“It seems odd to have a surplus warehouse in the middle of farm country,” I said while Clutch rolled down his window.
“Camp Fox is only five miles straight east of here,” Tyler said. “This place is owned by a retired farmer, Dale Doyle. He had a connection with some brass at Fox a while back, and he worked out a deal to buy surplus at a hefty discount. It was right about the time they built the new farmer’s co-op on the other side of town, so he bought this place at a rock bottom price.”
“And it looks like the deal has already been sweetened,” Clutch muttered, nodding toward the two armored vehicles sitting at the gate. “How many M1117’s did you guys hand over to Doyle?”
“They needed lead-in trucks for survivor runs,” Tyler replied quietly.
“Christ, Captain,” Clutch said. “You’re handing Doyle everything he needs to take over the Camp.”
“Watch your tone, sergeant. The militia has been instrumental in clearing zeds from the area and locating survivors. Doyle may have one hell of a temper and a superiority complex, but he’s turned farmers and kids into a militia that gets results.”
The Humvee slowed to a stop at the gate.
Guard towers stood behind the fence, one on each side of the gate. A man in each tower had his rifle aimed at us. Two more men—one of them Sean—with automatic rifles stepped through a small door next to the gate.
Sean saw Clutch and visibly tensed. After a moment’s hesitation, he warily walked up to Tyler’s window, while the other man stood back several feet with his rifle leveled on the Humvee.
Sean nodded toward us in the backseat. “What are they doing here, Captain?”
Tyler rested his arm on his door. “Open the gate, Sean. I’m here to see Doyle.”
Sean pursed his lips, clutching an AR-15 that matched the rifles Tyler’s team carried. “I’m afraid I can’t, sir.” He nodded in Clutch’s direction. “I can’t let in any unauthorized people. Not until I clear it with Doyle.”
“It’s not the reserve militia’s place to turn back any citizen,” Tyler gritted out.
“Doyle’s orders,” Sean replied.
“I have the authority here, Private,” Tyler snapped. “Open the damn gate!”
The man behind Sean lifted his rifle. “You assholes from Camp Fox don’t tell us what to do. That bastard killed our friends!” His wild-eyes homed in on Clutch at the same time he aimed his rifle.
I sucked in a breath. Pulled up my rifle. Clutch was in the way. I couldn’t get a clear shot.
“Fuck this,” Clutch muttered as he lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger.
ARROGANCE
The Sixth Circle of Hell
Chapter IX
The Dog yelped, dropped his rifle, and cradled his hand to his chest.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Tyler yelled, jumping out from the front seat.
I waited for the Dogs to gun us down, but they never did. Clutch sat, unmoving, next to me, with his Blaser leveled on the whimpering Dog.
"Beware the man with only one gun, because he knows how to use it. Ain’t that right, Clutch,” an older man with a voice that sounded like he’d smoked a pack a day for forty years straight said as he emerged from the door at the gate.
“Doyle,” Clutch muttered under his breath.
I frowned. This was Doyle?
This man could have been anyone’s grandfather. He was tall and slim, with a casual swagger in his step. His cap and sunglasses hid many features, though weathered skin and tufts of white hair curling out from his cap hinted at an advanced age.
Nevertheless, I held my breath as he picked the rifle off the ground and handed it back to the whimpering man who now sported a bullet hole through his hand. Tyler stood between the Humvee and Doyle, as though protecting us.
“At ease, men,” Doyle said. “We don’t turn folks away. Especially one of our own.”
“But, Doyle,” Sean said with a frown, not lowering his rifle from Clutch and me. “You said—”
“But, nuthin’,” Doyle interrupted. He motioned to one of the guard boxes above the fence. “Open up.”