by Rachel Aukes
I grabbed a can of fruit cocktail and looked around for a can opener. “Of course,” I muttered when I noticed the power opener on the counter. Rather than wasting time hunting around for tools, I opted instead for a jar of peanuts while sipping a second bottle of water.
Finished, I grabbed my knife off the countertop, and headed back up to the master bedroom and adjacent bathroom. I peeled off my clothes caked with sludge, blood, sweat, and dirt.
Without water pressure, a shower was impossible. Instead, I grabbed a half-empty bottle of shampoo and soap from the shower. I dipped a washcloth in the tank behind the toilet and thoroughly scrubbed myself. After I’d used nearly all the water in the tank and made a mess of the floor, I grabbed a tube of Neosporin and Band-Aids for my palm that still oozed blood.
Leaving the wrappers on the counter, I headed into the walk-in closet and sifted through clothes until I found a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that fit. I hurriedly dressed, fastened my belt and weapons, and ventured to the garage. I tapped lightly on the door and heard nothing in response. This time, rather than going slowly, I threw open the door and scanned the three stalls.
I sighed with a smile and leaned back against the wall. Not only was the garage clear, but a Ford sat in one stall. After a quick sweep under the sedan, I opened the car door and a beeping tone reverberated throughout the garage, energetically telling me that both the keys were still in the ignition and the battery wasn’t dead. I turned the battery on and found that the car still had over a half tank of gas. I turned off the battery and patted the dash. “You’ll do just fine,” I said as I hopped back into the house.
It took me several trips to carry all the food to the car. After another search of the house, I found a baseball bat. By then, the sun had long since set. Without knowing the roads—and roadblocks—in this area, I did one final sweep of the house before settling in for the night in an upstairs bedroom facing the street.
Even though there was no way zeds knew where I was, I didn’t sleep well. After an especially violent nightmare of Clutch being attacked by zeds, I shot awake as dawn was just beginning to light up the street.
I went down on a knee to look out the window, and fell back on my butt. Now, at least twenty zeds milled around the street below me, sniffing the air, as though sensing prey in the area. Their sheer numbers could crush the car with me in it.
I cupped my head in my hands. How the fuck…
After watching the herd for over an hour, I accepted the fact that they weren’t going anywhere, and I changed my bandages and ate cereal out of the box.
And waited.
Their numbers never changed throughout the day. Some came, some went. Zeds shuffled in lazy circles as though waiting for food to come to them.
It wasn’t until night returned that something snagged their attention and the street cleared except for a few stragglers. Now. I hustled to the garage. When I opened the car door, something thumped on the other side of the garage door.
I stood there, holding my breath.
Another thump.
I edged closer to the garage door and inched onto my toes to peer out the high windows. Under the moonlight, I could see a single zed on the other side, but as it banged at the door, it drew the attention of others. I came back down on my heels, my breath coming in short pants. Soon, a second pair of fists joined the first at the door.
“Shit!” I whispered.
If I waited any longer, the noise could draw out every zed in the area. It probably wouldn’t take more than the weight of twenty or so to push in a garage door.
They had me exactly where they wanted me: in a gift box, ready to open.
I did a slow three-sixty, looking for anything to distract the zeds, trying to concentrate above the ruckus.
Then it hit me.
Get ’em where I want ’em.
I wanted them as far from the garage as possible.
I went back to the car, pulled out the bat and headed back into the house. I headed down the hallway and to the office near the front door. I took a swing and smashed the front windows. Home run.
I rushed back to the garage, looked out through the windows and found the thumping had stopped. I tossed the bat onto the front seat and grabbed the cord on the garage door.
One, two, three.
I yanked the cord, and the door opened with a clatter. I jumped into the car and slammed the door shut as I slid the key into the ignition. The car roared to life, and I had the tires squealing in reverse.
A zed slammed into the car before I was out of the garage. The car lurched over its body. More zeds shuffled from the darkness, filling the street with their relentless groans. As soon as I was on the street, I slammed on the brakes, shoved the car into drive, and rammed into zeds head-on.
The car snagged on bodies as I drove over them, and the right wheel ended up off the ground, leaving only the left front wheel with any traction, and it was burning rubber uselessly. I rocked the car between gears, using reverse and forward to try to nudge free like I was stuck in snow.
By now, the zeds that I’d drawn to the house had turned their attention to the car. The window behind me shattered. I pulled out my Beretta while keeping my foot on the gas. Zeds pushed against the car as they tried to get to me from all sides. The extra weight pushed the car forward, and the right tire caught traction. The car took off, pitching to a near stop when plowing through a wall of zeds trying to block me in.
Somehow, the car made it through and the strays slid off the hood. I took the first right, realizing too late that it was a cul-de-sac. “Fuck!” Spinning around, I got back on the main street.
When the number of zeds dissipated, I chanced a glance in the rearview mirror. One reached out to me under the moonlight. It looked young—too much like Jase—though months in the sun had baked its skin into a jaundiced husk.
I sped away. Since I was on the edge of town, it took only three turns, some lawn driving around a roadblock, and a couple curb-checks before Chow Town disappeared behind me.
I drove west until I came to a familiar stretch of road. The car made a clacking sound and the steering wheel shuddered if I went over twenty, not that I could drive any faster without headlights, which would give away my location. According to the car’s clock, it took me over an hour to make it to the gravel road the farm was on.
As I turned onto the gravel road, I slammed on the brakes. Taillights in the distance signaled a vehicle leaving the farm. After the taillights disappeared and no other lights appeared, I crept forward and parked the car by the garage of Jase’s old house, making sure it was hidden from the road. After a wistful glance at the beat-up sedan with an arm caught in the bumper, I stepped into the night.
I didn’t like the idea of walking at night, but I couldn’t risk driving into an ambush at the farm. The smell of smoke was strong in the air, and a bad feeling formed in my gut.
As I closed the distance between Jase’s house and Clutch’s farm, the smell of smoke grew stronger every minute. When I noticed the garbage truck had been shoved into the ditch, I avoided the lane and walked through a field that never got planted and into the trees enclosing the farm. I crept soundlessly through the woods, expecting a zed to pop out from behind every tree.
Not a single zed sniffed me out, likely thanks to the blanket of smoke over the area. Soon, I could see a glow through the trees and hear the crackle of a large campfire. I cautiously moved close enough to see the yard.
Or what was left of it. I gasped and covered my mouth. “No.”
The Dogs had burned everything to the ground.
Chapter XVI
I gripped the baseball bat as I fell to my knees. The house was nothing but a charred framework and a pile of burning ash and blackened debris with still-glowing embers.
This farm had become my home when the outbreak hit. It was a fortress. I was safe here. Months of hard work, the supplies, weapons, all the food we’d stored, gone.
It made no sense. Clut
ch had willingly joined the Dogs. Why would they destroy his farm? They wouldn’t do something like this to one of their own. Which meant…
“No.” I had to lean on the bat to keep from collapsing.
Clutch was dead.
I clenched my eyes closed. If only I’d gotten here earlier. If I’d returned to the farm last night, I could’ve prevented this somehow.
I chortled. Who was I kidding?
Like I could’ve single-handedly held back the Dogs.
Furious, I pulled myself back to my feet. In the distance, I saw two men with shaved heads leaning against their truck parked in the lane several hundred feet away. Too far away for me to overhear their conversation. I looked for more Dogs but found none.
I heard a rustle to my right and saw three zeds encircle me, groaning through jaws that no longer worked. They were badly burned, their arms and faces charred.
I grabbed the baseball bat and swung, crushing the first zed’s skull like it was a T-ball. The second zed was on me too quickly and I kicked its ankles together, knocking its feet out from under it. I left it floundering on the ground, while I swung at the third, nailing it in the chest. The force knocked it back, and my second swing crumpled its head.
After smashing the zed on the ground, I turned back to the house.
All the food, weapons…gone.
Everything Clutch, Jase, and I had built was destroyed. The Dogs had burned the fuel tanks, and it looked like the explosions took down two of the three sheds. Only the smallest shed still stood, though its door was open, and I suspected any valuable contents gone. They’d even slashed the tires on the poor Prius.
After giving the house a final brokenhearted look, I headed past the burnt gardens, careful to keep the still-burning house between the Dogs and me, and cautiously around the backside of the largest shed, held up only by Clutch’s combine. Feathers littered the ground, though I couldn’t find any sign of the chickens.
Coming down on a knee, I pulled at the tin and debris as quietly as possible. Blood dripped from my hand. When I finally pulled away the last bit of plywood, I sighed in relief.
The Dogs hadn’t discovered Clutch’s TEOTWAKI bunker.
I opened the round door and climbed down a few steps. With one final look around, I noticed the Dogs were still lounging by their truck, and I tugged the plywood up so it’d cover the bunker door.
“Damn Dogs,” I muttered before shutting the door and descending into the darkness.
Knowing I was secure, I curled up on the floor and slept.
That was, until the door overhead opened.
Chapter XVII
“Why the hell didn’t you lock the door?” Clutch demanded in a gruff whisper, the moonlight casting him in an imposing silhouette.
“Clutch?” I asked, pointing the Beretta at him.
“Lower the gun, Cash. I’m coming down,” he replied before closing—and locking—the door above him.
A lantern in Clutch’s hand suddenly cast a gentle glow in the small space.
“I forgot the door locked,” I said in a daze as I watched him climb down the ladder. Sweat glistened off his shaved head. Then I dropped the pistol and jumped him from behind. “You’re alive!”
He was hot and sweaty and I didn’t care. He turned around and pulled me into a full embrace.
“How?” I asked, holding on tight.
He rubbed my shoulder. “Doyle sent out most of his Dogs that first night. He left me in the silo with only one guard.” He paused. “I got out. That’s all that matters.”
I pulled back to look at him. Emotion laced his words. “Let me guess. You pissed off Doyle in the process.”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand over his now-shaved head and grimaced, like he didn’t enjoy the feel. “Were you here when they…”
“No,” I replied quickly. “I got here after.”
“Good.” He paused. “Jase?”
“He’s at Camp Fox. He’s safe.”
Clutch sighed, and then looked around. “We can’t stay here. Dogs will be sniffing around my farm until I’m caught or dead. There were two waiting outside tonight.”
Probably the same two that I’d seen. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said softly. I felt safe with Clutch in this bunker, but I’d already realized it could all too easily become our tomb. Only one way in or out. Only one air vent that could be too easily blocked from the outside.
He slid to the floor. “The captain let you go?” he asked gruffly.
“Yeah.”
“Good. I couldn’t tell if he was playing to get you away from Doyle or if he was actually thinking of arresting you.”
“He let me go,” I said instead, sitting back down. Clutch didn’t need to be burdened with the details. Not with his home lying in ruins above our heads. I wrinkled my nose. “You smell.”
He grunted, resting his head against the wall. “Thirty-six hours in the woods will do that.”
I grabbed a bottle of water and tapped it on his arm. “Here.”
He took the bottle, and then grabbed my wrist. “What’s this?”
I tugged back my injured hand. “Just a cut I picked up yesterday.”
“Why weren’t you wearing your gloves?” He narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Whose clothes are those?”
I shrugged.
“Hell.” His jaw clenched. “Masden didn’t let you go, did he?”
“He let me go,” I replied. “I just had to find my own way back home.”
Clutch pounded the floor. “Sonofabitch. When I find him, I’m going—”
“You’re going to do nothing,” I interrupted. “We’ve got enough shit to deal with right now than take on Camp Fox, don’t you think?”
“And your gear?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Somewhere at Camp Fox.”
Clutch glared for a moment before taking a long draw of water and leaning his head back again, eyes closed. When his eyes opened, he leveled a hard gaze on me. “You all right now?”
I smiled and moved to sidle up next to him. “Yeah, I’m okay.” I laid my uninjured hand on his knee. “You?”
He grunted again—his typical response of consent—and rolled up his sleeve. “I got lucky.”
My eyes widened. “Holy shit.”
There, on his forearm, was a dark bruise in the perfect semi-circle outline of human teeth.
“I was lucky I had long sleeves. But still, when they lock on, they bite hard. The bastards have got jaws like pit bulls.”
I gingerly touched the marks and whistled. “I think you got very lucky.”
“Your turn.” He nodded to my hand.
“I cleaned it this morning,” I said as I pulled back the first Band-Aid. Even in the dim light, the skin around the cut was red and swollen.
His brow furrowed. He grabbed a first aid kit off a shelf and motioned for my hand.
I held it out, and he gently peeled off each Band-Aid. He pulled out a small plastic bottle and poured it into my palm. I hissed as liquid fire shot through my arm. “Jesus, Clutch. Are you trying to kill me?”
“It’s just alcohol. Don’t be a baby.”
I wasn’t being a baby. It seriously burned. He dabbed a cotton swab at it until the sharp agonizing pain numbed into a constant throb. He covered my palm with a bandage and wrapped gauze around it.
“I’ll clean your cut again in the morning,” He said after putting the kit back.
Then he grabbed my uninjured hand and rested his forehead against it.
I rubbed his thumb. “It’ll be okay.” And I meant it. I knew that as long as Clutch was with me, everything would be fine.
He chuckled drily, the sound devoid of humor. “We’ve got no weapons, no food, no shelter. Doyle crippled us with one easy blow. Jase is at Camp Fox. And Masden made it clear that if we go after Doyle, we’re attacking Camp Fox.”
“Doyle’s no longer with Camp Fox,” I said. “He zed-bombed them a few hours after we were separated.”
“Jesus.” Clutch’s muscles
tensed under me. “So that’s where the Dogs went.”
“I guess Doyle saw a shot and took it.”
“Were you there?” he asked quietly.
I nodded and laid my head on his shoulder. “They lost one of their barracks along with several troops in the attack.” I thought of Nick. “They lost some good folks.”
“The Camp will be better prepared against Doyle next time.”
“You sure there will be a next time?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, his voice low. “Doyle has a hard view on how to survive, and he assumes everyone will see that he’s right.” He chuckled. “He actually believed I’d willingly join his Dogs. Doesn’t matter now. The only good thing is that Doyle will no longer get support from Camp Fox. I bet Lendt’s guys are keeping the Dogs running as we speak. That should distract Doyle enough until we can secure a new location. We’ll scout out places in the morning. How are we on weapons?”
“I’ve got a Beretta with nine rounds, a baseball bat, and two knives. And whatever else you have.”
“It’s not enough,” he said.
“It’ll be enough,” I said, snuggling closer. I wasn’t worried. I had Clutch back. I knew everything would be okay, and I found myself falling soundly asleep, safe in his arms.
****
I woke up with my entire body stiff from lying on hard, damp concrete. Being underground, I had no idea what time it was. I could’ve been asleep for only an hour or ten hours. I’d slept soundly, except for when Clutch’s nightmares began, and I’d held onto him until he fell back into a more peaceful sleep.
Unfortunately, PTSD isn’t curable. It’s a way of life.
Clutch was already awake and heating something in a tin can. When he noticed I was awake, he tossed me a Gatorade. I caught it with my injured hand and winced. He then handed me a metal spork and a tin can wrapped with a towel.
I yawned. “What time is it?”
Clutch put another can on the tiny stove and glanced at his watch. “Five-forty. It should still be dark enough to take out the Dogs that are topside before they see us.”
