100-Days-in-Deadland(49)

With that final warning, they climbed into their truck. One of the men in the truck bed fired several shots into the sky. They whooped and one flipped us off as they sped away, kicking up rocks.

“Assholes,” I muttered, coming around to stand by Clutch.

“Sean was right.” He looked at me. “We’re going to have to watch our backs. They’ve seen us. Sean knows where I live. And they know I won’t play along with their games. That makes me an enemy. As for you…” He looked me up and down.

I shivered, even though the sun shone brightly in the sky. “Then we’d best avoid them.”

He locked the lift gate and headed to the driver’s side. “These guys are nothing but Doyle’s dogs, using the fa?ade of a militia to take what they want.”

“Who’s this Doyle guy?” I asked. “Someone to worry about?”

“He’s a cocky * who’s owned the surplus store for decades. He’s also one hell of a survivalist. Armageddon would’ve been a wet dream for him.”

****

We spent the next two weeks converting the farmhouse into a fortress and planting gardens, all the while killing any zeds that made the mistake of stumbling too close to the farm. We set up a sniper’s nest not far from the gate to watch for Doyle’s Dogs—what we’d nicknamed the self-proclaimed militia.

Jase turned out to be a great asset. Even though he slept until ten every morning, once awake, he was boundless energy, and his ankle healed quickly. Between the two of us, we could lift nearly as much as Clutch could.

We covered the first floor windows with chain link fence to hold back zeds and fastened strips of fencing up to the second floor windows, giving us a way to get inside in case the front door was blocked. We even boarded up the front door, leaving the only entrance in and out through the cellar door, which could be better secured from the inside. We reinforced the gate at the end of the drive so that intruders with anything less than a tank or heavy bolt cutters would have a tough time cutting the chains to get through.

Using the fertilizer we’d picked up at the greenhouse, Clutch introduced Jase and me to the art of setting explosive booby traps, multiplying the reliability of our existing perimeter protection tenfold.

But the three of us worked together only when absolutely necessary. Most of the time, we rotated shifts to have one person on guard duty. No more zeds passed through the yard, but more and more were showing up on the roads and in the fields. Only Clutch scouted the woods. Jase and I were neither gutsy enough nor good enough yet to go deep into the acres of tangled trees alone, though Clutch regularly reminded me that I needed to get familiar with those woods sometime. If the Dogs came at us, hiding in the woods could make the difference between life and death.

We figured that, at the speed zeds shambled along, it would take only a few months before they started spreading outward from Des Moines in a mass exodus. The four or five thousand zeds in Fox Hills were another story. We had to be ready for them now.

One thing that bothered me was that we hadn’t seen signs of any more uninfected humans. Clutch had said that they’d hide out as long as they could, but it had been three weeks since the outbreak. Most would’ve run out of food by now and would be forced to loot. Not hearing any other traffic made me wonder exactly how few of us remained.

The hours not spent on fortifying the farm were spent training for self-defense and killing. My strength and skills improved quickly, though I had a long ways to go. I could now do fifty diamond pushups without stopping. And, my caffeine headaches had finally gone away. Jase was already in good shape from playing in sports. Even with his still-healing ankle, he could run up to windows, check out a house, and be on his way back to the truck before zeds had a clue he was there.

Where Jase was our designated runner, I learned I had a natural affinity for being a sniper. Clutch, of course, was our diplomat should any Dogs show up. He excelled at hand-to-hand combat and could handle any weapon. He was also our strategist. Building on our areas of specialty, Clutch began to lay out plans—for both offense and defense. We were transforming from three individuals into a team.

Hoo-f*cking-rah.

Clutch gave both Jase and me our own rifles. They were matching M24s with all the accessories. I hadn’t even heard of an M24 before the outbreak. Now, I spent hours practicing dry shooting, disassembling, and cleaning until I could use it in complete blackness. I could load the cartridges blindfolded.

Only when I’d perfected dry shooting—aligning my body position, sight picture, breathing, and trigger squeeze—did Clutch let me fire a real round. Rather than setting up a shooting range, Clutch had taken me several miles out until we’d come across zeds. At each outing, I was only allowed to use one cartridge to conserve ammo, which meant that I had to make every shot count.