“Ready.”
We headed to the stack of boxes. “You carry, I watch,” I said.
Clutch lifted two boxes and grunted. “Did you have to pack them so full?”
I patted his shoulder. “Just doing my part to help you stay in shape.” With the shotgun in one hand, I propped open the door with a brick. After a quick sweep of the area between us and the truck, I motioned Clutch forward. “Clear.”
He carried the boxes outside, and I stayed close, constantly scanning a full three-sixty around us. Afternoon shadows of tall trees danced like taunting spirits across the tombstones in the quaint cemetery on the other side of the church.
I opened the back of the truck, Clutch slid the boxes onto the bed, and we headed back for more boxes. We were getting efficient at looting, but we both knew that there’d be nothing left to loot in another year. We’d deal with that problem a year from now.
On the third load, I came to a hard stop.
“Aw, hell.” In one smooth move, Clutch set down the boxes and swung his shotgun around.
Parked next to our truck was a Humvee.
Don’t let it be Dogs. Don’t let it be Dogs. I treaded cautiously toward it, careful to keep the truck between us and them.
As I neared the vehicle, I let out a breath as Griz stepped out from the driver’s seat and waved while still speaking into the handheld radio. Tack emerged from the other side of the Humvee. He casually gripped a rifle, looking none too bothered that we had two shotguns aimed at them.
When Griz put down the radio, I lowered my weapon. “What brings you boys all the way out here?”
“Standard recon,” Griz replied. “Damn, I never expected to run across the pair of you. That teaches me for betting against Tack.”
I lifted a brow.
Griz busted out a wide grin. “The odds were twenty to one that you two were zeds. Tack was the only one to bet on both of you.”
Tack gave a nod.
“Thanks.” I lifted a brow. “I think.”
“So everyone thinks we’re dead?” Clutch asked by my side.
“Everyone at Fox, anyway,” Griz replied. “With the exception of Tack, me, and now Captain Masden.”
Ah, so that was whom he’d been talking to on the radio.
Griz, joined by Tack, headed our way. Griz whistled at the church. “Gutsy move to clear out a church. We’ve learned to keep our distance from churches. They’re right up there with grocery stores and police stations as being zed hubs.”
“Beggars can’t be choosy,” I said.
Griz nodded to the boxes. “Here, we can help.”
“We’re good,” Clutch said, grabbing the boxes.
Griz held out his hands. “We’re not trying to take what you’ve rightfully stolen.”
“Recon, you say? You guys still out looking for survivors?” I asked.
“Some, but our focus has shifted more to tracking down Doyle. His guys are still a pain in the ass.”
My muscles tightened as I watched Clutch for any sign of emotion. I knew he’d never forgive himself for killing that woman. Not that Doyle would be any less forgiving if he found out Clutch was still alive.
“Lendt hasn’t taken care of him yet?” Clutch asked.
Griz frowned and shook his head. “We busted into Doyle’s camp and caught several of his men and freed some of his ‘indentured servants’.”
I cocked my head. “Indentured servants?”
“That’s what Doyle told them,” Griz said. “Doyle convinced them that Camp Fox wasn’t safe. So, for food and shelter, they had to sign contracts to service the militia for seven years. Lendt figured his attack on Camp Fox was as much to convince people that with him was the only safe place.”
My jaw dropped. “Holy. Shit.”
“But he’s surprisingly wily for his age,” Griz added. “His guys have gone guerrilla on our patrols, but there have been no more attacks on the Camp, so we know we’ve got him on the run.”