100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(71)

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I woke up with my entire body stiff from lying on hard, damp concrete. Being underground, I had no idea what time it was. I could’ve been asleep for only an hour or ten hours. I’d slept soundly, except for when Clutch’s nightmares began, and I’d held onto him until he fell back into a more peaceful sleep.

Unfortunately, PTSD isn’t curable. It’s a way of life.

Clutch was already awake and heating something in a tin can. When he noticed I was awake, he tossed me a Gatorade. I caught it with my injured hand and winced. He then handed me a metal spork and a tin can wrapped with a towel.

I yawned. “What time is it?”

Clutch put another can on the tiny stove and glanced at his watch. “Five-forty. It should still be dark enough to take out the Dogs that are topside before they see us.”

After we ate our refried beans, Clutch rummaged through the shelves and pulled out a shotgun that had been vacuum-sealed in plastic. He loaded several shells into it. “I go first. If there’s more than two, we’ll wait them out. You stay by the shed and take out any Dogs who try to get away.”

I checked the Beretta and grabbed the baseball bat. “Ready.”


Clutch slung the shotgun over his shoulder and climbed the ladder. At the top, he slowly unlocked and opened the door a couple inches. No light came in. After a long moment, he held up a single finger and pointed to my right.

Only one Dog? Could we get that lucky?

I followed up the ladder and outside. The cool, damp morning breeze swept away any lingering sleepiness as I crawled behind a pile of tin while Clutch moved toward a four-by-four truck sitting in the drive. The Dog was sitting in his truck, facing away from us and watching the driveway.

It was too easy. Clutch snuck up behind the truck and had the shotgun leveled point blank through the open window before the Dog even noticed.

“Hands on your head,” Clutch ordered.

The Dog obeyed instantly. Clutch opened the truck door and stepped to the side. “Out of the truck and on your knees.”

“Don’t shoot!” the scrawny teen cried as he fell from the truck and onto his knees. An AR-15 tumbled harmlessly off his lap.

“How many are with you?” Clutch asked, kicking the rifle away.

“I’m alone. I swear it,” the guy answered, keeping his hands on his head. “Please don’t kill me.”

“I won’t if you keep telling the truth,” Clutch said.

“You…you won’t?” The young man sounded genuinely surprised.

I could’ve asked Clutch the same thing. I scanned the area and saw a shape shambling around the edge of the woods. I pulled out the bat and stalked toward it while keeping an eye on the Dog kneeling before Clutch.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Clutch said. “Take my advice. Don’t lie.”

The Dog nodded furiously.

“What are your orders?”

“Wa-watch for you. Call in if I see you.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes!”

“Why are you alone?”

The Dog didn’t answer.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Clutch said.

“Camp Fox invaded our camp,” the kid quickly replied. “A lot of guys are busy relocating their families.”

The zed had noticed the two men and was making its way toward them. At first, I thought it was bloated, but then I realized it was pregnant, probably near-term when it’d been bitten. Bile rose in my throat as I readied the bat. A purse hung across the zed’s body, and it hobbled in one sandal. It hissed and turned to me when I approached. I swung. Its head broke open like a beanbag.

“When’s the next shift arrive?” Clutch asked, turning back to the Dog after watching me kill the zed.

“Eight o’clock,” he replied, his voice cracking.

When I approached the Dog from behind, Clutch nodded, and I disarmed him, startling him. The Dog was young, not much older than Jase, and obviously scared shitless.

“Cripes, kid,” Clutch said. “You’re too young to be caught up with the likes of Doyle.”

The Dog jutted out his chin. “Doyle saved my life. We’re going to make Fox Hills safe again.”

“Keep telling yourself that, kid,” Clutch said.

I lifted a two-way radio I’d found on the Dog’s belt.

Clutch narrowed his eyes. “How often do you report in?”

The Dog swallowed. “The bottom of every hour.”

Clutch glanced at his watch. “Looks like you got seven minutes. What’s the code for all-clear?”

He didn’t answer.

“The code for all-clear?” Clutch asked more firmly, lifting his shotgun.

“The eagle soars,” he replied quickly.

Clutch held out the two-way radio. “Report in. This time, with the right code for all-clear, and I’ll let your last fib pass.”

The Dog’s jaw dropped before he snapped it shut. He nodded tightly. He took the radio, took a deep breath, and clicked the side. “Hamster reporting in. Over.”

“Base. Report. Over.”

“The swallow has flown, repeat, the swallow has flown. Over.”

A slight pause.

“Affirmative. The swallow has flown. Over.”