Deadland's Harvest (Deadland Saga, #2)(4)
I hadn’t seen how they died, so I tried to tell myself they went peacefully, that they hadn’t suffered. Like anyone else, I hated seeing those I loved hurt. That’s what terrified me about Clutch. He had been hurt so badly—and still hurt—that it nearly broke my heart every time I saw him wince from pain. And he winced far too often.
If he’d dislocated his back before the outbreak, modern medicine would have had him walking by now. Except there was no longer such a thing as modern medicine. His bones were healing, and the swelling on his spine was going down since he was regaining more sensation every week. Still, even though he had feeling in his legs and could sometimes move his toes, he might not ever walk again.
Since the attack, we hadn’t had sex. While I craved a deeper connection, Clutch couldn’t handle intimacy. He was struggling just trying to hold his personal demons at bay. I was afraid a simple kiss could topple his teeter-totter of control. So, I gave him his space, even though I felt so very alone.
The funny thing was that before the outbreak, I wouldn’t have considered dating Clutch. My parents would never have approved of a blue-collar man fifteen years older than me. We were from two different worlds. It would’ve been a shame, too. Instead, it took a virus to destroy the world for me to find someone whose spirit meshed so perfectly with my spirit.
“What’s wrong?” Clutch asked, and I started, looking up.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
After a moment, he gave a small frown and looked back toward the rising sun.
I splashed more water on my face. The rumble of a motorcycle drowned out the sound of the stream and my thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder to see Jase ride down the trail we walked to get to our section of the stream. The sixteen-year-old pulled to a stop, kicking up dirt and leaves, and revved the engine one final time before killing it. His sandy hair was in much need of a haircut, but it fit his personality. He had grown into his body over the past several months, but he was still clearly a teenager.
He gave his famously endearing grin before climbing off the bike, the grin I knew hid nightmares. It was a bad habit he was picking up from Clutch: burying his pain, pretending it didn’t exist. Not that those two were alone in that bad habit. I found myself doing it enough, as well as most of Camp Fox. It was a survival mechanism. If we focused too much on the reality, it would swallow us whole. Every now and then, someone would break. Each person was different. Some would cry nonstop, some would eat a bullet, some would take on a blank stare, and some became hell-bent on destroying every zed in the world. I prayed that neither Clutch nor Jase would hit their breaking point.
Just like every morning, Jase pulled out a couple granola bars and tossed one to Clutch and me. For the first week or so after the Camp Fox attack, he’d rarely spoke. He’d lost too much in too short of time to be able to digest it all. Then, one morning, he’d awakened and started to speak. Acting like Teflon—like he hadn’t lost Mutt or his parents—had become his coping mechanism.
He leaned on the handlebars. “Looks like another quiet day.”
“Leaves are starting to turn,” Clutch replied.
Jase ignored him. “I’m going on a run today. Doc is running low on towels.”
“Count me in,” I said.
“I’ll go,” Clutch added on.
Jase’s brows rose. “But—”
“I’ll be fine,” Clutch interrupted. “I’ll stay with the vehicle and scan for zeds. It’s not like I’m going to jump up and run away.”
I clenched my jaw shut to keep from saying anything. Doc would get pissed if Clutch left the park, but I also knew that being caged up was driving him crazy. The idea of him heading out before he was fully recovered bugged me, especially given the lack of any decent modern medicine. If something happened, his temporary paralysis could become permanent—assuming that it was temporary now. Clutch needed action to survive. Every day spent doing nothing but PT at the park, he lost a little bit more of his spirit.
Jase didn’t look convinced but he also knew better than to tell Clutch no. “All right. I’ll prep the truck. See you guys at—”
We all jerked around to see one of the Jeeps used for guard patrol barreling down the lane. The driver’s white hair stood out. Wes came to a stop and stood up in the Jeep. He was one of the newer residents, having moved to the park less than a month ago. “We’ve got an all-hands call, guys. Captain Masden said I’m to grab every scout I can find and head to the church at Freeley.”
I stood up and pulled on my shirt. I was one of the scouts, Camp Fox’s protectors. Most were soldiers—National Guardsmen—but there were a few non-military scouts like Jase and me. Tyler had originally called us all soldiers, but then opted for a more neutral, “friendly” term. The label made sense. Scouting for supplies while watching for trouble was ninety percent of our jobs.
“What’s up?” Clutch asked while I wiped my face with my sleeve.
“We’ve just found out about some survivors trapped in Freeley. Sounds like they’ve gotten themselves surrounded by zeds.”
“On my way,” Jase said as he revved up the bike and peeled out.
Jase was always energetic like that. Other folks had even started calling him Teflon, since the nastiness of the world around us seemed to roll right off him. But I knew better. Jase had seen a lot of shit and buried his memories, fears, and emotions under a thick coating of that Teflon. Back at the cabin, when he was exhausted after a hard day, I sometimes saw the real Jase. The Jase that was still a kid and was struggling to fake it through each day. He’d toss and turn all night, often waking up in a cold sweat. I’d sit with him until he fell back to sleep. By morning, he was back to being Teflon.