100-Days-in-Deadland(63)

“I could order you to relocate to the Camp, Sarge,” Tyler said. “All troops, including retired and inactive, were recalled to service when the outbreak started. And all remaining able-bodied men were called in for the reserve militia.”

Clutch jutted out his chin. “Too bad I didn’t get the memo.”

Tyler pursed his lips. “I’ll let that slide for now. I don’t want to force you, but we need you. There may come a time when I’ll have to order you back to duty, and that time could come soon.”

Clutch’s lips thinned and the tension thickened the air. “Yes, sir.”

“If the militia is tied to Camp Fox, why do you let them do whatever they want?” I asked.

“What they did wasn’t right,” Tyler replied. “I’ll make sure we get to the bottom of it, though it won’t matter much longer. The militia is just a temporary structure until order can be restored.” Then he gave me one of those warm smiles. “Have you thought more about moving to the Camp? As you saw, one of your folks has a classmate there.”

“Jase can make his own decisions. But I go where Clutch goes.” Feeling a hard gaze on me, I turned and found Clutch scrutinizing me. Did he want me with him? Did he want me to go to the Camp? It drove me nuts that I couldn’t make out his expression.

“Well, there’s a lot of folks counting on our help at the Camp, and Sarge could make a big difference helping us rebuild,” Tyler said.

“I’m a patriot, Captain, but I’m not suicidal,” Clutch said. “Any notion at rebuilding is delusional until you put an end to the militia and fold them under your command. Do it before it’s too late.”

“Zeds!” Griz yelled behind me, and gunfire blasted from the Humvee.

The noise was deafening, and I gripped my rifle tighter. I snapped my eyes from one window to the next. Then I saw through the windshield several zeds collapse on the road.

“Are we clear?” Tyler called out after the shooting stopped.

“All clear,” the gunner yelled, and the Humvee sped up.

I leaned back and caught my breath. I looked at my window, contemplated rolling it down so I could shoot if needed, but decided to leave it up—the glass would provide some protection against zeds. I glanced to my right at Clutch. He gave me a questioning look. I forced a half-smile, and he turned his gaze back outside.

Tyler made a couple calls on his radio. Every few minutes, the gunner fired, and a zed fell. When we crossed Fox River, zeds floated in the water. Some lay on the mud banks. All dead. In a muddy field not far from the river, sat a tractor riddled with bullet holes. Inside, a body lay slumped over the steering wheel. “You’ve cleared out this entire area?” I asked.

Tyler nodded. “As much as we can. But more show up every day. Most are coming down from Chow Town. There’s simply too many there for us to clean out without risking lives and burning through too much ammo. So we wait and hit the ones that migrate in our direction.”

“How about the survivors still in town?” I asked.

“We used to make drive-throughs every day. At first, we’d fill our trucks with survivors. But after a couple weeks, we were lucky to find one or two, if any. Then a mob of zeds took down one of our Humvees. So Lendt cancelled the drive-throughs. The risk wasn’t worth the payout.” He pointed outside. “We’re almost there.”

In the middle of a flat marshland stood an old farmers’ cooperative. Three large grain silos reached for the sky, with smoke billowing from the top of one. Tall chain fences reinforced with plywood and two-by-fours buffered the buildings from the road. What hung outside those walls made me grimace. Surrounding the militia camp, every fifty feet or so, a dead zed hung from a pole like a scarecrow.

“Do you think the zeds get the hint?”

“Doubt it,” Clutch muttered.

On an ancient-looking billboard was written faded letters. I had to squint to read the words:

Doyle’s Iowa Surplus

& Paintball Supplies:

Open Seven Days a Week.

The paint had long since faded, leaving only the bold capital letters D-I-S on the first line easily legible from a distance. Still, I shivered when I read Doyle’s name. This made what we were about to do feel all the more real.

“It seems odd to have a surplus warehouse in the middle of farm country,” I said while Clutch rolled down his window.

“Camp Fox is only five miles straight east of here,” Tyler said. “This place is owned by a retired farmer, Dale Doyle. He had a connection with some brass at Fox a while back, and he worked out a deal to buy surplus at a hefty discount. It was right about the time they built the new farmer’s co-op on the other side of town, so he bought this place at a rock bottom price.”