Purgatory (Chapter 3)

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Wes was already out of the Jeep, searching for zeds around the car and behind toolboxes. With nothing looking or smelling out of place, I'd already figured the place was clean. Zeds were a messy, stinky bunch with no talent for stealth.

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.

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