100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(44)

“Two. The Piersons were a young couple. Just starting out,” he replied, as we reversed the seven steps to get out of the house and headed for the truck.

Clutch drove slowly enough to not kick up any dust on the gravel road while I scanned for zeds and looters.

A creek meandered down the end of Clutch’s property line. With all the rains, the Fox River had flooded, filling its tributaries, this creek being one. The ground had given way not far from the road, and I saw why we hadn’t seen more than a few zeds for a couple days. “It’s better than a mousetrap,” I said, watching the zeds trapped in the mud.

They moved in dull, slow motions that only served to have the mud pull them in deeper. One zed was naked, with mud smeared over his bloated body. All the zeds were bloated, looking as though they’d ingested twice their body weight with polluted water. A pair had been pulled so deep that they’d become stuck under the dirty water, their mouths opening and closing like fish.

“Stop,” I said.

Clutch pulled to a stop and watched me.

“Once everything dries up, they could break free,” I said.

He looked outside, thought for a moment, and then nodded.

I opened the door, lifted my rifle, and took aim. The naked zed went down. I fired again. Fourteen shots. Twelve dead zeds. I needed to work on my aim.

“Happy now?” he asked when I settled back in.

I smiled. Twelve fewer zeds to trespass onto the farm. “Very.”

The Pierson farm was only another mile down the road, just past a farmhouse much in need of a new paint job. “Since it’s so close, we can check out this one next,” I mentioned as we drove past.

“Earl’s,” he replied. “A bit of a hermit, so he may have ridden out the outbreak. If he’s not around, we may be able to pick up an extra gun or two.”

A new green combine sat next to a machine shed. I thought back to the zed I’d decapitated a couple weeks back. “Was Earl a tall, skinny guy? Wore a John Deere hat?”

Clutch narrowed an eye at me. “Yeah, why?”

“We don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I guess we’ll check out his place next, then.”

He stopped before turning into the Pierson’s driveway, while we scanned their farm, but it looked quiet and untouched. But we knew that wasn’t the case.

We knew at least Tom Pierson was home. The house was close enough to the road that on two different drive—bys we clearly saw a man staring blankly out the window. Close enough for the man inside to see us and start thumping bloody fists against the glass. I suspected the only reason he hadn’t broken the glass yet was because zeds seemed to have a limited ability to retain focus.

Even though he wasn’t standing in the window now, we knew better than to believe the house was safe. We had at least one zed waiting inside. The question was, where was Tom’s wife? She could be in the house, or she could be lurking around the chicken shed. Or, if she was lucky, she got away.

I’d already learned that very few people tended to get lucky in this world.

Thunder boomed in the distance, startling me.

“You okay?” Clutch asked.

I nodded. “Sounds like another storm’s coming.”

Clutch parked the truck behind the Pierson’s Ford truck and cut the engine. The garage door had been left open, and the driver’s door was left ajar.

“We’ll clear out the house first since we know Tom’s in there. Then the yard,” Clutch rumbled in his rough voice. “Be ready.”

We moved with slow, silent steps into the attached garage. Putting my back to Clutch’s, we scanned the two stalls. He checked out both vehicles. I bent down to check under the vehicles. When I came to my feet, I gave him the sign for okay.

We stopped at the door leading from the garage to the house. Streaks of dried blood marred the paint. Clutch reached for the handle and turned it slowly. The hinges protested with a small creak. He looked inside and then took a step in. I immediately followed, checking behind the door and then taking the side of the door opposite from Clutch.

Even wearing a Kevlar helmet with the face shield down, the stench of decay and excrement was overpowering, and I forced myself to breathe through my mouth. No zed had emerged yet, which meant that maybe it hadn’t heard the door open.

Or maybe it just moved slowly.

A zed that I assumed had once been Tom Pierson ambled around the corner right when Clutch took a step forward. It saw us and gave a guttural hiss. I was closer. I swung, cleaving the top section of its head clean off. Some brown goo hemorrhaged from the wound, but not nearly as much as had come from Alan’s head in the back of Clutch’s rig. It seemed like the longer they’d been infected, the less “wet” they were…and a hell of a lot more smelly. I gagged and tried to block the stench that made me think of what moldy cottage cheese, rotten eggs, and putrid ground beef blended together would smell like.

Clutch kneeled by the body, and lifted its shirt. “Looks like someone unloaded a small caliber into him. If I had to guess, I’d say it was done after he turned.” Then Clutch stood, stepped over the body, and moved into the next room.

I followed, hoping the smell would improve. It didn’t. The living room was a mess. Broken glass and suitcases littered the floor. On the coffee table sat a purse with several hundred dollars scattered about. It looked like the guy’s wife was planning an escape. Too bad money couldn’t have helped her. I noticed the pistol then. It was a .22, similar to my first pistol. I picked it up and checked the cartridge. Empty. I frowned and slid the .22 into the back of my belt. “I don’t think she got out.”