Deadland's Harves(18)

He frowned for a moment before his features softened. “He’ll feel better in no time.”

I wished I had his confidence. While I knew Clutch would say he was feeling better, I also knew he would lie about his pain just to ride along. Clutch needed more time to heal, but he also needed to keep his spirit up. Being cooped up at the park was a constant numbing barrage against his spirit. I didn’t know how to find the balance, and so I took the easy way out and let Clutch decide.

I circled another airport on the map. “Oh, and one of the newcomers will be riding along. He’s got a wife and daughter still at Marshall.”

Jase gave a crooked smile. “We could leave early, leave him behind.”

“Believe me, I’ve already considered it, but this guy really needs this. That’s another reason I need you along—to make sure he doesn’t go stupid while we’re up there.”

“Won’t be the first time.”

I snorted. Yeah, the Cessna now had duct tape covering a bullet hole in the fuselage from the last time we gave a newcomer a lift. “Get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.”



*



Bill was waiting—practically prancing—when Clutch, Jase, and I arrived at the gate the following morning. As we approached in the small red truck, he waved and jogged to the edge of the gate.

I gave him a full once-over. His hair was still damp, and he wore a fresh shirt. That he’d listened to me yesterday and cleaned himself up a bit gave me some confidence that he’d behave on this trip. “Morning,” I called out. “Are you ready to go?”

He nodded with a smile, his eyebrows raised high. “You bet. Let’s go.” He lifted a small duffle. “I also brought some letters and things from the others.”

“All right. Go ahead and climb in back.” I gestured behind me, where Clutch sat in his wheelchair against the big white portable fuel tank, sipping coffee in a thermos while he eyed the newcomer. Before the outbreak, Clutch had never touched caffeine. Ever since his concussion, he guzzled the stuff whenever he had a chance.

As Jase drove us down the road, I craned my head out the window. Long wisps of white marred an otherwise clear sky. I leaned back in with a sigh of relief. “Fingers crossed, it should hopefully be a smooth flight today.”

“Good,” Jase drawled. “That last flight was not much fun. And by ‘not much fun,’ I mean it was pretty much the worst experience ever. ”

I chuckled, remembering Jase’s face buried in a sick-sack thirty minutes into a two-hour scouting run. “Poor Jasen can’t handle bumpy air,” I cooed.

He gave me a droll stare for a moment and then flipped me off, and I grinned even harder.

Jase’s stomach couldn’t handle turbulence, but it was Clutch’s back that couldn’t risk any turbulence today. Over the past couple of months, Jase had filled in for Clutch on supply runs, and he’d become my co-pilot. He was no longer the kid who’d come to Clutch’s farm—bloody and carrying his dying dog—six months ago. He’d only turned sixteen last week, but, aside from a youthful face, no one would ever mistake Jase for still being a boy.

In his eyes, anyone could see that he’d suffered more than most. Not many had to kill their own father like Jase had. Many would’ve been broken. Not Jase. He’d become the consummate survivor. He was the best of all of us. He did what it took to survive, yet he somehow managed to retain his humanity, something I felt like I had to fight to hold onto. Whether fighting zeds or on scouting runs, I easily trusted him as much as I trusted Clutch and Tyler.

I also hated bringing him into danger. I wanted to keep him safe behind the park’s gates. Every time he left the park, some place deep within my heart panged with dread. A part of me craved to lock him in the cabin, but I knew that would be a disservice to him. He needed to learn how to survive on his own, and protecting him would only hurt him.

Still, it was hard.

Jase brought the truck around a curve in the road, bringing into sight the Cessna 172 and shot-up Piper Cub sitting in the small parking lot of a rest area, both ready to go at a moment’s notice. For most of my scouting trips, I took the slower Cub. For today’s long trip, I needed the speed and distance the Cessna offered, even though the 172 could in no way be called a fast airplane.

I kept the planes as close to the park as possible. It made sense given we kept the area around the park clear of zeds, and I felt safer knowing I could be in the air in less than five minutes in case shit hit the park. Jase parked on the edge of the road, and I stepped out. The air was cool and damp, and the early morning sun caused the dew to glisten on the Cessna’s wings.