Clutch had his sword drawn, and I situated everything so I could hold out my machete. He peeked out the door, turned back to us, and nodded. “It looks good. Time to bug out. Watch yourselves out there.” He yanked open the door and we rushed forward. Several dogs eating outside the semicircle froze and ducked, as though expecting us to attack.
We didn’t. Clutch opened the Chevy’s door and shoved me in, coming in behind me. Griz and Marco jumped onto the bed. Jase, who’d refused to give up the keys, quickly hopped in and shut the door. As he started the engine, I twisted around to see men climb into the other vehicles. We’d planned who would ride in which vehicle earlier so everything would move smoothly.
But, rather than climbing in, the others were busy unloading five shopping carts. Cases of beer were thrown on the roof of the mini-van. I saw movement come from under the SUV.
“Watch out!” I yelled through the glass, but no one looked up.
“God damn it,” Clutch muttered. “Move, move!”
Jack didn’t notice the dog creeping out from under the green vehicle until it was too late. The dog—it reminded me of a black Lab—lunged and knocked Jack onto his back. He screamed out. Someone swung a bat, and the dog was knocked away with a yelp. It limped but came at Jack again. He was pulled inside, and the door slammed shut the instant the dog made its second attack into the door.
“Lead us out of here,” Clutch said, and Jase popped the truck into gear.
The vehicles were tight together, and it took Jase several turns before he was able to drive away. He winced every time the bumper hit the concrete wall or the minivan behind us. He gunned the engine but slowed down quickly to weave around the rapidly increasing number of dogs around us.
I kept watch behind us, to make sure both vehicles were following, and—more important—to make sure both Griz and Marco were safe. They had to be freezing out there, but they were both adamant about climbing on the truck rather than squeezing in the other vehicles to make the getaway faster. If only the others were as fast, Jack wouldn’t have been attacked.
I wondered how Jack was doing. If he was seriously injured. I was hoping the dog hadn’t bit through his clothes. If he caught rabies, there would be little anyone could do. Clutch thumbed the radio a couple times, but no one responded from the other two vehicles.
“They must not have their radios plugged in,” I said. “It won’t be too long before we can pull over and talk to them.”
He plugged the radio back into the lighter, and dropped the radio on the dash.
Jase picked up speed once we made it onto the interstate, but he kept it slow enough that Griz and Marco didn’t get knocked around too badly. Any dogs that followed drifted off, and soon we were leaving the skyline of a destroyed Omaha behind.
Griz and Marco were tucked low into the bed of the truck and snuggled together. I almost laughed until I realized how cold it must’ve been for them back there. I turned back to Clutch and Jase. “How much longer before we can stop? The guys will freeze back there.”
“Go ten more klicks before we slow down,” Clutch said. “That should be enough distance between us and the packs in the city.”
Jase cocked his head.
“Drive seven more miles,” Clutch added.
“Why didn’t you say so?” Jase said.
“I did,” Clutch answered.
They bantered for the full seven miles before Clutch pointed to an exit and overpass. “Take us up there.”
“Yes, sir,” Jase said with a hint of sarcasm.
He took the exit and came to a stop in the middle of the overpass. Clutch zipped his coat up, and I opened the door and slid out. From this vantage point, we could see for miles in every direction.
Griz and Marco climbed stiffly out of the back, and I could hear their teeth chatter from where I stood. I rubbed Griz’s arm. “Why don’t you guys sit in the truck for now? Warm up until we figure out who’s riding with whom.”
“Now, that is the best thing I’ve heard all day,” Griz said through chattering teeth.
Clutch walked around the overpass, his eyes shaded against the sun, and scanned the area around us. I watched the approaching vehicles. When the SUV stopped, I walked over and opened Jack’s door. He sat inside, grimacing, with boxes and bags piled on him and the others.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Dog got its teeth into my arm,” he said.
“Do you need stitches?” I asked.
“It’s not bad,” he said. “It barely broke the skin. Hurts worse than it looks.”
I sighed. “Well, let’s hope it didn’t have rabies.” I held out one of the first aid kits I’d picked up at the store.”
“I don’t need it,” he said. “I already cleaned it up.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
I turned away and saw Clutch pulling things out of the minivan. “C’mon, we need to be able to fit two more in here. And who the hell grabbed a baby seat?”
Clutch went to throw the big box, but Marco sprang from the truck. “That’s mine.” He grabbed the box from Clutch. “It’s for Deb.”
Clutch’s lips thinned. “Strap it to the roof or something. It takes up too damn much room.”
“Hey guys,” Griz said, and we turned around. He stepped from the truck and pointed down the road to the north. “Recognize anything?”
I searched the road but only saw a few derelict vehicles that were covered in ash and grime.
“Son of a bitch,” Clutch muttered. He jogged over to the truck and stood behind the hood, staring at something in that direction.
I pulled out my binoculars and ran toward him. I looked through them, moving across the landscape. “What do you see?”
“Let me see those,” he said and took my binoculars. He looked through them for a minute.
I stared in the same direction and then finally spotted it. “Holy shit. Are those our trucks?”
“Yeah,” he replied and handed me my binoculars.
In the distance, I could make out a church—St. Dominic’s according to the stone sign up front. Tucked nearly behind the church were, sure enough, our trucks. Their beds were still filled with supplies. We never would’ve seen them from the interstate; someone had hid them carefully. But, they hadn’t planned on us coming up on this overpass.
Clutch turned around to face the rest of our traveling companions. “Load up and regroup below this overpass. Let’s see about getting our trucks back.”
“But, it’s too dangerous,” Tom said.
I patted Tom’s shoulder. “Look at the bright side. You said you were disappointed not getting to go to church on Thanksgiving. Here’s your chance.”
Chapter XII
We moved in without waiting for the sun to set, figuring that if the thieves were halfway decent at surviving, they would’ve seen us long before we ever saw them.
Clutch was as hardheaded as they came, but he was also practical. We weren’t going after the thieves, only our four missing trucks. The thieves had carried no guns when they’d stolen our trucks, so Clutch figured they had no ammo. Still, the plan wasn’t without risk.
The plan was as simple and safe as we could make it: drive cautiously up to the trucks, check each truck for its keys, and drive off, all the while keeping an eye out for trouble. If the thieves tried anything, we were going to hightail it out of there.
Jase drove the Chevy. We’d emptied out the bed, leaving the drum of gas and extra supplies with the other vehicles under the overpass. Now, four men—Clutch, Griz, Marco, and Tom—rode in back, with each one going for a specific truck. I rode in back with them to look for any signs of trouble and to lay down cover fire if things turned messy.
I searched for movement as we approached the parking lot. Other than seeing some candles lit inside the church, I saw nothing. The parking lot was open, with few trees or shrubs to hide danger.
We didn’t
need
the trucks and supplies. We could find more of both, but finding supplies wasn’t easy or risk-free. The squadron had loaded all the canned food from the Costco into the trucks before they’d been stolen. To find as much food, we’d have to find another large store. Finding stores that hadn’t been destroyed, looted, or infested was like finding needles in haystacks. Simply put, going after these trucks was safer than the alternative.
More important, it was a matter of honor.
Jase pulled in slowly, the engine a notch above idle. That I saw no one worried me. They had to have seen us or at least heard the truck. Noise carried more now without the constant hum of traffic, jets, television, and phones. My ears had become more sensitive to sound in the past several months.
Still, the only sound I could hear was Jase’s truck. The only movement I could see was us. As soon as I started to wonder if the thieves weren’t around, I noticed a figure move within the church. I homed in my scope to count six people inside the glass doors, watching us.
“We have at least a half dozen people inside the church,” I announced. “They’re standing inside the entrance.”
“I have them,” Clutch said, soon echoed by Griz and Marco.
“None have rifles. I see only spears and blunt weapons,” Griz said. “These don’t look like high-risk bandits. But, keep your eyes peeled for any of their friends.”
It was hard not to stare at the people staring right back at us, but I forced myself to scan the bushes and under the trucks for snipers.
Jase slammed on the brakes, and I nearly went flying over the roof.
“There are nails all over the ground,” Jase yelled. “They could pop my tires.”
I looked forward to see the concrete glistening with metal. They were trying to cripple us, to either send us limping off, scared, or to chase us down and finish us off on the road. Worse, I didn’t know how we could possibly make it far with the trucks since there was a field of nails between them and the road.
Clutch tapped the roof of the truck. “Stay here, Jase, but be ready to hit reverse and haul ass out of here if I give the call.”
He set down his sword, stood in the truck, and faced the church. “We’ve come for our trucks. You stole items that didn’t belong to you, and we’re taking it back. No one has to get hurt. Don’t show any aggression, and we’ll take our trucks and be on our way. You can have everything else in the store. I’ll give you ten seconds to respond. ”
On the other side of the glass door, the figures moved, and I could hear a murmur of voices talking over one another. After a moment, the door opened, and an older man stepped outside, though he was quickly flanked by a young man wearing a gray SMSU sweatshirt and gripping a bat. Since he had the weapon, I narrowed my scope onto his chest. In small letters, above and below the acronym, his shirt read
Southwest Minnesota State University
, and I frowned.
It couldn’t be possible. I’d been there. After the herds passed through.
The older man spoke. “We meant no ill will, but what you took from the store belongs to no one and everyone. You claimed it because it sat on shelves. We claimed it because it sat on the beds of trucks. There’s no difference.”
“Like hell there’s no difference,” Clutch said. “We laid claim the moment we sweat on that cargo. We’d earned it, fair and square.”
“Clutch,” I said to his back, and he cocked his head slightly to show he was listening. “These guys might be from Marshall.”
Clutch stiffened. “How do you know?”
“Look. The kid’s sweatshirt,” I replied. “SMSU.”
The older man began to say something, but Clutch cut him off. “Where are you from?”
The man frowned. “Why does that matter? Regardless of where we’re each from, we all have rights to what’s in that store.”
“Where’d the kid get that sweatshirt?” Clutch countered. “Are you bandits? Did he take it off another survivor?”
The younger man visibly bristled. “It’s my shirt. I’m a freshman at SMSU. We ain’t bandits, you son of—”
“’Aren’t,’ Nathan,” the older man said, placing a hand on the student’s shoulder. “We
aren’t
bandits.” Then, he turned back to us. “I’m Professor Dominic Caler. I served on the faculty at SMSU. Nathan here was one of my students. Southwest Minnesota State University is a small university in Marshall, Minnesota.”
“I know exactly where it is,” Clutch said. “I was there after the herds passed through.”
The man stood straighter. “
After
the herds, you say? Did you find survivors?”
Clutch shook his head. “No. We went there to look for survivors, but the herds hit it pretty hard.”
The professor’s eyes narrowed. “Now it’s my turn to ask if you’re bandits. Why else would you travel so far north unless you’d heard of a group of survivors to raid?”
“We’re not bandits. A few of us are from Fox Park,” Clutch said as though it would mean anything to the professor. “You happen to know a guy named Manny? About this tall?” He leveled his hand at his shoulder.
“Yes, I’m familiar with him.”
“Manny had a small group with him. They had gone out looking for supplies when the herds hit and couldn’t get back to their families at Marshall. They went south to stay ahead of the herds and joined up with our camp.”
“I spoke with Manny’s people during the first few hours. Many of them had family stuck in Marshall. They would’ve gone back for them.”
“We had a pilot at the camp,” Clutch said, referring to me. “She flew a few of us, including one of Manny’s guys, to Marshall. But, when we got there, all we found was infected.”
The professor’s lips pursed. “We were last there about a month ago. It took us awhile to move around the herds and make it back, but we made it. When we saw the community center had been opened up, I’d hoped everyone had come out and connected with other survivors, but we haven’t been able to track any of them down yet. We’re still looking. We’d only planned to stop here to recuperate and restock for a week before heading back out again.”
“Where’s Manny now?” the professor asked.
I swallowed.
Clutch shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry to give you the bad news, Professor. We had a bad run in with some bandits. They took down nearly our entire group, including Manny and all of his people.”
“That is bad news, indeed,” the professor said. “And that sort of news seems to be all we hear nowadays.”