100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(46)

They seemed agitated, ruffling their feathers and chattering away. I realized why when I saw the furred shape nearly hidden in the shadow of the tractor. It was big, maybe a wolf, and I nudged Clutch and pointed.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones eying these chickens.”

He took several steps toward the beast and waved his hands. “Shoo. Get out of here.”

It growled, showing its teeth.

Clutch stomped closer. “Sorry, bud. But we need these chickens as bad as you.”

It kept growling even as it backed up with every step Clutch took forward, until it turned and ran off. It was actually a mutt, big but skinny. Probably some farm dog in the area. I felt a bit bad that he’d probably suffered as badly as any of us had since the outbreak, going from an easy diet of dog food to having to fend for himself. But I didn’t feel bad enough to toss him a chicken. Clutch was right. We needed them.

Other than the dog, there was nothing to scare up around the building. Only a tractor and lawn mower sat in the shed, making it easy enough to check for zeds.

Inside the building stood a chicken coop made out of plywood, probably used to protect the chickens at night and during cold weather. I knocked on the door and listened for any movement. When I heard none, I opened the door, with Clutch at my back. Inside was hay and wooden roosts. Eight white-feathered bodies lay dead across the floor, likely from starvation or thirst, if the empty water and food bowls were any sign. A few eggs rested undisturbed in the nest boxes, but I left those, unwilling to test their level of rottenness.

There was another door across from us, and I opened this one without worry, having already seen where it led from the outside. “Hey, chickies,” I said, taking a step onto the grass.

They came running to me, clucking happy little welcomes, and I grinned. “They’re tame.”

“Get them loaded up,” Clutch said from the doorway. “I’m going to check out the fuel situation, and see if the vehicles have anything worthwhile.”

“I’ll take it from here.” I didn’t even look up. I was too busy enjoying being the center of chicken attention.

“And be careful,” he warned.

I was sweating by the time I got three of the five chickens loaded into the carrier. Just because they were friendly creatures that couldn’t fly didn’t make them easy to catch.

Taking a break, I grabbed the three large bags of chicken feed from inside the building and tossed them in the truck next to the portable fuel tank, which Clutch was finishing siphoning gas into from the Piersons’ two cars.

Finished, he disconnected the portable pump’s cables from his truck battery, and slid the pump handle behind the tank. He’d used the portable tank for his tractors in the fields, but it hadn’t taken him long to dump the diesel from the tank so we could use it for gasoline.

Clutch eyed the two chickens still milling in their fenced area and raised an eyebrow.

I shrugged. “They needed a break.”

He smirked, leaning on the truck.

I went back to work getting the last two chickens into the carrier. I must’ve worn them out because I caught both in less than five minutes, only falling on my ass once. The scraggly chickens didn’t look pleased to be cramped in a little cage, but I figured I’d earn their forgiveness by giving them a dry home with plenty of food and water.

I turned to find Clutch with his head in his hands. “What’s wrong?”

He looked up, laughing. “I’ve never seen anyone work so hard to catch chickens before.”

I lifted the cage. “Want me to release them and you take a shot?”

He cleared his throat. “You know, they’re starving. You could’ve put a bit of feed in the kennel, and they would’ve practically run into it.”

I wanted to snap back some smart remark, but he was right so I flipped him the bird instead.

A boom sounded in the distance, and Clutch’s face fell.

Confused, I looked around. “That didn’t sound like thunder.”

His brow furrowed. He stepped back and snapped his head in the direction of the farm. “That was an explosion.”

Shock blasted through me.

“The gate,” he said before taking off at a run toward the truck. I walked as quickly as I could, without risking injuring the caged fowl. He had the engine going by the time I set the carrier in the back. I hopped in the front, and he tore out the driveway and sped out of the driveway and onto the road. I grabbed my rifle and Clutch pulled out his Blaser—a heavy, impressive rifle with an even more impressive scope.

I opened my window and leveled my rifle on the frame as he slowed. As we approached the farm, we found the gate collapsed and a Jeep on the other side with a blown axle. The bloodied driver slumped over the steering wheel must’ve taken shrapnel. Two other men with shaved heads were outside the Jeep, walking down the lane toward the house. One was clutching his bloody arm. The other held his rifle in front of him. He must’ve heard our approach, because he snapped around. His eyes widened, and he nudged the guy next to him and aimed his rifle at the truck.

“Follow my lead,” Clutch said. He drove over the fallen gate and pulled off to the right of the lane where no booby traps had been set and stopped. “This is private property!” he yelled out. “Stop where you are and lower your weapons, or you will be shot.”