“Everyone is given a choice when they arrive,” he replied without turning. “They can choose to abide by my rules and stay here or go it alone outside the walls.”
“But only the minutemen and their families stay here,” Tyler added, while watching the young woman. “The militia has strict orders to bring all other survivors to Camp Fox.”
“Of course,” Doyle replied. “And others have chosen to stay to support the militia.”
Glancing back at the young woman, I doubted Doyle’s words. If Clutch hadn’t been with me that day at the greenhouse, I suspected I’d be in her situation now: trapped. I found both Tyler and Clutch stopped, still eying the woman, before glancing at one another. Whatever passed between them, I couldn’t see, but they both started to follow Doyle again.
The gravel crunched under my feet as Doyle led us alongside a long warehouse. The words “Gone but not forgotten” were painted on the faded wood siding under the white cross, with dozens of names painted around it.
Many names were separated into smaller groupings, each under a different last name. Lynn, Wahl, Hogan … the names went on and on, and I realized that while I didn’t trust the Dogs, many of them had suffered as much, if not more, than I had.
At the end of the building, Doyle opened a door and gestured, “Welcome to my office and my home.”
Tyler stepped inside, followed by his men. Clutch waited for me, his hard expression impossible to read. Just as I was about to step through the door, I heard a wretched cry. Pausing, I turned to the smallest of the silos. Then another cry, louder, almost forlorn, and I could make out a single syllable in its whimper. Please.
I shot a glance at Clutch before looking to Doyle. “I didn’t realize zeds cried.”
His lips curled upward. “Didn’t you, now.”
He turned and disappeared inside, and I stared at Clutch, frozen.
Because we both knew that zeds didn’t cry.
Chapter X
Clutch stepped through the doorway. “What the fuck is going on inside that silo?”
“It’s our smokehouse,” Doyle replied calmly.
“Not that one,” Tyler said. “I heard it, too. It sounded like a person in the middle silo.”
Doyle lifted his hands. “It’s not what you think, gentlemen. Any survivor who wants to join the militia must go through survival training. I need to know that every man on my team will obey me, no matter what the order. No man becomes a minuteman until every man on my team knows he can count on him with his life. What’s going on within that silo is nothing more than a hazing ritual every man undergoes when he’s ready to take on the title of ‘minuteman’.”
“Then show us,” Clutch demanded.
Doyle smiled smugly. “I’d be happy to, but first, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
No one moved.
“You have my word,” Doyle added. “Now, come and have a seat. I’ve asked for some leftovers to be brought in for us.” Doyle motioned us to a table. The room, with one large bay window, offered a generous view of much of the camp. In the corner sat a large wood desk covered in stacks of papers and books.
We moved cautiously inside.
Doyle laughed silently, as though he found something funny. “You know, Clutch, most folks wouldn’t have the balls to rob me like you did.”
“I figured your store was fair game,” Clutch replied. “How was I to know you survived the outbreak?”
Doyle held up a hand. “Fair enough. But you killed five of my men. You’re lucky I didn’t repay kind with kind.”
“Seven. The two men you sent today are dead,” Tyler said, and Doyle’s face tightened. Tyler continued. “While their deaths are tragic, I’m not arresting anyone. Attacking civilians stops now, Doyle. If anything like this happens again, I’m putting you in the brig and having your militia reassigned to Camp Fox.”