100-Days-in-Deadland(17)

“That should cover everything for now.” Clutch came to his feet after tying the last wire. “I’m heading out.”

Taken aback, I stood. “What for?”

“The chaos should have settled down enough by now. I need to scout the area to see what we’re up against. And I need to start stocking up our supplies before looters clear out the town.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said right away.

“No.”

“I can stay in the truck and watch for zeds. It can’t hurt to have an extra pair of eyes.”

His lips thinned before he released a drawn-out sigh. “Let’s get you some gear.”

Feeling a surge of anxious excitement, I headed back to the house with Clutch.

“Come on,” he said, and I followed him into the room he’d disappeared to every day. A metal desk sat in the center and a bookcase filled with books, magazines, and boxes covered much of one wall in the small room.

It looked like Clutch had an extensive library of manuals covering the spectrum from survival and first aid to gardening and canning. There was an entire section on organic farming. “Nice library,” I said.

“I like to be prepared.” He pulled out a book and then twisted on something. A loud click sounded, and he pulled the entire bookcase out. Behind it was an even smaller room, lined with metal cabinets and a rack of least a dozen guns, knives, and other weapons.

My jaw dropped. “Holy shit, Clutch. You’ve got a hidden room.”

“Gramps had this room put in way back during the Depression. He’d always said a person needed to be prepared for the worst.” He motioned me to come closer. “Give me your belt.”

I pulled it off, and held up my pants—an old pair of Clutch’s cargos—while he slid a sheath and holster onto the canvas strap.

He handed it back to me. I was still fastening the belt when he held out a knife. “This tanto is yours to keep. It’s a good blade, so take care of it. This should be your go-to weapon in close quarters, especially in dealing with zeds.”

I slid it into a black plastic sheath, which he then snapped shut.

“Have you ever fired a gun?”

“Sure. I had a BB gun when I was a kid.”

He gave me the same exasperated look I’d seen many times over the past few days. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’.” He held up a gun and stepped through the basics of loading the cartridge and firing it. He dumped bullets into my left hand and handed me the pistol in the other.

I looked at the gun in my hand, the gun rack, then at the gun in his holster. “Why’s mine so much smaller than yours?”

“That’s because mine’s a Glock and yours is a .22. Yours is a great starter pistol because it doesn’t have much recoil. Show me you can use it well, and I’ll let you try my 9mm.”

Dropping the extra ammo into a cargo pocket, I repeated everything he’d shown me to make sure I understood.

“We can’t afford to attract attention, so only go for your pistol as a last resort. And whatever you do, don’t fire unless your target is less than eight feet away. Save your bullets. The .22 is a baby and will just piss them off from any distance greater than that.”

“Thanks.” I holstered the gun.

“Be careful. If you’re bit, you’ll turn. There are no second chances out there. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

He locked up, grabbed a small backpack of extra gear, and we headed to the shed where his black 4x4 super cab pickup truck waited. He topped off the gas tank at one of two large cylindrical fuel tanks set up behind the shed. We were strapped in and heading down the lane in no time.

Clutch drove slowly down the gravel road, turning left, then left again. He continued until he’d made a full square loop around the house. The next time, he went one road farther out, and repeated the process. He slowed down near each of the three farmhouses we passed but never stopped. I saw no signs of zeds, but I also saw no people. Cattle still grazed in the fields. Everything looked deceptively normal, completely different than how busy Des Moines had been a few days earlier.

“We’ll check each one out later,” he said, moving on. We continued the scouting mission, me watching for zeds and Clutch watching for I-don’t-know-what until we pulled onto a paved road, and he came to stop.

“What if there are people still living there?” I asked.