100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(14)

I strung another tin can on the wire. “I’ll start inventorying food and supplies tonight, and I can start planting in the garden in a couple weeks. My mom and I had just picked up supplies for expanding her herb garden last weekend.”

I swallowed a lump, remembering that had been the last time I’d been with my mother. Focusing on surviving kept me busy enough to not dwell on Mom and Dad, but I still thought about them. Often.

“We’ll have to make a run into town for seeds.”

“Oh. Okay.” Until the outbreak, I’d never realized how dependent I’d been on stores for everything. While we could set up the farm for long-term survival, there were some bare essentials, such as seeds, that we needed from town to get us started. Once we had a garden, we could prep our own seeds for next year, though I had a lot to learn.

Not that I could even think of everything I’d yet to learn without stressing. Surviving each day was enough of a struggle. “How about all those bags of seed in your shed? Can we use those?”

“The seed corn and soybeans?”

“Yeah.”

“We can, but we won’t want to depend on them. Seed corn is bland. It doesn’t taste anything like sweet corn, but it would provide some basic nutrition at least. Soybeans are a solid option. But no matter what we plant, we’re going to have to go old school and plant by hand. The tractors and combine make too much noise.”

I nodded in acceptance. Funny thing, before all this, I’d always been the leader with both coworkers and with friends. Now, I found that I could follow just as easily. Strange how quickly people can change.

Clutch’s life before the outbreak had been completely different from mine. He knew his stuff. He’d served two tours in Afghanistan and became a doomsday prepper when the economy turned to shit a few years back. I had complete trust in him, even though I’d known him for only a few days. To be honest, I trusted him more than I had anyone in my life, maybe even more than my parents.

I still couldn’t reach them, though I continued to send them an email every day. The email became my journal, proof that I still existed. I’d never gotten a reply, so I could only hope that they were hunkered down somewhere safe without access to the Internet. I knew it was a weak hope, but I held onto it nonetheless.

The last news channel had gone offline yesterday, leaving nothing on the TV. We’d scanned radio stations every few hours. Nothing was left on FM, and only random updates were sent through AM, and most of those came from folks holed up like us. No one reported anything on Des Moines, and I had to assume that whatever was left of the military had pulled out. Each night, I prayed for my parents’ safety, even though in the pit of my stomach I suspected I’d never see them again.

“That should cover everything for now.” Clutch came to his feet after tying the last wire. “I’m heading out.”

Taken aback, I stood. “What for?”

“The chaos should have settled down enough by now. I need to scout the area to see what we’re up against. And I need to start stocking up our supplies before looters clear out the town.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said right away.

“No.”

“I can stay in the truck and watch for zeds. It can’t hurt to have an extra pair of eyes.”

His lips thinned before he released a drawn-out sigh. “Let’s get you some gear.”

Feeling a surge of anxious excitement, I headed back to the house with Clutch.

“Come on,” he said, and I followed him into the room he’d disappeared to every day. A metal desk sat in the center and a bookcase filled with books, magazines, and boxes covered much of one wall in the small room.

It looked like Clutch had an extensive library of manuals covering the spectrum from survival and first aid to gardening and canning. There was an entire section on organic farming. “Nice library,” I said.

“I like to be prepared.” He pulled out a book and then twisted on something. A loud click sounded, and he pulled the entire bookcase out. Behind it was an even smaller room, lined with metal cabinets and a rack of least a dozen guns, knives, and other weapons.

My jaw dropped. “Holy shit, Clutch. You’ve got a hidden room.”

“Gramps had this room put in way back during the Depression. He’d always said a person needed to be prepared for the worst.” He motioned me to come closer. “Give me your belt.”

I pulled it off, and held up my pants—an old pair of Clutch’s cargos—while he slid a sheath and holster onto the canvas strap.

He handed it back to me. I was still fastening the belt when he held out a knife. “This tanto is yours to keep. It’s a good blade, so take care of it. This should be your go-to weapon in close quarters, especially in dealing with zeds.”

I slid it into a black plastic sheath, which he then snapped shut.

“Have you ever fired a gun?”

“Sure. I had a BB gun when I was a kid.”

He gave me the same exasperated look I’d seen many times over the past few days. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’.” He held up a gun and stepped through the basics of loading the cartridge and firing it. He dumped bullets into my left hand and handed me the pistol in the other.

I looked at the gun in my hand, the gun rack, then at the gun in his holster. “Why’s mine so much smaller than yours?”