Deadland's Harvest (Deadland Saga, #2)(34)

The air didn’t stink of death, which was a good sign. Still, we moved through the building to make sure no zeds or bandits were lurking in shadows.

“This wouldn’t be a bad place for a small group to hole up,” I said after we cleared the building. “I mean, there’s the fence on the side facing the road, which would deter looters, and on the other side gives a full view of the airport to see zeds coming from a mile away.”

Glass shattered, and I jumped around to see Griz rummaging through a vending machine broken wide open.

“Not a bad place as long as you always had scouts on guard,” Tyler said before joining Griz at the machine.

I walked around the front desk where papers had been scattered. Behind the desk, a small window was opened a few inches. “The wind must’ve blown the papers.” On top of the desk was a clipboard with flight schedules. N-numbers and airplane makes and models were listed on each row, and I smiled. These were planes I could fly. Hanging below the counter of the desk hung several sets of keys. I set down my machete and leaned on the desk to rifle through the keys.

One keychain held a couple dozen nickel keys. It had a plastic fob with “hangars” written in black marker. The other key chains each held only a couple bronze keys, with Cessna or Beechcraft logos on the fobs. “We got lucky,” I said. “All the keys are here. We have our pick.”

I started plucking key chains off their hooks until a movement caught the corner of my eye. I looked down at the desk in time to see a rat—not a mouse but a huge f*cking rat—run across my hand. “Ack!” I tumbled back, launching myself into the file cabinet. My head connected with the corner. Sharp pain blinded me, and I took a nosedive to the ground. Once the starred blackness in my vision began to recede, I let out the longest string of profanity I’d ever accomplished in my life.

Someone grabbed my arm. “You okay, Cash?”

I blinked until the two kneeling Jases became one. Warm liquid tickled my cheek. I touched it and then saw the blood on my finger. “Yeah. Damn rat. Surprised me, that’s all.”

Tyler stood behind Jase, frowning. “That’s one hell of a cut.” He turned away. “Griz, see if you can’t find us a kit.”


Tyler grabbed a box of tissue sitting on the desk and yanked out several. He handed them to Jase, who dabbed at my forehead and winced. “Dang, Cash. It was just a rat.”

A moment later, Griz brought over a first aid kit from somewhere. Jase made room for him, and Griz came down on a knee. He grabbed the tissue from Jase and dabbed at my forehead and cheek. As the seconds passed, the numbness became a throbbing ache. Griz tore open a towlette and just before touching me, he paused. “This is going to sting.”

“Just do it,” I muttered, and he wiped my cut. I hissed and clenched my eyes shut. Burning needles shot through my skin everywhere he touched. Jase grabbed my hand, and I held on tightly. “Jesus. It feels like half my face is on fire.”

“I can imagine,” Griz said and he continued his torture.

I opened my eyes after a couple seconds of no new pain and found Griz sifting through small items in the first aid kit. He pulled out a suture kit and my eyes widened and my jaw dropped.

“I don’t need stitches.”

Griz chortled.

“Yeah, you do,” Jase said at my side.

“Trust us,” Tyler added. “Griz will do a good job. He’s done this plenty of times.”

I swallowed and positioned myself against the cabinet. “All right, but if that rat shows up again, you sure as hell better squash it.”

The antiseptic wipe was nothing compared to getting stitches. The next ten minutes were raw agony. I begged for whiskey and morphine, but all Tyler gave me was a couple aspirin and a warm Coke. My hands were sweaty but I never let go of Jase.

Griz leaned back with a look of admiration. “That might be my finest work yet.”

I chugged down more of the Coke before Jase helped me climb to my feet.

“Be careful to keep the wound clean. That cut could get infected easily enough,” Tyler said, coming back over. He distributed the remaining candy bars from the vending machine, which we all dug into like kids opening Christmas presents. “Take as long as you need. If you’re not up to flying, we’ll drive.”

I shook my head, and I instantly regretted the movement. My face throbbed, but I said in between chews, “It’s just a cut. I’ll be fine. We’ve already wasted enough time on me.”

“All right. Let’s head out, then,” Tyler said.

I grabbed my machete off the desk and noticed a small mirror propped next to the PC. I looked at my reflection and nearly dropped the mirror. No wonder getting stitched up hurt like a bitch. A jagged enflamed line cut across my forehead and down my cheek, which looked almost like the number seven. I touched the skin around it. “Wow, that’s really going to leave a mark.”

No one said anything. I don’t know if they were afraid I was going to cry or what, but the urge didn’t even cross my mind. Times had changed. Before the outbreak, even though I’d always been a tomboy, I would have dreaded a big scar across my face. Now, the creek by our cabin was the closest thing to a mirror I had. Chances were this cut would leave a hell of a scar once it healed. Yet I’d probably not even notice it as long as it didn’t hurt.