Clutch’s words evidently sunk in because Tyler seemed to accept them and turned away.
Inside the fence wasn’t any more pleasant than outside. I counted twenty armed men in the camp. No telling how many more were either hidden behind doors or out looting the countryside. I looked at Tyler. “How many Dogs did you say there were?”
“Eighteen,” he replied quietly.
Which would’ve made sixteen after their latest garbage drop-off today. “Looks like Doyle’s been adding to his ranks.”
“Yeah,” Tyler replied, sounding none too pleased.
Doyle stepped in front of the Humvee, and Nick brought us to a stop. The gate behind us closed with a loud clank, locking us inside the camp, which appropriately, felt like a prison.
“They’ve got quite the setup here,” I noted, and Clutch nodded, not looking any happier than I felt.
Second-guessing Clutch’s idea to gain intel on the militia, I stole a glance at him when he reached for the door. He had on his “hard” look, making it impossible to see any emotion except badassness. “Stay with me,” he repeated his words from earlier as he opened the door, grabbed his pack, and climbed out.
Rather than opening the door next to me—and closest to the leering Weasel—I slid across the seat and followed Clutch.
“Seen enough yet?” I whispered.
“I don’t know what Doyle’s endgame is yet,” he replied just as softly.
Nick remained with the vehicle, while Griz and Tack got out to stand next to Tyler.
“Leave your gear in the Humvee,” Doyle said as he walked toward us. “You’re safe within these walls. You won’t need guns here.”
“No,” Clutch said simply, adamantly.
Doyle looked at me.
I gripped my rifle harder.
“As long as there are zeds, they can keep their weapons,” Tyler said. “That’s an order.”
After a guffaw, Doyle relented with a brush of his hand. “Have it your way. Keep them, but you won’t need them. You’re under my protection here.”
I didn’t exactly feel safe under Doyle’s “protection,” and from the look on both Clutch and Tyler’s faces, they felt the same.
“While we’re here, you can also brief me,” Tyler said. “I’ve told you this before: I’ve got concerns about how many rations you’ve been going through lately. And you have no authority to grow your numbers, not without Lendt’s approval.”
Doyle grunted and turned, leading our group through the militia camp. Three rundown grain silos towered into the sky. A line of smoke trailed out from the dome of one. A faded Iowa Hawkeye logo was painted across one silo. A large white cross was painted on the side of a long tin building with writing and graffiti all along its side. Overgrown grass and dandelions cropped up everywhere not covered by gravel. People milled about, including even a few children.
Woodsy smoke corrupted the fresh spring breeze. As we passed a small fire with a turkey fryer filled with boiling water, I asked, “What are all the camp fires for?”
“Cooking. Purifying water,” Doyle replied. “Our generators aren’t big enough to power the entire camp, so anything we can do the old fashioned way, we do. Besides, the smoke also helps keep the smell down.”
“Not worried about smoke or the smell of smoke attracting zeds?” I countered, knowing that we only cooked at night to mask the visibility of smoke.
Doyle smiled. “I say, let ’em come.”
As we moved into the shadows of the silos, I noticed two young women stirring a pot on a fire. The scraping of metal against metal overpowered the crackling wood. As we walked past, one of the women jerked up, revealing a black eye. Utter despair radiated through her swollen, red eyes. She quickly looked away, focusing all too intently on the pot.
My jaw tightened. “Tell me, Doyle. How many folks are here by their own free will?”