100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(55)

My lip curled in return. Feeling’s mutual, bud.

“We need to talk,” Clutch stated.

“We’ll talk,” Doyle said, giving Clutch a wide smile. “But first, let’s get you folks inside where it’s safe. Damn zeds are starting to come out of the woodwork.” He swaggered back through the now-open gate.

An ominous feeling grew heavy in my gut as our Humvee passed through the high gate and several Dogs closed in around us. “Well, we’re in,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “And I’m ready to leave.”

Clutch watched me for a moment and then gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

I cradled my rifle as I kept an eye on the Dogs. The man Clutch had shot held his injured hand to his chest as he disappeared inside the first building. Except for one, the remaining men warily watched Clutch like he’d do the same to them. The only guard who didn’t seem concerned was the one too busy leering at me.

I’d seen him once before, when he’d called dibs on me at the greenhouse. I had wanted to shoot him then, too.

When we made eye contact, the weasel wagged his tongue and blew me a kiss. I would’ve flipped him the bird if I wasn’t holding my rifle so tightly. Instead, I turned away to find Clutch watching me, his jaw tight. “Don’t leave my side,” he said gruffly.

I swallowed a nervous chuckle. Like I’d even want to. “I just want to get back to the farm as fast as possible.”

Tyler turned in his seat. “No matter what happens, there’s not to be one more shot fired here, understood? This situation is a tinderbox that’s been getting hotter for some time.”

“Unless we’re forced to protect ourselves, you mean,” I corrected. “Where’d Doyle get these guys? Prison?”

Tyler’s lips pursed. “Stick with me, and everything will be okay. Doyle knows better than to f*ck with Camp Fox. Still, I’m surprised none of them got trigger-happy when Clutch shot one of their friends. We’re damned lucky to be alive,” Tyler replied.

“That shit-for-brains was less than a second away from opening fire on us,” Clutch grated out.

“How do you know that for sure, Sarge?” Tyler asked.

Clutch inhaled and then narrowed his gaze on Tyler. “I’ve seen that look before, plenty of times. I know.”

Clutch’s words evidently sunk in because Tyler seemed to accept them and turned away.

Inside the fence wasn’t any more pleasant than outside. I counted twenty armed men in the camp. No telling how many more were either hidden behind doors or out looting the countryside. I looked at Tyler. “How many Dogs did you say there were?”

“Eighteen,” he replied quietly.

Which would’ve made sixteen after their latest garbage drop-off today. “Looks like Doyle’s been adding to his ranks.”

“Yeah,” Tyler replied, sounding none too pleased.

Doyle stepped in front of the Humvee, and Nick brought us to a stop. The gate behind us closed with a loud clank, locking us inside the camp, which appropriately, felt like a prison.

“They’ve got quite the setup here,” I noted, and Clutch nodded, not looking any happier than I felt.

Second-guessing Clutch’s idea to gain intel on the militia, I stole a glance at him when he reached for the door. He had on his “hard” look, making it impossible to see any emotion except badassness. “Stay with me,” he repeated his words from earlier as he opened the door, grabbed his pack, and climbed out.

Rather than opening the door next to me—and closest to the leering Weasel—I slid across the seat and followed Clutch.

“Seen enough yet?” I whispered.

“I don’t know what Doyle’s endgame is yet,” he replied just as softly.

Nick remained with the vehicle, while Griz and Tack got out to stand next to Tyler.

“Leave your gear in the Humvee,” Doyle said as he walked toward us. “You’re safe within these walls. You won’t need guns here.”

“No,” Clutch said simply, adamantly.

Doyle looked at me.

I gripped my rifle harder.

“As long as there are zeds, they can keep their weapons,” Tyler said. “That’s an order.”


After a guffaw, Doyle relented with a brush of his hand. “Have it your way. Keep them, but you won’t need them. You’re under my protection here.”

I didn’t exactly feel safe under Doyle’s “protection,” and from the look on both Clutch and Tyler’s faces, they felt the same.

“While we’re here, you can also brief me,” Tyler said. “I’ve told you this before: I’ve got concerns about how many rations you’ve been going through lately. And you have no authority to grow your numbers, not without Lendt’s approval.”

Doyle grunted and turned, leading our group through the militia camp. Three rundown grain silos towered into the sky. A line of smoke trailed out from the dome of one. A faded Iowa Hawkeye logo was painted across one silo. A large white cross was painted on the side of a long tin building with writing and graffiti all along its side. Overgrown grass and dandelions cropped up everywhere not covered by gravel. People milled about, including even a few children.

Woodsy smoke corrupted the fresh spring breeze. As we passed a small fire with a turkey fryer filled with boiling water, I asked, “What are all the camp fires for?”