100-Days-in-Deadland(50)

The only differences between dry and real shooting were the noise and the recoil, both of which I’d been expecting and was ready for. It was during that first time, when I took out three zeds back-to-back at a hundred yards, that I saw the rare glimpse of pride in Clutch’s eyes.

Back at the farm, I’d studied the art of learning my surroundings. I trained myself to look and listen while remaining focused on something else.

I could stab the sandbag head every time, better than Jase, and I’d even dodged a couple of Clutch’s moves. But I was nowhere near Clutch’s class. He could still take me down any time he wanted. I gained a worship-like appreciation for Army Rangers after seeing what he was capable of.

“Every corner poses a risk,” he said after knocking me on my butt. Again.

“Silence is my friend,” I replied, coming to my feet.

“What is your best weapon?” He lashed out.

I dove to the side. “I am.”

“What is your second best weapon?”

“Anything I can use to shoot, stab, blow up, strike, or throw.”

Clutch moved, and I found myself in a choke-hold.

“OODA?” he asked, loosening his hold somewhat.

“Observe. Orient. Decide…” I pushed back into him, but he anticipated my move and pushed forward, and I elbowed him in the stomach. He relaxed his grip, and I twisted away. “Act.”

He stepped back a safe distance and crossed his arms over his chest. “And your mantra?”

I smiled. He’d given me an assignment the night before to come up with one rule, which I could meditate on to prep for any mission, to keep from getting too nervous. His was Hit ’em hard and hit ’em often. I wanted something that spoke more to my own internal muse. “Get ’em where I want ’em.”

“Meaning?”

“To never be stupid. Never let them get me where they can overpower me or take me down. Turn my opponent’s actions to my advantage.”

Clutch nodded. “That’ll do.” He looked around the yard. “That’s enough for today.”

I tugged off my leather gloves. Clutch was adamant that we wore gloves any time we worked or trained so that they became like a second skin. They made me clumsy at first, but I preferred them now, even with the rifle. If they could keep me from getting a cut that could get infected, or worse, a zed bite, they were priceless.

Walking back to the house, I scanned the yard. Jase would be at the end of the lane right now, checking the gate. He ran six laps a day down the long lane to scout for zeds and raiders. He’d turned into a regular grunt. Even though we all were decked out in military gear, Jase took the style to heart. He practiced running, crawling, and combat like he was at boot camp. I’d even found him trying out different types of mud to camouflage his face the other day.

But I also knew what he did at the end of the lane. He’d pause at the gate, and stare wistfully down the road, in the direction of his old home. It was a hard reminder of what he’d lost.

Keeping busy helped me to not think about my parents.

I kept very, very busy.

We remained vigilant, day and night, watching for intruders, especially for Doyle’s Dogs. At night, we took three-hour rotations, to give each of us a solid six-hour sleeping break. With the physical labor, I could fall asleep the second my head hit the pillow on the sofa. I’d gotten into a routine and was pulling my own weight next to the guys. We needed more people, but the simple fact was, aside from Doyle’s Dogs and possibly Camp Fox, we’d come across no one else in some time. Even the house with boarded windows now appeared abandoned, with its front door broken wide open.

As for our house, even if zeds could get inside, which I doubted, Clutch had jerry-rigged the stairs with C4 that he could blow at a moment’s notice. I never knew C4 was even legal, so I had no idea how he had come to own it. Fifty foot of paracord was placed next to each upstairs window in case the house was overrun. In the cellar, we’d built a fake wall in front of the shelves to hide our food just in case looters managed to break in.

In the gardens, Jase stood watch while I planted, and then we rotated every hour. We’d planted nearly all the seeds we’d taken from the greenhouse. We’d even planted a few herbs so we wouldn’t be doomed with overly bland food all winter, though salt was already missed.

Even with all the food in the cellar, we only had enough food to get us into the winter. We had to grow a hell of a lot of food if we wanted to survive. The fields weren’t safe—too much open space, and we couldn’t eat the corn or soybean seed as it had all been treated with pesticides and herbicides. So we planned to plant by hand seed corn and soybeans in rows closest to the farm since he had all the seed already on hand.