100-Days-in-Deadland(66)

“Seen enough yet?” I whispered.

“I don’t know what Doyle’s endgame is yet,” he replied just as softly.

Nick remained with the vehicle, while Griz and Tack got out to stand next to Tyler.

“Leave your gear in the Humvee,” Doyle said as he walked toward us. “You’re safe within these walls. You won’t need guns here.”

“No,” Clutch said simply, adamantly.

Doyle looked at me.

I gripped my rifle harder.

“As long as there are zeds, they can keep their weapons,” Tyler said. “That’s an order.”

After a guffaw, Doyle relented with a brush of his hand. “Have it your way. Keep them, but you won’t need them. You’re under my protection here.”

I didn’t exactly feel safe under Doyle’s “protection,” and from the look on both Clutch and Tyler’s faces, they felt the same.

“While we’re here, you can also brief me,” Tyler said. “I’ve told you this before: I’ve got concerns about how many rations you’ve been going through lately. And you have no authority to grow your numbers, not without Lendt’s approval.”

Doyle grunted and turned, leading our group through the militia camp. Three rundown grain silos towered into the sky. A line of smoke trailed out from the dome of one. A faded Iowa Hawkeye logo was painted across one silo. A large white cross was painted on the side of a long tin building with writing and graffiti all along its side. Overgrown grass and dandelions cropped up everywhere not covered by gravel. People milled about, including even a few children.

Woodsy smoke corrupted the fresh spring breeze. As we passed a small fire with a turkey fryer filled with boiling water, I asked, “What are all the camp fires for?”

“Cooking. Purifying water,” Doyle replied. “Our generators aren’t big enough to power the entire camp, so anything we can do the old fashioned way, we do. Besides, the smoke also helps keep the smell down.”

“Not worried about smoke or the smell of smoke attracting zeds?” I countered, knowing that we only cooked at night to mask the visibility of smoke.

Doyle smiled. “I say, let ’em come.”

As we moved into the shadows of the silos, I noticed two young women stirring a pot on a fire. The scraping of metal against metal overpowered the crackling wood. As we walked past, one of the women jerked up, revealing a black eye. Utter despair radiated through her swollen, red eyes. She quickly looked away, focusing all too intently on the pot.

My jaw tightened. “Tell me, Doyle. How many folks are here by their own free will?”

“Everyone is given a choice when they arrive,” he replied without turning. “They can choose to abide by my rules and stay here or go it alone outside the walls.”

“But only the minutemen and their families stay here,” Tyler added, while watching the young woman. “The militia has strict orders to bring all other survivors to Camp Fox.”

“Of course,” Doyle replied. “And others have chosen to stay to support the militia.”

Glancing back at the young woman, I doubted Doyle’s words. If Clutch hadn’t been with me that day at the greenhouse, I suspected I’d be in her situation now: trapped. I found both Tyler and Clutch stopped, still eying the woman, before glancing at one another. Whatever passed between them, I couldn’t see, but they both started to follow Doyle again.

The gravel crunched under my feet as Doyle led us alongside a long warehouse. The words “Gone but not forgotten” were painted on the faded wood siding under the white cross, with dozens of names painted around it.

Many names were separated into smaller groupings, each under a different last name. Lynn, Wahl, Hogan … the names went on and on, and I realized that while I didn’t trust the Dogs, many of them had suffered as much, if not more, than I had.

At the end of the building, Doyle opened a door and gestured, “Welcome to my office and my home.”

Tyler stepped inside, followed by his men. Clutch waited for me, his hard expression impossible to read. Just as I was about to step through the door, I heard a wretched cry. Pausing, I turned to the smallest of the silos. Then another cry, louder, almost forlorn, and I could make out a single syllable in its whimper. Please.

I shot a glance at Clutch before looking to Doyle. “I didn’t realize zeds cried.”

His lips curled upward. “Didn’t you, now.”