100-Days-in-Deadland(46)

A clear night and smooth air: it would’ve been a perfect night for a flight. God, I missed watching the sun set from the air.

Even more, I missed my parents. They lived in a residential area not far from downtown. Mom had diabetes and needed daily insulin shots. If they were still in town, they’d be surrounded by hundreds of thousands of zeds by now. The first week, I mentioned the idea of heading into Des Moines for them, but Clutch had said it was too dangerous. After seeing Fox Hills, a town point five percent the size of the Des Moines area filled with zeds, I couldn’t argue his logic.

My only regret was that I’d never even gotten the chance to say good-bye.

A rhythmic scraping sound off to my left drew my attention. Careful to avoid Clutch’s booby traps, I made my way down the fence line until the zed came into sight. A green John Deere hat hung crookedly on its head. It had been an older man, with short white hair peeking out from under the hat. Its facial features were impossible to make out since decay had already started to set in. It dragged one leg, its boot grating the gravel with each step in a monotonous rhythm.

Step.

Scrape.

Step.

Scrape.

The signature sound of a zed.

Once I made sure it didn’t have any friends, I stepped up to the fence. “Hey, f*cktard.”

The zed lifted its head, and sniffed in my direction. Even with yellowish pupils, it seemed to see fine because it moaned and shuffled its way straight toward me, stumbling while walking down the ditch. When it finally regained its footing and dragged itself up to the fence, I pulled out my machete.

When it reached for me, I swung. Its head lobbed off and bounced on the ground. Its fingers had tangled in the fence, and I kicked the body, sending it backward into the ditch. Its hat had fallen off and landed near the head.

I leaned over the fence and watched the head for a good ten minutes. The f*cking thing just kept watching me, moving its mouth. I narrowed my eyes but couldn’t see any kind of humanity left in its gaze. Its eyes were truly devoid of anything.

After scanning the area one more time, I climbed over the fence, looked at the head, and then brought the heel of my foot down. Its front teeth shattered. I stomped again and again until the skull crushed inward and the mouth finally stilled.

I picked up the hat and tossed it onto the body. The smell would be worse tomorrow, when I could safely move the zed’s body farther away and cover it with dirt since we’d decided to quit burning the zeds we took down. It was too much work and the smoke could be seen and smelled from too far away.

The crickets resumed their chirping. The stars still shone brightly, happy in their places so far away from a world consumed by death. And so I climbed back over the fence and continued my patrol.

I rehydrated every hour. At four a.m., I headed into the house to check on the guys. Jase was sleeping soundly on the couch, a paperback copy of the SAS Survival Handbook sprawled open across his chest. I gently tugged it from under his hand, dog-eared the page, and set it on the floor. I tiptoed up the stairs and paused outside Clutch’s room. Muffled grunts came from the other side. Every night was the same. A couple hours after he fell asleep, the nightmares would come.

Every other night, I listened, waiting for him to wake or fall back into a restful sleep.

Tonight, I turned the knob and entered.

Clutch lay in the middle of the bed, the sheets tossed around him. His skin gleamed with sweat. He grunted and jerked, lost within his dream.

Careful to not disturb him, I sat down on the edge of the mattress. I reached out and laid my palm on his chest. His blade swung out.

I sucked in a breath.

He stopped just before slicing my throat ear to ear. Blinking, his eyes grew wide. “Jesus.” He fell back onto the mattress, pulling the knife away. “Fuck, Cash. I could’ve killed you.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. “You were having a bad dream.” Again.

He rolled onto his side, facing away from me. “It was nothing.”

I slid up on the bed, sitting with my back against the headboard. “Tell me about it.”

“Everything all right outside?” he asked instead.

I sighed, disappointed. “Just one. No problems.”

“What time is it?” he asked, sounding all too tired himself.

“Four.”

He sat up. “I can take over the patrol now.”

“No,” I replied, not moving. “I’m wide awake.”

He lay for a moment before sighing. “What are you doing?”