“The fuel tank at the Fox Hills airport is nearly empty,” I replied. “I can get two, maybe three, more refills for the portable tank from it. Jase has marked every airport in the area that might have av-gas, but if I have to travel farther for refills, I need a bigger portable tank. A gas truck would be perfect.”
Tyler chuckled. “Easier said than done. Every gas truck we’ve found is needed for ground support in case Camp Fox needs to become mobile. We can’t sacrifice a single truck right now.”
“I guess I’ll start searching for a plane that runs off auto fuel.”
His eyebrows rose. “There are planes that run off regular gas?”
I nodded. “Quite a few, actually. There weren’t any at the Fox Hills airport, but I’m sure there’s one at a nearby airport.”
“Hey, it looks like a grass strip down there,” Jase said.
I scanned from side to side and found a yellow crop duster sitting in tall grass. A single building and white tank sat near it.
“That’s a good one. Be sure to mark it on the map.”
“Already got it,” he said. “There’s no town for miles. The land is wide open. Might make a good fuel stop on the way back.”
“The grass is awfully tall, but yeah, it could be perfect.”
We flew in silence for the next several miles. I kept an eye on my flight path while Jase and Tyler scanned the countryside.
“That looks like a camp down there,” Tyler said, his finger pressed against the glass.
“It could be a bandit camp,” Jase said. “I don’t see any kids down there.”
“I’d rather warn bandits than not warn good people,” Tyler countered.
I slowed the Cessna and descended a hundred feet. Finding survivors was rare, but they were easy to spot. All we had to look for was signs of fortifications, and nearly every camp we’d found was at a farm.
“Can you get any closer?” Tyler asked, ruffling through a duffle.
I smirked. “Afraid gravity won’t catch the bag?”
“No, but it’d be nice to actually drop it within their fence.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from gritting my teeth. I’d grown an aversion to flying over camps. Every time I did, it brought back memories of Doyle’s camp and getting shot at, even though I suspected most folks were out of ammo by now. With one hand wrapped too tightly around the yoke, I dropped in some flaps, slowed the 172 to near stall speed and brought it in to circle the settlement. A half-dozen or so people came to stand outside, looking up, and shading their eyes against the sun.
The engine began to rumble roughly, and my heart lurched. I added in power. “Damn engine is getting worse. We’ve really got to get it fixed,” I muttered.
Tyler opened the window. Cool air blew into the cockpit, and he dropped out the hazard-orange painted bag filled with dirt and a single written warning about the herds heading south. He pulled the window shut and I turned back on course.
“Thanks,” Tyler said. “Any time we can warn others about the herds is potentially another life saved.”
Tyler had brought three more drop-bags, but we didn’t use them. We’d flown over what had definitely been a camp, but it looked like it had been abandoned or overrun some time ago. I often saw signs of abandoned camps, but I hadn’t seen a new camp pop up in over a month. Maybe people were moving west where the government was supposedly pooling all resources into building new “city-states” defensible against zeds.
The rumored city-states gave us all hope, but they were too far away to be considered a possibility yet. The largest rumored city was in Montana, with three states of zeds between us and them. Until we had better vehicles, the trip was too risky. We had to survive on our own in zed country.
Mid-sized groups did the best out here. Too small of a group, resources were spread too thin between fending off zeds and finding food. Too large of a group and it became a magnet for every zed in the vicinity. Camp Fox, just crossing sixty residents if the newcomers stayed, was going to become quite tempting to zeds.