Deadland's Harves(11)

Wes sped up.

“Hold up,” I said. “I’ll get this one.”

Wes slowed, and I waited until the zed was close enough that I could stab it from the safety of the Jeep. As we progressed through town, I took out every zed I could because every zed I killed was one fewer zed that would come across the park or join up with a herd later.

By the time we reached the church, the parking lot was empty. We drove by the house where the survivors had been. There were several corpses scattered around on the overgrown lawn outside, but fortunately no bodies wore Camp Fox fatigues.

Once we were safely out of town, Wes stepped on the gas. As we headed back to the park, I shivered in the October breeze. No one spoke. Without things like movies and sports, small talk had become an exercise of discussing what still needed done before winter hit. A person could only handle talking so much about the lack of skills and supplies.

As we approached the park’s entrance, I cringed inwardly at the sight of the newcomers standing outside the gate. It was a larger group than I’d thought. At least ten, but it seemed like a hundred for the amount of food they’d eat. Wearing my actuarial hat, I figured we’d have to add an additional seventeen percent to our calculations of food needed to get us through the winter. The numbers became more and more dismal with more stragglers arriving every week. We’d have to start turning people away or else we’d starve. The question was, would today be that day?

Most of Camp Fox’s scouts were on the other side of the gate, standing with their guns lowered but at the ready. Two scouts stood next to Doc while he attended to someone in one of the newcomers’ three vans, the same vans that had been parked outside the house in Freeley. The rest of the newcomers were busily drinking from plastic water bottles.

Tyler was sitting in the passenger seat of a Humvee, also drinking water, with his window rolled down, and I had no doubt a rifle sat on his lap. His blond hair was matted from wearing a helmet, yet it did nothing to detract from his good looks. He had a killer smile and when he talked, he made you feel like he was talking directly to you, even if he was standing in front of a group of hundreds. There was something charismatic about him that made men want to be his pal and women swoon. He was a natural leader.

Wes slowed the Jeep down to a crawl as we drove past the newcomers and toward the gate. They were a dirty bunch and looked like they’d been on the road for some time. Some waited at the gate with desperate pleas for help. Four ATVs sat nearby to run down any zeds or chase fleeing bandits.

Tyler would have already informed the newcomers that Camp Fox had protocols. Any newcomer had to be fully vetted by Doc for bites, fleas, illness, and other infectious things before being allowed through the gate. Still, it tugged on the heartstrings to stand around when miserable, starving people needed help not even twenty feet away.

Seventeen percent, I reminded myself when sympathy rose in my chest.

Yes, they desperately needed our help. And, if I was on the run and came across a camp, I hoped they’d take me in. Still, I didn’t know these people. What if they stole our supplies or hurt Jase? Keeping an image of Jase in my mind helped gird myself against my desire to help them.

Little Benji Hennessey held Styrofoam cups as his grandfather Robert, whom everyone called Frost, filled them with water. Frost’s huge Great Dane, Diesel, lay sprawled out at his side. After each cup was filled, Benji handed it to a newcomer. Tyler always called upon the Hennesseys whenever newcomers showed up. It was a smart tactic that worked every time. A kindly grandfather and a young kid with Down Syndrome tended to put folks at ease. Little did any newcomer know that Frost would kill—and had killed without hesitation—anyone who threatened his grandson. Even more impressive, Benji had ridden a bicycle—with training wheels no less—miles and miles through zed-infested country to reach his grandfather. He hadn’t killed a zed yet, but he was a survivor, through and through.

Wes pulled onto the shoulder to get around the vans. Clutch let out a pained groan when the Jeep’s tires went off the edge of the pavement. I placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need to get you to the cabin and on your back.”

“What I wouldn’t do to get a woman to say that to me,” Wes said.

I rolled my eyes.

That Clutch didn’t argue was proof of the pain he was in. I was sure the jarring ride in the Jeep hadn’t helped the swelling on his spine.

A small section of the gate opened, and we drove through, coming to a stop at Tyler’s vehicle. He stepped out of the Humvee, setting his rifle on the seat. After giving us a once-over, he frowned. “What took you guys so long? You usually beat us back by at least a couple hours.”