100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(66)

I cocked my head at Tyler’s words.

“Though I wish it wasn’t the case, we have to part ways. At least until I can get the charges against you reduced,” Tyler said.

Before getting out, I paused. “Take care of Jase. He’s a good kid.”

Without waiting for a response, I jumped out and set a brisk pace into the darkness.

“Hold up,” Tyler said, catching up.

I swallowed, then turned. He handed me another clip and then placed his hand behind my neck and kissed my forehead. “Be careful out there.”

I gave a small smile and started walking again.

“Watch your six,” Tyler called out behind me.

I paused for a moment, and then took off at a full run through the gate and into the night.

****

The east horizon was growing lighter than the west, meaning that dawn wasn’t far behind. I jogged down the road to cover as much distance as possible before the sun would betray me to any Dogs and zeds in the area. I ran around a few zed stragglers on the roads, but didn’t stop to kill them, instead, moving as quickly as I could before more showed.

My lungs burned. My body was drenched with sweat, and I’d run less than five miles because I could just make out the outline of Doyle’s camp in my path.

I wanted to burst into the camp and save Clutch. Except stupid heroics would only get us both killed. Clutch had always told me to never go on an offensive without being prepared. He’d told me often, “Whatever you didn’t plan for, that’s what’s going to happen.” Worse, after the Camp attack (What the f*ck was Doyle thinking, to go after Camp Fox like that?), the Dogs would be on high alert, waiting for repercussions, and ready to gun me down the moment I stepped near their camp.

“I’m coming back for you,” I promised Clutch and kept jogging.

As the first rays of sunlight ebbed over the horizon, I detoured through a field that had been freshly plowed in the spring but already showed signs of being retaken by prairie grasses. The ground was rough, and I slowed to a walk to not twist an ankle. Within minutes, I entered the woods that lined the field, where the trees could hide me from both zeds and Dogs.

But trees could hide zeds just as well.

When the sun lit up the world, I moved slowly but steadily toward the farm. I figured I had around thirty miles to go, which would take me a full day at the rate I was moving.

Spending a night in the woods with zeds wasn’t my idea of fun, but any nearby houses could have Dogs. So I kept moving through the woods like a predator but feeling more like prey.

When I came to a road, I didn’t cross. Still too close to Doyle’s camp. I walked alongside the highway, weaving through trees until I came to small creek running under the road through a round culvert. Keeping my larger knife firmly in my grip, I crept closer, stepping into the water. Cold water climbed up my legs and trickled down into my boots, and I grimaced. Soggy feet would be hell in a few hours.

I moved slowly to prevent splashing water. Finally, I reached the metal culvert, and thankfully it was empty except for a few inches of water rippling through it.

My throat was parched. I wanted to drink from the stream so badly, but between farm runoff and the potential for zeds or dead bodies to be lying in it upstream, there was too great a risk of dysentery.

The culvert was small. I had to wade through it on my hands and knees, and with every move forward, I prayed that nothing hungry waited on the other side. God, I wished there was another way, but I had to cross. The road curved around to the east, and I needed to go west.

When I came out the other side, it was blissfully peaceful, with nothing but the sounds of the water burbling into the creek below. Feet forward, I pushed myself out but slipped on the wet metal.

I hissed at the sharp pain. “Shit!” I watched the blood as it grew from the deep slice across my palm. Red tinted the water as the blood dripped from my hand and washed downstream. Having no gear meant having no first aid kit. I leaned back and held my hand up to slow the bleeding. The cut was deep and wide and would likely get infected if I didn’t take care of it properly soon.

The sun was high overhead. My tongue felt like it had doubled in size from dehydration and sat like a giant cotton ball in my mouth. My stomach growled, but hunger was an easier thing to ignore.

With my hand still bleeding, I continued moving through the woods, surprised at the absence of zeds, especially with their seemingly excellent sense of smell. Doyle’s Dogs did a hell of a job, either by keeping their area cleaned out or by leading every zed in the area into Camp Fox. Regardless, it made my trip back to the farm easier.

But it wasn’t faster. I still had to pause at every tree to scan for movement.

I came across my first zed in the woods sometime during late afternoon. It’d been a man about my age, wearing a sporty T-shirt with a big logo. I couldn’t see any injuries. In fact, as the dull infected features went, its were almost gentle behind gold-rimmed sunglasses. That was, until it sniffed the air and snarled.

Taking a breath, I stepped out and it lunged. I jumped around the tree and came up behind the zed, shoved the knife through the base of its skull, and pushed upward.

Its body shuddered, and then collapsed.

Zeds were vicious monsters, but they had their Achilles heels. One of those was that they couldn’t corner worth a shit.

I bent down and lifted the zed’s left wrist with a silver watch strapped around it. Five-fifteen.