Then he grabbed my uninjured hand and rested his forehead against it.
I rubbed his thumb. “It’ll be okay.” And I meant it. I knew that as long as Clutch was with me, everything would be fine.
He chuckled drily, the sound devoid of humor. “We’ve got no weapons, no food, no shelter. Doyle crippled us with one easy blow. Jase is at Camp Fox. And Masden made it clear that if we go after Doyle, we’re attacking Camp Fox.”
“Doyle’s no longer with Camp Fox,” I said. “He zed-bombed them a few hours after we were separated.”
“Jesus.” Clutch’s muscles tensed under me. “So that’s where the Dogs went.”
“I guess Doyle saw a shot and took it.”
“Were you there?” he asked quietly.
I nodded and laid my head on his shoulder. “They lost one of their barracks along with several troops in the attack.” I thought of Nick. “They lost some good folks.”
“The Camp will be better prepared against Doyle next time.”
“You sure there will be a next time?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, his voice low. “Doyle has a hard view on how to survive, and he assumes everyone will see that he’s right.” He chuckled. “He actually believed I’d willingly join his Dogs. Doesn’t matter now. The only good thing is that Doyle will no longer get support from Camp Fox. I bet Lendt’s guys are keeping the Dogs running as we speak. That should distract Doyle enough until we can secure a new location. We’ll scout out places in the morning. How are we on weapons?”
“I’ve got a Beretta with nine rounds, a baseball bat, and two knives. And whatever else you have.”
“It’s not enough,” he said.
“It’ll be enough,” I said, snuggling closer. I wasn’t worried. I had Clutch back. I knew everything would be okay, and I found myself falling soundly asleep, safe in his arms.
****
I woke up with my entire body stiff from lying on hard, damp concrete. Being underground, I had no idea what time it was. I could’ve been asleep for only an hour or ten hours. I’d slept soundly, except for when Clutch’s nightmares began, and I’d held onto him until he fell back into a more peaceful sleep.
Unfortunately, PTSD isn’t curable. It’s a way of life.
Clutch was already awake and heating something in a tin can. When he noticed I was awake, he tossed me a Gatorade. I caught it with my injured hand and winced. He then handed me a metal spork and a tin can wrapped with a towel.
I yawned. “What time is it?”
Clutch put another can on the tiny stove and glanced at his watch. “Five-forty. It should still be dark enough to take out the Dogs that are topside before they see us.”
After we ate our refried beans, Clutch rummaged through the shelves and pulled out a shotgun that had been vacuum-sealed in plastic. He loaded several shells into it. “I go first. If there’s more than two, we’ll wait them out. You stay by the shed and take out any Dogs who try to get away.”
I checked the Beretta and grabbed the baseball bat. “Ready.”
Clutch slung the shotgun over his shoulder and climbed the ladder. At the top, he slowly unlocked and opened the door a couple inches. No light came in. After a long moment, he held up a single finger and pointed to my right.
Only one Dog? Could we get that lucky?
I followed up the ladder and outside. The cool, damp morning breeze swept away any lingering sleepiness as I crawled behind a pile of tin while Clutch moved toward a four-by-four truck sitting in the drive. The Dog was sitting in his truck, facing away from us and watching the driveway.
It was too easy. Clutch snuck up behind the truck and had the shotgun leveled point blank through the open window before the Dog even noticed.
“Hands on your head,” Clutch ordered.
The Dog obeyed instantly. Clutch opened the truck door and stepped to the side. “Out of the truck and on your knees.”
“Don’t shoot!” the scrawny teen cried as he fell from the truck and onto his knees. An AR-15 tumbled harmlessly off his lap.