Finally, the seatbelt relented, and Jimmy sprawled to the pavement. He locked his dead fingers around David’s ankle. David brought his boot heel down on Jimmy’s wrist. More cracking. Jimmy’s grip weakened, but still held. David stomped again, and covered his mouth. He wanted to retch.
He brought his leg up hard, like he was kneeing God in the groin, and pulled free of the shuffler’s grasp. Twilight teased him, the narrow stretch of road transforming into something out of a horror movie. The trees lost definition, became one continuous shadowy mass. The two shufflers were only seconds away, but he could see less of them now than he could before.
His heart kicked his sternum hard, reminding him that he needed to grab the bag out of the car. Otherwise, the whole trip was for naught.
The air stank of something dead and dying. Jimmy writhed in the middle of the narrow highway, either unsure how or unable to get back to his feet.
David acted without thought. He launched forward. He was the bowling ball, the two shufflers the bowling pins. He got a strike. They went down; two sickening thuds caressed the soured air.
He slid back down into the ditch, windmilling his arms for balance before diving half-way into the car to retrieve the bag containing Jessica’s medication. He didn’t bother with the walkie. Or with closing the door.
After scrambling back up the short hill, he rounded the dually and pulled himself into the driver seat. It was surprisingly cool, not warm like someone had occupied it only moments before. It gave David the chills, this fact, and served only to reaffirm the reality of this nightmare. He shook, almost like a convulsion, and pulled the door shut. More shakes and shivers, more chills pricking his arms. A salty tidal wave crashed over his stubbled cheeks and he slumped in the seat.
* * *
David wasn’t sure how many minutes had slipped away. He just knew that he could no longer see—the sliver of moon insufficient for sight, blurred by unexpected and unwanted tears. He strained to hear. It was barely audible, the hissing, rasping. His heart hammered away at his ribs again, a new surge of adrenaline about to launch him into action like nitrous rocketing a race car down the track.
He wiped his eyes, mad at his emotions.
Jessica. Got to get back.
He breathed deep, exhaling through circled lips, trying to calm himself. He wanted to be careful, to not make stupid mistakes. Like getting stuck. Stranded. Hurt. Killed.
He pinched the key already in the ignition.
Please, please, please, please …
He feared Jimmy had died while the truck was still running, burning all the fuel and draining the battery. The chimes and dome light from earlier gave him hope, though.
David twisted the key. The dash lit up.
Good, good, good …
He twisted another click. Nothing.
Shit, shit, shit, shit …
He turned the key again. Not a sound.
He sighed a heavy sigh of defeat.
Another turn of the key yielded the same.
He slammed his fists into the steering wheel. Then, his mistake bitch-slapped him like a pissed-off pimp.
You idiot.
He pressed the clutch and wiggled the stick shift.
Please, please, please …
The truck roared to life with the twist of the key.
Fucking clutch. Thank you, thank you, thank you …
He scratched into first gear, jerking the tricked-out truck forward. It died. Jamming the clutch and spinning the key brought it right back to life. He played out the pedal, finding the friction zone, and the truck lurched forward. He managed to avoid running over Jimmy and the other two shufflers, leaving them to writhe, undead speed bumps for the next hapless traveler.
Shifting into second, the dually growled loudly. He jammed the stick into third, the Dodge heaving up the hill. It made an angry racket, Jimmy’s baby did. David wasn’t sure what kind of exhaust system Jimmy had finally decided on, but he was sure that the guy wanted everyone for miles around to know he was coming. Or going.
He lowered the window. While he couldn’t see the black smoke billowing out of the dual diesel smoke stacks, he could sure smell it. Mixing with the aroma of death made for an unappetizing olfactory cocktail.
To avoid distraction, he left the radio off. It was pointless to leave it on, anyway. He hadn’t heard a voice—or the ‘Z’ word—on the airwaves for well over a week. Besides, people were counting on him, and he needed to give the remaining few miles his undivided attention. Well, Jessica was counting on him. A crucial conversation awaited Mitch. Things would be changing.
He flipped on the brights, then found a switch for fog lamps. He lit those, too, and the road gleamed like daytime. The Dodge barreled down the skinny highway, puffing an inky cloud, roaring a mighty roar. It sounded like a truck twice its size.
Shadows whizzed by, playing tricks, fooling David into thinking he saw things he didn’t. Almost home, he slowed, downshifting the growling diesel. He nearly passed the turnoff, as he always did. Shrouded by bushes and trees, anyone not looking for it would zip right past it, even at slow speeds. David believed this was partly why they had been safe for so long.
He swung the truck wide and onto the dirt road. About a half-mile to go. He ground gears again, not quite in tune with the rhythm of the clutch and stick. The engine bellowed as tires grabbed the dirt and grass and rock. The tiny road morphed into two dusty strips, signaling he’d reached the pocked and pitted driveway. The Dodge bounced its way along, limbs and brush closing in and scratching the sides like fingernails on a chalk board. David gritted his teeth at the sound. He’d rather deal with the stink of death than that infernal sound.
Finally, he reached the end and killed the engine, bringing peace and quiet back to this secluded spot.
The fog lights still shone bright, lighting up the trailer house. David spotted Mitch on the narrow porch. Undoubtedly blinded by the brilliance, Mitch welcomed him by pointing a rifle directly at the truck.
David rocked the switch for the lamps, dousing them, then hopped out on unsteady legs, his palms to the dark and starry sky. He rounded the front of the truck.
“Mitch, it’s me, David.”
Mitch continued sighting the gun at the truck. He swayed. Then fired.
David dropped to his belly, the gunshot ringing fresh in his ears. Weeds and grass tickled his nose and ears, but he dared not rise. Still lying face down, he yelled, “What the fuck, Mitch?” He started patting himself, feeling for a wound, for blood.
Another gunshot. David covered his head. And then he heard a thump.
“Goddamn it, David,” Mitch said, stumbling down the stairs, rifle barrel perched backward on his shoulder.
David chanced a glance, saw Mitch walking to the bed of the truck. Deciding the bullets were not meant for him, he pushed to his feet, legs even more shaky than before. He sidled up to Mitch, then understood.
“Ya gotta bring these fuckers back with you, man?” Mitch turned his head and spat a wad of chewing tobacco, and alcohol sullied the air.
David rubbed his still simmering neck. There, slumped over the truck’s bed railing, was Angela. Or what had once been Angela.
In the bed. She was in the bed. Should have checked the fucking bed.
Now that he thought about it, he had also forgotten to check the backseat. He was lucky tonight. Very lucky.
Mitch hoisted the rifle with one hand, pointed toward the woods. Slightly slurring, he said, “Heard you coming a mile away. What are you trying to do? Give away our location to every goddamn zombie in Texas?”
David cringed. The ‘Z’ word. Mitch just used the fucking ‘Z’ word.
“Mitch, don’t say—”
“Right. I forgot. You don’t like it when anyone says, ‘zombie.’” He shook his head, launched another glistening brown wad over his lips, then climbed the porch steps. “Zombie, zombie, zombie, zombie. Jesus Christ. Give me a fucking break.” He slung the screen door open, stepping through before
letting it slam against the door jamb.
Hand cupped on his neck, David stared at Angela, stewing over his own carelessness despite his avid vigilance.
* * *
Inside, the trailer house reeked of weed and booze and sweat. And it was hot, stuffy, and near unbearable. David took several deep breaths, calming himself, holding his temper. He half expected a contact high. As good as Mitch was with a gun, he possessed no other notable skill or talent. Or personality. David never understood what his cousin saw in Mitch. He diagnosed their relationship as a classic case of ‘I can change him.’ David was ready to pull the plug on that experiment.
But there were more pressing issues at the moment. Pushing Mitch to the back of his mind, David stepped into the dark hall, stopping just outside the back bedroom. He peeked in the open doorway before knocking lightly on the door frame. After the ruckus outside, he wondered why he bothered knocking.
“C’mon in.”
A Coleman lantern lit the room in a sterile glow, and a large man resembling a barrel strapped to a plank teetered precariously on a small folding chair at Jessica’s bedside. With a pudgy finger, he pressed his thick-framed glasses against his face, then looked up at David.
Jessica stirring, they spoke in hushed voices.
“David,” said the obese bearded man, smiling. “Glad to see you, man.” Sweat glistened on his bushy brow.
David nodded. “Randy.” He crossed his arms, clutching the paper bag. “How is she?”
“Well, thanks to you, she’s about to get a whole lot better a whole lot quicker.”
David held the white bag up for him to see.
“Did you find the Levaquin?” Randy asked.
David nodded.
“Perfect.” Randy took it, a relieved smile peeking out from under his thick whiskers. He shifted his bulk, and the flimsy chair creaked in protest as he went about the task of making Jessica well again. He picked up an IV needle. “I was praying they’d have some. Very effective stuff in treating acute pyelonephritis and I was …”
Tuning out Randy’s maundering, David crossed his arms again, leaned against the door frame while he rehashed events of the evening.
Got to be more careful. Got to be aware. Eyes open. Alert.
He rubbed his neck, the embers of a prior fire now simmering, coals calming down. He was already feeling stiff and sore. It couldn’t be helped, though. Jessica’s health—her very future—depended on this medicine. He didn’t fully understand, being a former cubicle farmer and all, but Randy knew what she needed. David had passed the baton to Randy, and now Randy would finish the race to keep her alive. They would win. She would live. Champagne for all.
Randy pushed to his feet with a heavy grunt, then dipped his chin toward the hallway. David led the way until they reached the living room.
David peeked beyond the curtained window before falling exhausted into the threadbare couch. The house seemed to shake on its cinder blocks when Randy finally collapsed into the sofa.
The large man spoke first, of another subject. “Any luck today?”
David simply shook his head, the gesture barely noticeable in the wan lantern light.
Randy stroked his beard and several minutes passed before they spoke again.
“So what now?”
David knew what Randy really wanted to say. You tried, David. You really tried. You gave it your best. But you gotta face facts, man. She’s dead, David. Natalee’s dead. But kudos to you for going out there everyday and searching and looking and giving it your all …
Instead, David shrugged. “Priority today was getting the meds for Jessica. Tomorrow. Going to go out again tomorrow. Retrace my steps.”
Randy hesitated, then said, “Do you think that’s wise? I mean, you’ve been at it for almost a month, turning that town upside down—”
“Twenty-one days, Randy. It’s only been twenty-one days.”
“Okay. Twenty-one days. But—”
“She’s out there, somewhere, and she needs my help. It’s too early to stop.”
Randy jabbed a thumb at the window. “What happened to the rental car?”
“Died.”
Died. The rental … died. Just like the rest of the world was doing. Another casualty.
“It served you well while you had it.”
David sighed. “Yeah.”
All three of them—Mitch, Randy, and Jessica—had given David a rash of shit over that rental car. Called it a piece of crap, not worth the tires it rolled on. But for David … for David it was the last string tying him to his former life. A life in the old world. A world of life and the living, devoid of death and dying and then living again. A dead life. Maybe it wasn’t so different, after all.
Besides, David honestly thought this whole living-dead debacle was a temporary situation. Maybe last a day or two, surely no longer than a week. Then, he’d return the rental, get his own ride out of the shop, and get back to living in the real world. Back to his office crops in the cubicle farm.
Fuck you, dad. I have a real job.
“We need to think about our next move,” David said.
“Our next move? I thought we decided just wait things out here? It’s secluded, the pond is well stocked—”
“There were two of them, out on the road. Plus the two in the truck. That dually made an awful lot of racket, not to mention Mitch using the rifle.” He shook his head, scowling. “We agreed we weren’t going to use guns. At least not here.”
“You think more will show up?”
“Noise attracts them. We’ve seen it time and time again in town.” David hooked his chin in the ‘U’ of his hand.
Randy studied him a moment. “How many … have you killed? While out looking for …?”
“None.” He had killed exactly none, despite countless opportunities. “I just … I’m afraid … the day I do …”
Will be the day this all becomes … real.
Randy nodded a knowing nod, and David truly believed the huge man understood, knew where he was coming from, what he was getting at. David would put it off for as long as possible, hold onto his humanity for as long as he could. It was like growing up, going through puberty. Kissing a girl for the first time. Losing virginity. Innocence lost, gone forever. Things change, things change people. Sometimes, for the worst.
Chapter 2
David counted five gunshots before he made it to the door, flinging it open and nearly spilling onto the porch. Mitch stood on the edge of the weed-choked yard, yanking the rifle’s bolt, and firing off another round. In the distance, just off the tree line, a man fell.
“Mitch!” David bounded down the steps. He squinted against a blaring morning sun.
“Morning, sunshine.” Mitch propped the rifle barrel on his shoulder before taking a drag off his roach. “Looks like some friends followed you home last night.”
David scanned the vast yard. He didn’t see anything or anyone else. “How many?”
“Four so far. Took two shots to bring one of ‘em down.”
“Is this really necessary? I thought we agreed no guns.” Anger churned his tone.
“Seems pretty pointless now, what with you playing pied-piper and all last night.” He dipped his chin at the Dodge, joint pinched between two fingers at his side.
David exhaled deeply, fists clenched. If it weren’t for Jessica, he would have cut Mitch loose weeks ago.
“Heads up,” Mitch said, sighting the gun toward the end of the driveway. He tugged the bolt, expelling a spent casing and lining up the next live round.
David grabbed the warm barrel.
“Hey, what’re you doing, man?” Mitch wrestled the gun from David’s grip, then brought up the butt of the weapon, threatening to crack David’s skull with it.
“Stop shooting! You’re just going to draw more of them over—”
“It’s too late for that. May as well break out the rest of the armory, ‘cuz the way they’re pouring in …” Mitch turned his back to David, aimed a
t the ambling figure at the end of the drive.
David’s hand fell to the knife on his hip, curled his fingers around the handle, started to pull.
“What’s going on out here?” Randy’s enormous figure filled the doorway. “Y’all are scaring Jessica. And I thought we said no guns?”
Pangs of guilt kicked David in the teeth. He didn’t see it coming, the white-hot fury that overcame him. Well, didn’t see it coming so quickly. For years he tolerated Mitch—at family gatherings, holidays, visits—and being stuck with him now in the worst of situations tested every ounce of restraint he could muster.
Ignoring Randy, Mitch squeezed off another shot, dropping the shuffler. A small cloud of dust kicked up where it fell. Mitch twisted his torso, presented a wide, shit-eating grin to the two men behind him. “Bull’s-eye, bitches.” He re-shouldered the gun and clomped his way back onto the porch, making sure to brush David as he passed him. “That’s how it’s done,” he said, before dropping into the creaky bench rocker.
He laid the gun, a Mossberg ATR long action rifle, across his lap and rocked, like he was living some backwoods Hatfield/McCoy feud. But instead of denim coveralls, he donned worn army fatigues and a tee-shirt. He stole one last drag off the joint.
With lips pursed, David stormed back into the house, the screen door slapping the jamb behind him. Randy nearly toppled over getting out of his way.
* * *
In the back bedroom, Jessica was sitting up in bed, had just started to swing her feet to the floor. Her eyes were deep and hollow, but a positive glimmer of life peeked through them again. And she was breathing. Alive. David surmised the antibiotics were adequately and efficiently doing their job. For this, he was thankful.
“How’re you feeling?”
Jessica smiled weakly. “Starting to feel human again.” After a pause, she added, “Thanks for getting the Levaquin. I owe you big time.” She rubbed gingerly at the IV plugged into her arm. Frowning, she added, “What was all the ruckus outside?”
He waved her off and thought better of throwing Mitch under the bus. “You don’t worry about that. Just feel better, okay?”
Dead South Rising: Book 1 Page 2
