100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(47)

They didn’t lower their weapons. “This area is in the jurisdiction of the Fox Hills militia!” the injured man yelled back. “You have to pay tribute to stay on these lands.”

Clutch fired, and I startled. The injured man fell to the ground and didn’t move.

The other raider’s eyes widened. “You killed him, you f*cking bastard!”

“This is your one and only chance,” Clutch said. “Drop your weapon. Leave in the next ten seconds and live. If you or any of your buddies comes near my place again, you will be shot on sight.”

“But you can’t. I’m with the militia!” He glanced from his dead buddy and back to Clutch.

“Seven,” Clutch said.

“But, but my Jeep is busted!” He pointed to the sky. “It’s going to be dark soon. There’s zeds out there.”

“Five.”

The guy paused, then dropped his rifle like it was on fire and ran toward the road. Once he passed the truck, he yelled, “Doyle will kill you for this!”

Clutch got out of the truck and aimed.

I froze.

The guy went down with one echoing shot.

In shock, I stepped out of the truck as Jase came running from the woods. “I was watching them the whole time. I wasn’t going to let them get to the house, I swear,” he said, breathless.

“I know,” I said, squeezing Jase’s shoulder.

He grimaced and took a step back. “Dang, you stink like a zed that took a shit bath.”

Another shot fired, and we yanked around to see Clutch standing beside the Jeep, the driver now sporting a gunshot to the head. Clutch looked up. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”

“Do you think they’ll know these guys were here?” Jase asked.

“Oh, they’ll know all right.” Clutch looked outward. “Doyle started the war today.”





WRATH


The Fifth Circle of Hell





Chapter VIII


Two weeks later



Jase slammed his machete through the forehead of the first zed, while I split the skull of the second one right down the middle. I stood back and let Jase take down the third, wielding his machete like a broadsword.

“I’m getting sick of Doyle’s Dogs throwing zeds at us,” he muttered as he wiped his blade on the grass.

For the past three days, a garbage truck had driven down this road and dumped hungry zeds over the gate. On the first day, they dropped one. The next day it was two. Today, they were up to three. Tomorrow, it’d be four.

Eventually, it’d be a truckload.

They were toying with us, plain and simple. With every assault, they were saying, surrender or we’ll kill you.

“C’mon. They’re giving us practice,” I said, tugging a dead zed to the ditch. “What else is there to do on a Friday night besides killing zeds?”

Jase paused while dragging another zed and cocked his head. “Is it Friday?”

I shrugged. “No idea. Doesn’t matter, I guess. We should be heading in for the night.”

“Yeah. The fabulous dinner I made is getting cold,” he said with a sly grin.

I looked down the road where the green garbage truck disappeared in the distance. After today’s dump, the truck sported several new bullet holes, courtesy of Clutch, who was just coming down from his sniper’s nest in the tree. But the bullet holes weren’t enough. We needed to disable that damn truck. And soon.

Clutch checked his Blaser. “I should’ve taken care of those Dogs back at the greenhouse. Then they wouldn’t have known about this place.”

I didn’t need to voice my agreement. Clutch was right. If we’d killed Sean and his buddies—without getting ourselves killed in the process—we could go about our business and no one would be the wiser. For the past few days, Clutch had been beating himself up about letting Sean get away and outing our location.

But it wasn’t his fault any more than it was mine. They’d caught us off guard and now we were dealing with the repercussions.

We headed back to the Jeep. It had taken the guys two full days, but they had the Dogs’ Rubicon running again. Jase had even added his own brand of style by painting “Zom-B-Gone” across the back.

The Jeep could get through anything the truck could, but it was smaller and faster to get in and out of, unlike the efficient Prius, which the guys bitched about every time they climbed in. And so the Jeep had joined Jase’s motorcycle as a scouting vehicle around the farm.

Jase claimed driving rights and I snagged the passenger seat, leaving Clutch to hop in the back. When Jase gunned the engine, I grabbed onto the windshield. “Do you even have a driver’s license?”

“Of course,” Jase replied indignantly, and then shrugged. “Well, basically. I’ve got a school permit. But I’ve been driving tractors for most my life.”

I would’ve snapped back a witty remark, but my stomach growled. “What’s for dinner tonight, Jase? I hope it’s take-out from Pizza Hut. I could really go for a Cheese Lover’s with extra cheese.”

“I’d take Red Lobster,” Clutch added. “All-you-can-eat shrimp.”

“It’s better,” Jase said. “Tonight you get my specialty: Spam and rice.”