100 Days in Deadland (Deadland Saga, #1)(73)

We stood on the second floor, looking out through the two-story window over the wide expanse of the park. Trees went on for as far as the eye could see. No signs of violence.

“I like it here,” I said.

“Yeah. Me, too,” Clutch replied.

It was even more peaceful than the farm. Here, it was as though we were alone, free, and safe. As long as everyone thought we were dead, we had a chance.

But, we weren’t safe.

Because as long as Doyle and the zeds were still out there, we’d never be safe.





MALICE


The Eighth Circle of Hell





Chapter XVIII


Ten days later



The wet spring had turned into a humid summer. The park was lush and green, with only the sounds of nature as background music.

It was a pleasant mirage.

Clutch and I tried to make the best of the shitty situation. Despite having no fences, the park turned out to be a decent camp, its hills a natural deterrent to zeds. Another huge perk: the park’s water supply was fed by a rural water tower, so water had suddenly become the least of our worries.

We were careful in our movements in case any Dogs passed through. After losing our stockpile, we had to start nearly from scratch. Fortunately, one of the rooms in the park’s DNR office contained boxes of stuff either left at the park or confiscated by park rangers.

I used several hours of sunlight every day fishing and setting snares. But, living on protein alone was draining us, especially with the exercise regimen Clutch had us on. In just over a week, I noticed I had less stamina and energy. Even the cut on my hand was taking longer to heal.

I’d been sifting through the park’s library to find out which plants and berries were edible in the area. The park no doubt had a wealth of food that could be eaten, but getting to it was the challenge. There was no telling what trees a zed could be lurking behind. And so I started to dig up soil around the edges of the office’s parking lot for a new garden.

“Ready to hit the road?” Clutch said, coming down the stairs.

He looked set for battle in his camos while I’d been stuck in the same designer jeans for the past ten days, though we’d both been wearing T-shirts from the gift shop.

I grabbed the plastic water bottles I’d been refilling every day. “Ready.”

Clutch gave a quick nod and headed for the door. Stubble covered his head now and would be as long as my thicker hair in no time.

“We need fuel,” he said over his shoulder. “The truck has less than a half tank left.”

“Seeds are critical, too,” I added. “Ooh, and gardening tools. Maybe a net. Definitely food. Weapons would be nice.”

Clutch raised a brow. “Anything else?”

I smirked. “I’ll be sure to let you know.” I followed him to the truck. “Do you know any farms in the area?”

He shook his head. “No, but there’s a gas station not far from here. It was a hotspot for day-trippers loading up on ice and beer before heading into the park. They might also have some camping supplies.”

I climbed in and rolled down the window. “Did you bring the hose?”

He held up a five-foot length of rubber water hose I’d found at the office and cut into sections. My life had become a state of improvising. Finding tools or weapons in everything.

He started the engine. “If we can get gas from the tanks, then we’ll be able to head farther out for your wish list items. It’s pretty rural around here and far enough away from where Doyle’s camp was that it may still be good for looting without running into anyone.”

As Clutch weaved through the maze he’d been making of the park roads, I kept an eye out for intruders. When I was working on food, he was busy blocking off the roads and marking safe routes on park maps. The roadblocks signaled that there were survivors in the park, but—more important—the roadblocks would slow down zeds and especially Dogs in getting to us.

Only three zeds had passed near the park office since we moved there, and they’d been on the roads. Since the roadblocks went up, no zeds had passed through. We figured the hills and trees caused too many problems for the decomposing shamblers, so they likely wouldn’t show up at the office unless they were lost or had homed in on us. And we were far enough inside the camp, that zeds should have no way of hearing, seeing, or smelling us.

Still, without much for weapons, we’d been brainstorming ways to corral zed stragglers into traps. We had plenty of ideas, but so far no manpower or tools to make anything work.

We passed several of the park’s cabins in the heart of the park. With over two dozen buildings, we could set up a small town of survivors here, though the park’s rough and wooded landscape wasn’t exactly ideal for growing food or scouting for zeds. When I mentioned the idea of bringing others onto the park, Clutch changed the subject. I suspected the loss of Jase to Camp Fox had hit him harder than he let on.

Ever since the run-in with Doyle, Clutch’s PTSD had worsened. His nightmares lasted longer, and during the days, he often had a distant look. Whatever had happened had really hit Clutch hard. Since he refused to talk about it, all I could do was hope that time would help heal the wounds on his soul.

I pointed to a cabin nearly hidden by trees. “That’s our bug-out cabin, right?”