Deadland's Harvest (Deadland Saga, #2)(67)

I pulled out one more item from my backpack, unfolded it, and strung it up on the flagpole at the back of the boat. The wind was just strong enough today that the American flag flapped proudly in the breeze. I sat back and admired it. “I think we’re all set.”

Griz tossed me a life vest.

I looked at it and scowled. “It’s going to be harder to shoot with one on.”

He shrugged his vest on like it was body armor. “We play it safe. No unnecessary risks.”


“As soon as you know the herds are moving on, get back here as soon as you are safely able,” Tyler said.

I gave him a salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”

His eyes narrowed with the hint of a smile before he turned and climbed up to the deck.

Kurt had spent much of his childhood boating and water skiing, so he was our pilot. He was also the only one who hadn’t volunteered. Tyler had assigned him to the Pied Piper team since we needed Kurt’s experience with boats.

We had a perfect team for the mission. Jase had eagle eyes, so he sat at the bow along with Griz, who was a master at strategy. Clutch and I, both crack shots, sat across from each other behind Kurt to have our sides covered. Wes, our mechanic, sat near the motor to keep an eye on our six. I also suspected the engine vibration comforted him as he couldn’t swim and really disliked water.

“Everyone ready?” Kurt asked.

A chorus of yeses replied.

He backed the boat from the shoddy dock that had been hastily constructed our first days on the towboat. Wes had a long stick to push away any zeds close to the motor. Kurt piloted the boat slowly and smoothly, and I appreciated that his nerves didn’t relay through the controls.

Things started to feel real when we pulled around the side of the Aurora and the herd came into sight. I felt like we were the stars of a sold-out concert. Kurt pulled the boat around, and we moved away from the river barge and toward the zeds.

The boat rocked gently in the river current as Kurt piloted it forward, into the U-shape of zeds on the surrounding land and bridge. The zeds looked like extras in an old-time horror film. Filthy, they were all the same shade of brown-gray. Most were emaciated. Many sported fresh boils and old injuries.

“Don’t get too close,” Clutch warned. “We don’t want zeds to start dropping in on us.”

It was like someone had wound up the zeds. What had been slow shuffling before became a frenzied dance as we approached. When we approached the center of the U-shape, their moans reached a crescendo.

“That’s close enough,” Griz said, sounding nervous.

I didn’t blame him. I was practically frozen, and it wasn’t just because of the cold air. My hands trembled, and I gripped my rifle to me like it was my lifeline.

Kurt cranked on the CD player, and the previous owner’s choice in music—Motor Boat City’s “Pontoon”—blasted through the speakers. If the smells of deer organs and visuals of uninfected humans weren’t enough to snag their attention, they couldn’t ignore the noise. We hadn’t had time to rig up louder speakers, but the stock speakers seemed to be doing the trick. Dozens of zeds tumbled into the water, pushed in by zeds behind them.

“Think we got their attention?” Kurt asked.

“Yeah,” Clutch said. “We don’t want them to keep falling in the water.”

Kurt brought the boat closer to the western bank and turned the boat toward the south and cut the engine, letting the current do the work. As we drifted past the Aurora, the deck was empty and I could see no signs of inhabitants, though I knew everyone was watching from the galley.

Back on the towboat, we had debated for less than two minutes whether to lead the herd south or north. Leading them north seemed counterproductive. Leading them south meant that we had to lead them past the Aurora, but it was the direction they seemed naturally inclined to head.

The plan was to lead the herds far enough away—at least twenty miles—from Camp Fox and then hide in a cove until they had all continued in their migration. We had no map of the river, so it would be all guesswork, and we were counting on Kurt’s experience to help navigate the river. We’d loaded up enough fuel to run for at least three days straight, but the plan was that we wouldn’t need much.

We used paddles to keep the boat close—but not too close—to the western bank, so that the zeds from the east would work their way across the bridge to the west. Without the engine, the music blared even louder. Wes had rigged up a second battery so we wouldn’t drain the primary one.

Jase stood up and shaded his eyes. “It looks like they’re all following. Even the ones way in back are moving. Cash, you were right. They’re just like lemmings.”

I leaned back on the white vinyl seat. Thank God. We’d been counting on the zeds sticking with their herd mentality. That once a critical mass moved, the rest would tag happily along. Zeds weren’t very bright, to say the least, and it wasn’t too hard to outthink them. Except what they lacked in brains, they made up for in numbers and ferocity.

Unfortunately, no matter how simple and foolproof the plan was, when you’re surrounded by a hundred thousand zeds, it just might not matter. Predictability can fly out the window. Griz and Jase relied on prayer to make the difference. The rest of us were relying on luck.

The current carried us faster than the herd walked so Kurt started the engine every thirty minutes or so to bring us back to the herd. It was a slow process. Two hours later, we were barely a mile south of the Aurora. At this rate, it would take us an entire day to get the herd out of the sight of the towboat and its barges, and a few days to get the herd back on their migratory path.