100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(43)

Clutch estimated that we’d converted the backyard into one and a half acres of garden. Within a year, living off the land would become our only source of food. It was terrifying yet empowering.

After the quick seven-step process—which had to be done in order—of getting into the house without setting off a trap, Clutch headed to the kitchen and I turned on the small battery-powered radio and began my routine during every break of slowly scanning both radio bands. Like every other day, FM was quiet. AM had a couple of transmissions, but they must’ve been too far away because static drowned out the voices. As I continued to scan stations, Clutch said, “Wait. Go back.”

I tuned the knob, and turned up the volume. The man spoke in a slow monotone, which was why I’d gone right past the station the first time.

“…militia now controls the towns in southern Iowa and some in northern Missouri. I drove near Des Moines two days ago. Had to see it for myself. The rumors are true. It’s scorched. The military dropped H6s on it at least a week ago since there were only a few fires left burning.”

I suddenly found it hard to breathe, and I fell back on my butt. Des Moines…bombed? Mom. Dad. While I’d known their odds were hopeless, knowing with certainty…I pressed my hand to my heart.

Clutch handed me a glass of water. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe they got out.”

His words were clumsy and rushed, and I knew he didn’t believe them. “Yeah, maybe,” I lied right back, breathless. The finality of the situation forced me to finally admit to myself that I’d been clinging to a strand of false hope for too long. Jaw clenched, I tried not to think about my parents, focusing instead on the stranger’s words.

“…I heard all major cities have been bombed to contain the spread, and any intact military units have pulled back. Though, it’s safe to assume there’s not much government or military left. At least one National Guard base is taking in survivors in Iowa, and that’s Camp Fox. Camp Dodge was destroyed along with Des Moines. I don’t have status on any Iowa units at this time.

During the American Revolution, the active forces in the field against the tyranny never amounted to more than three percent of the colonists. We are the three percenters of today. We are the militia, and we will survive this war. We will defeat the zed scourge and rebuild. I’m wired into stations across the country and will broadcast every day at 0900. This is Hawkeye broadcasting on AM 1340. Be safe and know that you’re not alone. Three percenters, unite!”

Silence came from the speakers, and I sat and stared at the radio.

“Any news?” Jase asked, walking into the living room, sweaty from his run.

“Des Moines was bombed,” Clutch said in a low, rumbly voice.

Jase smiled. “Hopefully they cleared out all the zeds so they won’t be heading this direction.”

I tossed him a glare and then turned away.

“Oh,” Jase said after a moment. “Damn, Cash. I’m sorry. I forgot—”

“It’s time we head out,” Clutch said.

I turned back to see him standing and motioning me to get up. My limbs felt like they’d been filled with lead, but I dragged myself to my feet.

“Where are we going?” Jase asked.

“To check out the Pierson farm and pick up those chickens Cash has been wanting,” Clutch said.

“If they’re even still alive,” I mumbled.

Clutch ignored me. “But you’re staying back and guarding the house. We’ll be back within three hours.”

Jase looked relieved that he didn’t have to go. “You got it, boss.”

“Whenever we’re away from my farm, we’re at risk of being overtaken,” Clutch said to me. “So we’ll clear the house and buildings first. Then, if everything’s clear, we’ll grab the chickens, food, and supplies.”

“Do you think it’s safe?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen any of the Dogs on this road yet. Maybe it’s because they’re giving me this road as long as I stay off the others.”

I nodded, but I also knew any time he used the word “maybe”, he didn’t mean it. Besides, the men we’d come across at the greenhouse seemed too greedy to give up a few miles along one quiet gravel road.

I grabbed my helmet and gear before rustling around for a couple duffels Clutch had gotten from his surplus run. This time, I packed a bottle of water and a protein bar in my jacket, a lesson I learned after finding myself empty-handed at the elementary school. Clutch was already downstairs, geared up and eating a protein bar. We needed the chickens. Having fresh food would be a much-needed morale boost for all three of us.

In the truck, I asked, “How many lived there?” Up until now, we’d only grabbed anything off farms that didn’t require entering buildings, waiting for numbers to thin out. That was before we realized that zeds just kept on going.

We all knew we should’ve started cleaning out the nearby houses earlier, knowing that it was just a matter of time before the Dogs raided the area. But by the same token, they could’ve been watching us already, waiting for the time we left the safety of the farm to come after us or the supplies on the farm.

We had to be careful. We didn’t yet know which farmhouses hid infected inside. The only way to tell was to check them out. Chances were, occupants—infected or otherwise—would likely be hostile. I gripped the machete.