100-Days-in-Deadland(109)

“God help us all,” Griz said and opened fire on survivors.

Screams erupted. People went berserk, running wildly away from us, seeking shelter.

I raised my rifle. My hands shook. My aim needed to be right. I took a deep breath and sought out the most injured. They would turn first.

I fired.

A woman holding her bloody stomach fell. From my side, Clutch fired into the crowd. The sounds of more gunfire from both sides filled the air.

I took down a man with a head wound. Then a kid getting trampled in the chaos that had overtaken the Camp.

As if spooked by something, people switched directions and starting running toward us.

A zed with a massive chest wound sunk its teeth into the neck of a screaming man. I fired off two shots back to back, taking both down.

Clutch grabbed me. “Run!”

We sprinted toward the truck. The stampede was nearly upon us. Clutch grabbed my waist and threw me onto the bed. I grabbed his shirt to pull him up, but he was yanked from my grasp.

“Clutch!” I screamed, but I couldn’t find him anywhere in the mass of running people.

People reached for me but were smashed against the truck by the sheer force of numbers. The four-by-four wobbled from side to side. A woman shrieked like a yippy dog as she was squeezed between the truck and people until she drowned under the stampede.

“Godammit! Clutch!”

In a panic, I continued firing as I crept to the edge, searching for him on the ground. A familiar man shoved a kid down on his way past.

“Sean,” I growled out. He looked up right when I shot him. Weasel was only a few feet behind Sean, and I killed him with my last round.

The truck was rocking so much that I dropped the clip while reloading.

The stampede thinned out as the people spread out. Bringing up the rear were mostly zeds. When they first turned, zeds were nearly as fast as humans, and they were taking down people left and right, like they were at a wine tasting party.

I went through three more clips before I pulled out the machete. I jumped off the back of the truck and stumbled over bodies on the ground. I hacked at zeds and slashed anyone still living who bore shrapnel wounds. I shoved bodies aside.

“Clutch!” I screamed until my voice gave out. I kept going, pushing over bodies, searching, until my gaze fell on camo fatigues.

I dropped to my knees and pulled the lifeless man onto my lap and started sobbing.

I’d found Clutch.





BETRAYAL


The Ninth Circle of Hell





Chapter XXXI


Three days later



Forty-two.

That’s how many Camp Fox survivors made it to the park. After surviving the zed outbreak, only one out of every seventeen civilians survived the Dogs’ attack. Of that number, over half the survivors were troops, as they’d been spread across the base hunting the Dogs when the attack started.

Forty-two was barely enough to protect the park from zeds, let alone protect it against the risk of Dogs. Same story, different day.

I snuggled against Clutch and held his hand, just like I had every day since the attack. On the first day, his fingers had trembled, but the doctor said not to think anything of it, that the spasms were due to the swelling on his brain. Even though Clutch no longer showed any response, I still held hope.

Jase clung to hope, too. He slept alone in a beanbag chair on the other side of Clutch’s bed every night. He no longer had his faithful sidekick. The timid coyote had sacrificed herself to save her master when a zed tackled Jase. It seemed like he’d lost enough that he no longer had much to say.

He blamed himself for her death. But no more than I blamed myself for Clutch’s situation.

Griz, Tack, Smitty, Eddy, even Tyler had come through without injuries. A selfish, dark shadow deep inside me was angry that they were okay while Clutch lay lifeless on the bed. It had all seemed so unfair. But as soon as the guys stopped by to offer respect, I’d been ashamed of my thoughts. Those men were heroes as much as Clutch. They’d just gotten lucky this time.

Clutch had been crushed under the stampede. His back was broken, along with three ribs, both legs, and his left wrist. He also had a dislocated shoulder and a fractured skull. If—when— he woke, the doc said he could have permanent brain damage. And he’d be paralyzed from the waist down.

Still, I prayed for him to wake.

I needed him to wake.

On the nightstand next to his bed—against doctor’s orders—sat a fully loaded Glock and the can of chewing tobacco I’d given him. The doctor—a general practitioner—figured that if Clutch woke up, he’d be suicidal, and would put a bullet through his brain. I disagreed.