On the second platter lay a round loaf of bread and spring greens. “Mm, I missed bread,” I murmured and craved to dig in, but I didn’t trust Doyle. I watched him, and he smirked like he enjoyed having that kind of power over me. He took his time tearing off a chunk of bread and popped it into his mouth. After he swallowed, I pulled off a piece. As I took my first bite, I found Clutch watching me with a hint of a smile.
I savored the first taste of bread in two months. It had a heavy, whole-grain taste, making it easy to eat without any butter. I tore off a piece for him. “I like carbs.”
Before leaving, two of the women bowed to Doyle as though he was a god. There seemed to be a lot of that going on around here. I watched the two Dogs standing behind their leader, not eating. After swallowing, I turned to Doyle. “Why do you make your guys shave their heads?”
“It started as a matter of hygiene,” Doyle said while carving the ham. “It took me less than a week to start up the militia, but within two weeks, three men already had lice. Now, it’s become a badge of honor, and all new minutemen have their heads shaved before their training even begins.”
“But you didn’t shave your hair,” I said.
“No, I didn’t.” He took another bite.
As I chewed, I suspected their shaved heads had little to do with hygiene and everything to do with Doyle’s need for control. Not that I would ever say those words to his face, and I started to believe that Doyle had wanted Clutch to come to him all along.
Doyle handed plates to Tyler, who then passed them along to Griz and Tack.
“You keep this much extra food around?” Tyler asked.
“My men need to keep their strength up,” Doyle replied.
“No wonder why you’re going through rations at over twice the per capita rate at Camp Fox,” Tyler said. “Last week I let it slide because of the survivors you brought in. But, your ration list is even longer this week. Yet, you’ve brought no more survivors to the Camp in four days.”
“Just because we haven’t found any more survivors, doesn’t mean my men aren’t working hard.” Doyle handed a plate to Clutch, who then handed it to me.
I waited impatiently for Doyle to eat first. Could I trust the man enough to not poison us?
Hell, no.
“You need to start rationing better,” Tyler said. “Camp Fox doesn’t have enough supplies to keep this up. Our munitions are already under forty percent. With how many more zeds are projected to show up over the next few months, you need to conserve.”
Doyle handed a final plate to Clutch before taking one for himself. “Without supplies, we can’t clear out Fox Hills and make it habitable again.”
Tyler didn’t look happy. “I have three times as many men as you, yet you’re going through more supplies. You’re forcing my hand. I’m going to talk with Lendt about cutting your rations.”
Doyle gritted his teeth. “You don’t have the authority, Masden. Lendt runs the show, not you. And with Clutch joining up, we’re going to need more supplies so we can hit the zeds even harder.”
Clutch pounded a fist on the table “Godammit, Doyle. Get it through that thick skull of yours. I’m never hooking up with you and your crew of lowlifes.”
“I bet with the right persuasion, you would,” Doyle replied quietly.
Clutch looked at me. “Let’s go.” He came to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and headed straight for the door.
The scrape of silverware on plates turned to silence.
Still chewing, I jumped up, grabbed my rifle, and followed Clutch.
“Hold up.” Doyle shoved to his feet.
Clutch paused, his hand on the handle.
Doyle approached, his two Dogs alongside him. “Let me show you something.”
Tyler stood, throwing a worrisome glance in my direction. Griz and Tack didn’t look any happier.
Clutch stepped to the side, and Doyle walked outside, and we all followed him toward the northern edge of the camp. I kept eying Clutch, and I suspected that he knew, as I did, that Doyle’s attempt at pretenses had just vanished.
As we walked, the sickly sour reek of decay became more and more prevalent.
Clutch was scowling. “What is this about, Doyle?”