behind doors or out looting the countryside. I looked at Tyler. “How many Dogs did you say there were?”

  “Eighteen,” he replied quietly.

  Which would’ve made sixteen after their latest garbage drop-off today. “Looks like Doyle’s been adding to his ranks.”

  “Yeah,” Tyler replied, sounding none too pleased.

  Doyle stepped in front of the Humvee, and Nick brought us to a stop. The gate behind us closed with a loud clank, locking us inside the camp, which appropriately, felt like a prison.

  “They’ve got quite the setup here,” I noted, and Clutch nodded, not looking any happier than I felt.

  Second-guessing Clutch’s idea to gain intel on the militia, I stole a glance at him when he reached for the door. He had on his “hard” look, making it impossible to see any emotion except badassness. “Stay with me,” he repeated his words from earlier as he opened the door, grabbed his pack, and climbed out.

  Rather than opening the door next to me—and closest to the leering Weasel—I slid across the seat and followed Clutch.

  “Seen enough yet?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know what Doyle’s endgame is yet,” he replied just as softly.

  Nick remained with the vehicle, while Griz and Tack got out to stand next to Tyler.

  “Leave your gear in the Humvee,” Doyle said as he walked toward us. “You’re safe within these walls. You won’t need guns here.”

  “No,” Clutch said simply, adamantly.

  Doyle looked at me.

  I gripped my rifle harder.

  “As long as there are zeds, they can keep their weapons,” Tyler said. “That’s an order.”

  After a guffaw, Doyle relented with a brush of his hand. “Have it your way. Keep them, but you won’t need them. You’re under my protection here.”

  I didn’t exactly feel safe under Doyle’s “protection,” and from the look on both Clutch’s and Tyler’s face
s, they felt the same.

  “While we’re here, you can also brief me,” Tyler said. “I’ve told you this before: I’ve got concerns about how many rations you’ve been going through lately. And you have no authority to grow your numbers, not without Lendt’s approval.”

  Doyle grunted and turned, leading our group through the militia camp. Three rundown grain silos towered into the sky. A line of smoke trailed out from the dome of one. A faded Iowa Hawkeye logo was painted across one silo. A large white cross was painted on the side of a long tin building with writing and graffiti all along its side. Overgrown grass and dandelions cropped up everywhere not covered by gravel. People milled about, including even a few children.

  Woodsy smoke corrupted the fresh spring breeze. As we passed a small fire with a turkey fryer filled with boiling water, I asked, “What are all the camp fires for?”

  “Cooking. Purifying water,” Doyle replied. “Our generators aren’t big enough to power the entire camp, so anything we can do the old fashioned way, we do. Besides, the smoke also helps keep the smell down.”

  “Not worried about smoke or the smell of smoke attracting zeds?” I countered, knowing that we only cooked at night to mask the visibility of smoke.

  Doyle smiled. “I say, let ’em come.”

  As we moved into the shadows of the silos, I noticed two young women stirring a pot on a fire. The scraping of metal against metal overpowered the crackling wood. As we walked past, one of the women jerked up, revealing a black eye. Utter despair radiated through her swollen, red eyes. She quickly looked away, focusing all too intently on the pot.

  My jaw tightened. “Tell me, Doyle. How many folks are here by their own free will?”

  “Everyone is given a choice when they arrive,” he replied without turning. “They can choose to abide by my rules and stay here or go it alone outside the walls.”

  “But only the minutemen and their families stay here,” Tyler added, while watching the young woman. “The militia has strict orders to bring all other survivors to Camp Fox.”

  “Of course,” Doyle replied. “And others have chosen to stay to support the militia.”

  Glancing back at the young woman, I doubted Doyle’s words. If Clutch hadn’t been with me that day at the greenhouse, I suspected I’d be in her situation now: trapped. I found both Tyler and Clutch stopped, still eying the woman, before glancing at one another. Whatever passed between them, I couldn’t see, but they both started to follow Doyle again.

  The gravel crunched under my feet as Doyle led us alongside a long warehouse. The words “Gone but not forgotten” were painted on the faded wood siding under the white cross, with dozens of names painted around it.

  Many names were separated into smaller groupings, each under a different last name. Lynn, Wahl, Hogan … the names went on and on, and I realized that while I didn’t trust the Dogs, many of them had suffered as much, if not more, than I had.

  At the end of the building, Doyle opened a door and gestured, “Welcome to my office and my home.”

  Tyler stepped inside, followed by his men. Clutch waited for me, his hard expression impossible to read. Just as I was about to step through the door, I heard a wretched cry. Pausing, I turned to the smallest of the silos. Then another cry, louder, almost forlorn, and I could make out a single syllable in its whimper. Please.

  I shot a glance at Clutch before looking to Doyle. “I didn’t realize zeds cried.”

  His lips curled upward. “Didn’t you, now.”

  He turned and disappeared inside, and I stared at Clutch, frozen.

  Because we both knew that zeds didn’t cry.

  Chapter X

  Clutch stepped through the doorway. “What the fuck is going on inside that silo?”

  “It’s our smokehouse,” Doyle replied calmly.

  “Not that one,” Tyler said. “I heard it, too. It sounded like a person in the middle silo.”

  Doyle lifted his hands. “It’s not what you think, gentlemen. Any survivor who wants to join the militia must go through survival training. I need to know that every man on my team will obey me, no matter what the order. No man becomes a minuteman until every man on my team knows he can count on him with his life. What’s going on within that silo is nothing more than a hazing ritual every man undergoes when he’s ready to take on the title of ‘minuteman’.”

  “Then show us,” Clutch demanded.

  Doyle smiled smugly. “I’d be happy to, but first, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

  No one moved.

  “You have my word,” Doyle added. “Now, come and have a seat. I’ve asked for some leftovers to be brought in for us.” Doyle motioned us to a table. The room, with one large bay window, offered a generous view of much of the camp. In the corner sat a large wood desk covered in stacks of papers and books.

  We moved cautiously inside.

  Doyle laughed silently, as though he found something funny. “You know, Clutch, most folks wouldn’t have the balls to rob me like you did.”

  “I figured your store was fair game,” Clutch replied. “How was I to know you survived the outbreak?”

  Doyle held up a hand. “Fair enough. But you killed five of my men. You’re lucky I didn’t repay kind with kind.”

  “Seven. The two men you sent today are dead,” Tyler said, and Doyle’s face tightened. Tyler continued. “While their deaths are tragic, I’m not arresting anyone. Attacking civilians stops now, Doyle. If anything like this happens again, I’m putting you in the brig and having your militia reassigned to Camp Fox.”

  Doyle’s lips tightened. “Most of my men are simple farmers. The stress of the outbreak may have proved too much for some to handle. But I don’t have anyone with military training here to help. If Clutch joined my team, I could ensure there’d be no more…misunderstandings.”

  Clutch and Tyler chortled in stereo. I frowned. Where the hell had Doyle gotten the idea that Clutch would join the Dogs? Hell, he’d been attacking us for the past week, and now he thought Clutch would sign up with a smile. He should hate Clutch for killing his men. It was almost as if he’d wanted Clutch to come to him all along. But why?

  “You don’t have the authority,” Tyler said. “This man is Army and has been reactivated. He goes to Camp Fox under Lendt’s command.”

  I could feel the tension roiling off Clutch, yet he sat there, saying nothing.

  “Bah!” Doyle waved a hand through the air. “It’d be a waste for Clutch to join Fox, and he doesn’t want to, anyway.”

  Tyler narrowed his eyes. “How would you know?”

  Doyle blew him off. “Besides, the National Guard has never been anything but wet nurses. The militia is the people’s real protector. I’ve seen the future, and it ain’t pretty. The only way to protect people is to be hard. That Clutch took out two of my men today proves it all the more. Clutch would be a good fit here.”

  “Excuse me? You don’t have the authority.” Tyler came to his feet, and the two soldiers with him stepped closer.

  Doyle ignored him. “Really, Clutch, tell me. Do you think you can hold down your farm against the zeds that will be pouring out from every major city with only a kid and a wetback?”

  My jaw dropped, and I stood. “Wetback?”

  Clutch grabbed my arm, whether to protect me or keep me from going for Doyle’s throat, I didn’t know. He glared. “Watch it, Doyle.”

  I put a hand on my hip. “My mother was Puerto Rican, and my dad was Irish. I was born here, just like my parents, and my parents’ parents before them. That makes me as American as anyone in this room, so fuck off.”

  Doyle smirked. “No wonder you’re keeping this one for yourself. She’s feisty. She’d make good bait.”

  I went to raise my rifle, but Clutch latched onto my forearm. I tried to rein back my temper, failing miserably.

  “Fucking racist,” Griz gritted out from behind me.

  I nodded.

  “Enough!” Tyler slammed a fist on the table. “This ends
now, Doyle. You hear me? No more games. We’re all in this shithole together and need to be working together.”

  A door off to our side opened, and I swung my rifle around.

  The three women carrying platters entered the room and froze, eyes wide.

  Doyle motioned to the women. “Come in, come in.” He sat down as though everything was dandy. “Have a seat. Oh, and Captain, I’ve already sent a plate out to your driver.”

  “Thank you.” Tyler eyed the room cautiously as he and the soldiers with him pulled out wood chairs. He waited until Clutch and I took our seats before taking his own chair. I propped my rifle against the table next to Clutch’s, keeping it in easy reach.

  As Doyle poured the wine, I realized that all we were missing was Jesus because it sure as hell felt like we’d been brought in for the Last Supper.

  Even with the heavy atmosphere, my mouth watered and my stomach growled as the aroma of roasted ham wafted through the air. Clutch hadn’t yet let us butcher a hog or cow, not until we worked the kinks out of the smokehouse. When the older woman set down the tray full of meat, I made a mental note to finish the smokehouse tomorrow.

  “It looks delicious. Thank you, my dear,” Doyle said, briefly holding the woman’s hand.

  She smiled and kissed his forehead before leaving the room.

  On the second platter lay a round loaf of bread and spring greens. “Mm, I missed bread,” I murmured and craved to dig in, but I didn’t trust Doyle. I watched him, and he smirked like he enjoyed having that kind of power over me. He took his time tearing off a chunk of bread and popped it into his mouth. After he swallowed, I pulled off a piece. As I took my first bite, I found Clutch watching me with a hint of a smile.

  I savored the first taste of bread in two months. It had a heavy, whole-grain taste, making it easy to eat without any butter. I tore off a piece for him. “I like carbs.”

  Before leaving, two of the women bowed to Doyle as though he was a god. There seemed to be a lot of that going on around here. I watched the two Dogs standing behind their leader, not eating. After swallowing, I turned to Doyle. “Why do you make your guys shave their heads?”