100-Days-in-Deadland(83)

“He’s at Camp Fox. He’s safe.”

Clutch sighed, and then looked around. “We can’t stay here. Dogs will be sniffing around my farm until I’m caught or dead. There were two waiting outside tonight.”

Probably the same two that I’d seen. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said softly. I felt safe with Clutch in this bunker, but I’d already realized it could all too easily become our tomb. Only one way in or out. Only one air vent that could be too easily blocked from the outside.

He slid to the floor. “The captain let you go?” he asked gruffly.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I couldn’t tell if he was playing to get you away from Doyle or if he was actually thinking of arresting you.”

“He let me go,” I said instead, sitting back down. Clutch didn’t need to be burdened with the details. Not with his home lying in ruins above our heads. I wrinkled my nose. “You smell.”

He grunted, resting his head against the wall. “Thirty-six hours in the woods will do that.”

I grabbed a bottle of water and tapped it on his arm. “Here.”

He took the bottle, and then grabbed my wrist. “What’s this?”

I tugged back my injured hand. “Just a cut I picked up yesterday.”

“Why weren’t you wearing your gloves?” He narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Whose clothes are those?”

I shrugged.

“Hell.” His jaw clenched. “Masden didn’t let you go, did he?”

“He let me go,” I replied. “I just had to find my own way back home.”

Clutch pounded the floor. “Sonofabitch. When I find him, I’m going—”

“You’re going to do nothing,” I interrupted. “We’ve got enough shit to deal with right now than take on Camp Fox, don’t you think?”

“And your gear?” he asked, hoarsely.

“Somewhere at Camp Fox.”

Clutch glared for a moment before taking a long draw of water and leaning his head back again, eyes closed. When his eyes opened, he leveled a hard gaze on me. “You all right now?”

I smiled and moved to sidle up next to him. “Yeah, I’m okay.” I laid my uninjured hand on his knee. “You?”

He grunted again—his typical response of consent—and rolled up his sleeve. “I got lucky.”

My eyes widened. “Holy shit.”

There, on his forearm, was a dark bruise in the perfect semi-circle outline of human teeth.

“I was lucky I had long sleeves. But still, when they lock on, they bite hard. The bastards have got jaws like pit bulls.”

I gingerly touched the marks and whistled. “I think you got very lucky.”

“Your turn.” He nodded to my hand.

“I cleaned it this morning,” I said as I pulled back the first Band-Aid. Even in the dim light, the skin around the cut was red and swollen.

His brow furrowed. He grabbed a first aid kit off a shelf and motioned for my hand.

I held it out, and he gently peeled off each Band-Aid. He pulled out a small plastic bottle and poured it into my palm. I hissed as liquid fire shot through my arm. “Jesus, Clutch. Are you trying to kill me?”

“It’s just alcohol. Don’t be a baby.”

I wasn’t being a baby. It seriously burned. He dabbed a cotton swab at it until the sharp agonizing pain numbed into a constant throb. He covered my palm with a bandage and wrapped gauze around it.

“I’ll clean your cut again in the morning,” He said after putting the kit back.

Then he grabbed my uninjured hand and rested his forehead against it.

I rubbed his thumb. “It’ll be okay.” And I meant it. I knew that as long as Clutch was with me, everything would be fine.

He chuckled drily, the sound devoid of humor. “We’ve got no weapons, no food, no shelter. Doyle crippled us with one easy blow. Jase is at Camp Fox. And Masden made it clear that if we go after Doyle, we’re attacking Camp Fox.”

“Doyle’s no longer with Camp Fox,” I said. “He zed-bombed them a few hours after we were separated.”

“Jesus.” Clutch’s muscles tensed under me. “So that’s where the Dogs went.”

“I guess Doyle saw a shot and took it.”

“Were you there?” he asked quietly.

I nodded and laid my head on his shoulder. “They lost one of their barracks along with several troops in the attack.” I thought of Nick. “They lost some good folks.”