100-Days-in-Deadland(113)

Binoculars.

I nudged Tyler. He looked up, his features worn by exhaustion.

“Doyle’s camp isn’t abandoned,” I said.

He frowned. “I cleared it out myself. By the time I got there, the place was a graveyard. Doyle had already moved all his supplies out. Only three injured Dogs were left behind.”

I shook my head. “So why is there someone up on the silo watching us?”

When the truth hit, he leaned back and air whooshed from his lungs. “Jesus. Doyle’s been under our noses the whole time.”





Chapter XXXIII


Three days later



“I believe we should take him off the respirator,” the doctor said. “We simply don’t have the resources to use equipment and medicine on terminal patients when it could be used on others.”

I didn’t let go of Clutch’s hand. “You said he could still wake up.”

“He could, and I’ve seen much worse cases wake up in the past. But given these primitive medical facilities—”

“As long as there’s a chance, he stays on.” I came to my feet, kissed Clutch, and walked past the doctor. I paused at the door. “And if you take him off, I swear to God, I will crucify you in the middle of Chow Town for the zeds to tear you apart.”

Without waiting for a response, I stepped outside the park office AKA town hall AKA makeshift hospital. Wind cooled my cheeks, though anger still simmered just below the surface. It took several deep breaths before I could focus on what needed done.

My truck was parked just past the humming generators. I climbed in, gunned the engine, and put it into gear. With the window open, I rested an elbow on the door while I meandered through the park, savoring the fresh air, before finally heading into Tyler’s cabin, where all troops not sleeping or on guard-duty sat.

It was the same as yesterday, and the day before that. Droning debates on how to attack Doyle with not nearly enough manpower and even less ammo. When it came down to it, there wasn’t a single feasible plan that didn’t run the risk of losing a life, and Tyler refused to sacrifice one more person for Doyle.

People rotated through as they rolled on and off shift. I listened, offering up a comment here and there, until it was my time to stand guard at one of the park’s four entrances.

The hours at the gate alongside Jase bled by.

“I heard what the doctor said,” Jase said a couple hours into our shift.

I leaned against a tree. “Yeah?”

“I would’ve punched him for even suggesting pulling the plug.”

“Believe me, I considered it.” I watched a bald eagle fly over.

“Don’t give up on him,” Jase said.

“Never.”

****

The following morning, I kissed Clutch good-bye.

“Be safe,” I whispered and left him.

Numb, I returned to my cabin, shaved my head, loaded everything I needed into the truck, and drove away from the park. I had a plan to take out Doyle that involved the loss of only one life, though I had “borrowed” some of Tyler’s ammunition stash during the night to make it work.

The Fox Hills Municipal Airport was only a couple miles northeast of town, not far from the river. I parked next to the only row of hangars, where seven old tin buildings of various faded colors stood side by side. I geared up with every weapon I owned and grabbed the crowbar.

A decrepit, lone zed meandered down by the last hangar. I rapped gently on the first hangar. Nothing. I checked the door. Locked. I pried it open and looked inside. An old Cessna 172. It would work but the nose wheel would make it more difficult to land in a field. I checked the next three hangars. One was empty, one held a Beech Bonanza, and I stopped at the fourth. Perfect. Inside awaited a yellow taildragger. On its tail, the Piper Cub logo matched the tattoo on my forearm.

The old hangar door pushed opened easily without power, and I pulled out the small plane. I returned to the truck and grabbed the duffel bag, admiring the way the airplane shone in the sunlight as I headed back toward it. Its owner had taken good care of the classic.

The badly decomposed zed had finally made it within twenty feet of the Cub. I met it halfway, and finished it off with my crowbar. I opened the duffel, kneeled, pulled out my knife, but paused before I cut the zed open. After a moment, I stood, sheathed my knife, and lifted my chin. “No,” I said simply.

I checked the Cub over, made sure the gas tanks were full, and loaded everything up. It took only two hand props to start, and I climbed inside, leaving the door and window open. I skipped the warm-up because engine noise would quickly draw attention, and a plane this small would never survive a collision with a zed. The wheels broke free from the runway at under fifty MPH before the first zeds emerged from the tree line.