Deadland's Harvest (Deadland Saga, #2)(26)

I checked my M24 rifle. We’d been through plenty together, and it bore as many scars as I did. Tiny scratches marred the black metal from a grenade blast that I’d never expected to survive.

“You look sad,” Tyler said. “What’s wrong?”

“My poor rifle has seen its share of abuse,” I answered.

“We all have,” he said softly.

I pointed to a gouge on the barrel that had shown up sometime between the time I was imprisoned at Camp Fox and when I got the rifle back. “This one wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t thrown me behind bars.”

He raised his brows. “Seriously? You’re still beating me up over that?”

“Always,” I replied. “After all, no one forced you to arrest me.”

“I did it to save you from the Dogs,” he said, referring to the Iowa militia. “Besides, you did break the law. No matter how you look at it, killing someone is still breaking the law.”

“Hmph. You and I both know that scumbag Dog had it coming for what he’d done to that poor girl.”

He nodded. “Maybe. But that wasn’t for you to decide. You took away his right to a fair trial. I’m not saying he wasn’t guilty and didn’t deserve what he got. I’m just saying it wasn’t the right way to go about it.”

I could’ve brought up the young girl the accused had raped and beaten, but Tyler had heard it all before, and he still refused to budge from his stance on traditional justice. After the outbreak, I’d reverted to an “eye for an eye” brand of justice because mistakes and crimes committed now nearly always caused someone’s death. We didn’t have the time or resources for a full court system anymore.

“At least it was one fewer Dog to attack Camp Fox,” I said instead. “But that’s all water under the bridge now,” I said, watching a sizable tree limb float down the river.

“I agree. I’m glad things worked out and that you decided to stay with Camp Fox.” Tyler shaded his eyes as he looked down the river. “No sign of the riverboat yet.”

Tyler had reached this guy Sorenson on the radio a month or so ago by sheer luck. He spent twenty minutes every day scanning all the AM, marine, and aeronautical frequencies. One day, they had both been scanning and reporting across the same marine frequencies at the same time. It was through Tyler’s diligence that we’d connected with the folks in Marshall as well as several tiny groups scattered across the area. Sadly, for every settlement he reached, he seemed to lose contact with another.

Of all Tyler’s contacts, Sorenson was best equipped to survive the herd migration. He was a riverboat captain and, since zeds couldn’t swim, anyone who could navigate the rivers had done pretty well since the outbreak.

Tyler believed Camp Fox had found an ally in Sorenson.

I was doubtful. There was a big difference between talking on the radio and asking Sorenson if he’d take another sixty mouths to feed onto his boat. That’s why we’d flown all the way here today—to beg Sorenson to add Camp Fox to his crew. Temporarily, of course.

After turning around and heading back toward the plane and across the painted X on the bridge, my stomach growled. I pulled out a plastic bag filled with jerky. Without freezers, all lean meat was made into jerky. Jerky and nuts comprised our protein staples on scouting runs. I chewed on a piece and held the bag out to Tyler, who grabbed one.

“Any thoughts on a backup plan to our backup plan?” I asked. “Just in case Sorenson doesn’t come through.”

“Besides running?” Tyler sighed and then shook his head. “No. We really need Sorenson to come through.”

“Even if he does let everyone from Camp Fox hop a ride until the herds pass through, it’s still a three-hour-plus drive over here, best-case scenario. Longer with the roadblocks we’ve marked on the maps.” With the Cessna, I could only bring a couple people with supplies at a time. I’d never be able to transport everyone before the herds reached our latitude.

If today fell through, my assignment was to fly over potential routes and mark any roadblocks and herds on the maps. Even then, driving a convoy full of people and livestock in any direction was a dangerous plan. We’d surely draw out any zeds in the area.

Griz and Jase met up with us at the plane. “All clear to the east,” Griz said, snatching a piece of jerky from my bag.

Jase grabbed the entire bag and dug in.

“Same to the west,” Tyler said. “If the engine noise didn’t draw any in, we shouldn’t have anything beyond the random grazer to worry about today. Sorenson picked a good area. I can see for miles in every direction.”

An engine noise in the distance snapped all of our attention to the river. Shading my eyes, I searched for the source of the sound.

“Over there.” Jase pointed to the southeast.

I followed his finger and saw a white deck boat coming out from behind an island of trees and toward us.

As the boat approached, I could make out four men. They pulled to a stop where an aluminum extension ladder had been securely chained to the bridge.

A muscled man grabbed a hold of the ladder while a man with weathered skin motioned toward us. “Come on down. We’re here to take you to meet Captain Sorenson.”

Tyler didn’t move. “I was under the impression that Sorenson was coming here to meet me.”