100-Days-in-Deadland(54)

“Let’s make this quick,” he muttered, taking the first step.

I kept the light in front of us, moving it to scan the sides. It was an unsettling feeling, entering the literal bowels of the house, not knowing what else could be down here. At the foot of the stairs, Clutch motioned for the flashlight. He took it and shone it across the basement. I held the machete in front of me.

Fortunately, the basement was wide open, with no doors or rooms, let alone shelves or boxes. In fact, the only things down there were two corpses, one zed and one tabby housecat. “There’s nothing down here. Maybe they’ve always had flooding issues with it,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Good,” he muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”

He wasted no time hustling back up the stairs.

“Don’t like dark basements?” I asked when he shut the basement door behind us.

“Not one bit.”

I chortled.

“What?”

“I never would’ve guessed you to be afraid of anything.”

After a moment, he shrugged. “I’m only human.”

The thought of Clutch getting hurt—or worse—quickly sobered me. “Yeah. Guess so.”

With the house clear, we moved quickly through to inventory food and supplies to load later. The Piersons weren’t very good planners. They had little to offer, so we went ahead and loaded everything we found into one suitcase. I was about to open the refrigerator when Clutch pressed his hand over mine. “Before you do that, I’d hold my breath if I were you.”

I bit my lip. “Oh. Good call.”

Clutch stepped back as I sucked in a breath and opened the refrigerator. And I was glad I did. Milk, leftovers, and raw meat filled the shelves. I moved quickly, grabbing only the items I was hoping to find. Aluminum cans.

I pulled out the twelve-pack of light beer and the four cans of soda and slammed the door shut. I lifted the beer and smiled. I made the mistake of inhaling to brag about my find, and gagged from the lingering stench from the refrigerator.

Clutch smirked and opened the door to the garage.

I pushed past him and sucked in fresh air. He came out behind me and dropped the suitcase into the back of the truck. He pulled out an old wire carrier he’d found somewhere along the way. “Let’s wrap this up.”

I put the twelve-pack and soda in the back and followed. We’d only burned a half hour clearing the house, leaving us plenty of time for the only other building on the farm. It looked like an old hog house that had been converted to store machinery. A large caged-in chicken area had been built onto the side with a door leading into the old shed. The door was closed, likely blown shut in the storms. Four chickens and one rooster pecked at the grass. Their feathers were matted, and they were scrawny. They had to be near starving, with nothing to eat but what they could find in the twenty-by-twenty area of grass fenced in for their home.

They seemed agitated, ruffling their feathers and chattering away. I realized why when I saw the furred shape nearly hidden in the shadow of the tractor. It was big, maybe a wolf, and I nudged Clutch and pointed.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones eying these chickens.”

He took several steps toward the beast and waved his hands. “Shoo. Get out of here.”

It growled, showing its teeth.

Clutch stomped closer. “Sorry, bud. But we need these chickens as bad as you.”

It kept growling even as it backed up with every step Clutch took forward, until it turned and ran off. It was actually a mutt, big but skinny. Probably some farm dog in the area. I felt a bit bad that he’d probably suffered as badly as any of us had since the outbreak, going from an easy diet of dog food to having to fend for himself. But I didn’t feel bad enough to toss him a chicken. Clutch was right. We needed them.

Other than the dog, there was nothing to scare up around the building. Only a tractor and lawn mower sat in the shed, making it easy enough to check for zeds.

Inside the building stood a chicken coop made out of plywood, probably used to protect the chickens at night and during cold weather. I knocked on the door and listened for any movement. When I heard none, I opened the door, with Clutch at my back. Inside was hay and wooden roosts. Eight white-feathered bodies lay dead across the floor, likely from starvation or thirst, if the empty water and food bowls were any sign. A few eggs rested undisturbed in the nest boxes, but I left those, unwilling to test their level of rottenness.

There was another door across from us, and I opened this one without worry, having already seen where it led from the outside. “Hey, chickies,” I said, taking a step onto the grass.