100 Days in Deadland (part 1 of the Deadland Saga)

Wrath (Chapter 8)

WRATH: The Fifth Circle of Hell

Chapter VIII

Two weeks later

Jase slammed his machete through the forehead of the first zed, while I split the skull of the second one right down the middle. I stood back and let Jase take down the third, wielding his machete like a broadsword.

“I’m getting sick of Doyle’s Dogs throwing zeds at us,” he muttered as he wiped his blade on the grass.

For the past three days, a garbage truck had driven down this road and dumped hungry zeds over the gate. On the first day, they dropped one. The next day it was two. Today, they were up to three. Tomorrow, it’d be four.

Eventually, it’d be a truckload.

They were toying with us, plain and simple. With every assault, they were saying, surrender or we’ll kill you.

“C’mon. They’re giving us practice,” I said, tugging a dead zed to the ditch. “What else is there to do on a Friday night besides killing zeds?”

Jase paused while dragging another zed and cocked his head. “Is it Friday?”

I shrugged. “No idea. Doesn’t matter, I guess. We should be heading in for the night.”

“Yeah. The fabulous dinner I made is getting cold,” he said with a sly grin.

I looked down the road where the green garbage truck disappeared in the distance. After today’s dump, the truck sported several new bullet holes, courtesy of Clutch, who was just coming down from his sniper’s nest in the tree. But the bullet holes weren’t enough. We needed to disable that damn truck. And soon.

Clutch checked his Blaser. “I should’ve taken care of those Dogs back at the greenhouse. Then they wouldn’t have known about this place.”

I didn’t need to voice my agreement. Clutch was right. If we’d killed Sean and his buddies—without getting ourselves killed in the process—we could go about our business and no one would be the wiser. For the past few days, Clutch had been beating himself up about letting Sean get away and outing our location.

But it wasn’t his fault any more than it was mine. They’d caught us off guard and now we were dealing with the repercussions.

We headed back to the Jeep. It had taken the guys two full days, but they had the Dogs’ Rubicon running again. Jase had even added his own brand of style by painting “Zom-B-Gone” across the back.

The Jeep could get through anything the truck could, but it was smaller and faster to get in and out of, unlike the efficient Prius, which the guys bitched about every time they climbed in. And so the Jeep had joined Jase’s motorcycle as a scouting vehicle around the farm.

Jase claimed driving rights and I snagged the passenger seat, leaving Clutch to hop in the back. When Jase gunned the engine, I grabbed onto the windshield. “Do you even have a driver’s license?”

“Of course,” Jase replied indignantly, and then shrugged. “Well, basically. I’ve got a school permit. But I’ve been driving tractors for most my life.”

I would’ve snapped back a witty remark, but my stomach growled. “What’s for dinner tonight, Jase? I hope it’s take-out from Pizza Hut. I could really go for a Cheese Lover’s with extra cheese.”

“I’d take Red Lobster,” Clutch added. “All-you-can-eat shrimp.”

“It’s better,” Jase said. “Tonight you get my specialty: Spam and rice.”