Deadland's Harvest (Deadland Saga, #2)(8)

I looked at Clutch to find him still gripping the windshield, his head lowered.

I went over and rubbed his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah.” He raised his head. Tension highlighted the wrinkles around his eyes. “Just got a bit bumpy back there.”

I’d thrown my back out once, and it had hurt like hell. I couldn’t imagine how dislocating it would feel. I gave him the gentlest of hugs. “Hang in there,” I said softly.

He leaned back with a wince and closed his eyes.

When Doyle’s Dogs attacked Camp Fox last summer, Clutch had been crushed in the stampede of fleeing survivors. Two vertebrae in his back had been dislocated, thankfully not broken as Doc had first guessed. Doc was doing the best he could do. It had to be tough to work in a world without x-rays and emergency rooms. A person couldn’t just snap vertebrae back into place like a dislocated shoulder. Doc had been very, very careful to align Clutch’s back. The backpack Clutch had been wearing was likely the only reason his back hadn’t been broken; it had served as a buffer between his body and the trampling herds. Even then, the swelling on his spine prevented us from knowing yet if it had been permanently damaged or if it was simply the swelling that had paralyzed him from the hips down.

While his back had been his most serious injury, Clutch had also gotten three cracked—or at least badly bruised—ribs, two fractured—or badly bruised—legs, and a broken left wrist. He’d also had a dislocated shoulder and a nasty concussion. Any one of those injuries would have taken him out of action for a bit, but the combination of injuries had left him unconscious for three days.

It was a miracle he hadn’t incurred any internal bleeding, deep cuts, or bites in the stampede. At the Camp Fox medical clinic, if someone couldn’t heal on his or her own, there was little hope. After the attack, Doc warned me that if Clutch didn’t wake in the first hours, he would likely never wake up due to the severity of his injuries. Doc didn’t know Clutch. The Clutch I knew was too hardheaded not to wake up.

Aside from some minor memory lapses and random muscle spasms, he was well on the road to recovery. Despite Doc’s pessimism, I knew Clutch would walk again because he could feel pain in his legs and wiggle his toes not long after he woke. He’d even been able to lift his legs a bit a couple days ago. It shouldn’t be much longer until the pressure was off his nerve endings enough that he’d regain control over his legs and be able to stand on his own. I only hoped he could stand soon because being held prisoner by his own body was taking its toll.

My greatest fear was that if Clutch didn’t have use of his legs, it would kill him. Well, he’d kill himself more likely. The idea of the strongest man I knew giving up terrified me. If he couldn’t make it, how did Jase or I have a chance?

Wes stopped by the Jeep, his gaze darting to the garage door. “As long as they don’t break down the door, I think we’ll be safe in here.”

I nodded before holding up my hand. “Sh. They’re coming.” It was the faintest sound of shuffling feet and low moans. It sounded almost like a flock of sheep passing through. Except sheep didn’t tear apart anything that breathed.

This was the sound that caused me to wake up in a cold sweat every night. The herd that had followed us from the survivors had caught up. We stood frozen as the sounds outside grew louder. I exhaled as shallowly as I could and leaned on the Jeep, waiting for the zeds to sniff us out. Please don’t find us, I prayed over and over.

If they found us, it wouldn’t take them long to break through the old door. Clutch’s eyes remained closed, and I couldn’t even tell he was breathing, let alone conscious, though I knew he was listening as intently as I was. Wes kept his rifle aimed at the door. The sounds grew louder. My nerves felt like they were about to detonate. My tense muscles ached.

Something brushed against the shop, and the air in my lungs froze. With no windows on that side of the building, the zeds couldn’t see inside. It also meant we couldn’t see if they were stopping to sniff around the shop or merely passing through in their quest to find us.



*



Hours passed as the zeds checked out the shop, brushing against the walls on all four sides. They’d lingered for some reason, but whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to work them into a frenzy. None pounded against the building. It seemed like they were more curious than anything.

And so we waited. My back ached from standing in one position. I sat on the ground as quietly as possible, knowing the smallest sound could draw attention. Wes had long since lowered his rifle and sat at a tool bench, but he still faced the door. I could tell by Clutch’s pale, pained expression that he needed to be lying down, but he didn’t dare move.

The sounds grew fainter until I could hear nothing but silence. Wes looked back and glanced from Clutch to me.

Wait, I mouthed. There’d be stragglers. There were always stragglers. Ones whose guttural wails would call the others back if they found us. And so we waited longer. I didn’t take even one step toward the door in case there were any zeds still out there. That they hadn’t sniffed us out meant that the various car and old oil smells in the shop had provided better cover than I’d anticipated. Or, the zeds’ senses were deteriorating right along with their bodies.

After a forced count to one thousand, I glanced at Wes and then crept toward the sliding shop door. When I reached it, I put my ear to the crack and heard nothing. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open an inch. The rollers squeaked, and I cringed. I peeked through the crack.