Dead South Rising: Book 1

by Lang, Sean Robert

  “I’m … sorry?” David said, relieved it wasn’t something else she was disgusted about. Mitch’s death, for instance.

  Stealing a deep breath, she sat next to him on the cot, then put her hand on his back. Rubbing, she said, “I’m just upset. I don’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just, if something would’ve happened … and you didn’t come back … you’re all the family I’ve got.”

  “Yeah,” he whispered.

  She managed a weak smile, the corners of her mouth tilting ever-so-slightly toward the tiles above. “You’re the big brother I never had, David. I trust you.”

  Trust you.

  “You and Randy,” she continued, “are everything to me. If anything happened to either of you. I just …”

  He eased his arm around her, pulled her in, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. Kissed her forehead. “And you’re everything to us.”

  Her smile widened, and she looked him in the eyes. “Can I see it?” Jessica said, straightening.

  “The bite?”

  She looked at him with that same big smile and nodded.

  That was his cousin. Always had to see things for herself.

  “You just want to check out my ass.”

  Jessica slapped his arm. “You have no ass.”

  “True,” he said, pressing to his feet, grunting. He was still stiff.

  He pulled the zipper, freeing the jumpsuit, then shrugged out of it. It pooled around his ankles. Next, he fumbled with his belt buckle, his injured wrist a bit uncooperative. He let his pants drop, belt clinking the floor.

  Still sitting on the cot, she leaned back. “Jesus, David. Looks like a mini bear-trap snapped shut on your hammy.”

  “Doctor Gonzalez said it didn’t break skin.” The cot creaked. He felt her breath against his leg. Then her fingers, thumbs.

  “Ow,” he said. “Easy, there”

  “Sorry. Yeah … she’s right. No broken skin. Just really bruised.”

  “You done back there?”

  “Yeah. You can pull ‘em up.”

  “A little help.”

  “Sure.”

  Jessica leaned over and yanked his pants up his legs until he could reach the waistband, then David finished the job. The morning’s previous mission postponed, he stepped out of the jumpsuit. Jessica scooped the tangle of fabric and duct tape from the floor, folding it and stowing it for a later time.

  From a counter across the small room, she lifted his gun belt, El Jefe strapped securely in its holster. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” he said, taking it and wrapping his waist.

  “El Jefe, huh?”

  David shrugged. “Been called worse.”

  Jessica said, “Randy’s always looked up to you, even though he hung with Mitch mostly.”

  David didn’t say anything as he finished buckling the belt.

  “Do you think he’ll find us?”

  David stopped, scrambling for a poker face. “Who?”

  “Mitch. Do you think he’ll find us here?”

  He sighed deeply.

  “He was bad for me,” she said. “Bad for us. The group. I already feel better without him around.”

  David nodded without eye contact.

  Jessica said, “Randy said they got away. Sammy and Guillermo. I’m sure Mitch turned them loose.”

  David simply nodded again, his lips tightening over his teeth.

  “Maybe they’ll decide we’re not worth it. Leave us alone. Go find themselves a weed farm, get high the rest of their days.”

  “Maybe.”

  The next several moments were painful and slow, every second disguised as an hour. To tell or not to tell. After a pause, “I’m going out today. Wrap up some loose ends.”

  “Loose ends?”

  Shit. Said too much. “Yeah. Got a couple of things at the house I wanted to pick up—”

  “You’re not going back to the trailer, are you? Mitch and Sammy—”

  David waved her off, “No, no, no. Not Mitch’s place. My place in Jayville.”

  Jessica’s face brightened. “Well I’ll go with you. I need to get out. Fresh air would do me good.”

  He shook his head, “No, it’s too soon. You still need to recover.”

  “I’ll be fine out—”

  “No,” David said forcefully. His impinging voice snapped off the intruding walls like the crack of a whip.

  Jessica blinked big, surprised blinks. “Um, okay.” Hurt seeped into her glassy eyes.

  David exhaled a long breath. “I’m sorry, Jess.” He moved toward her, and she backed up until her butt hit the counter. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

  “No, it’s okay. Go.” She was obviously hurt and semi-pissed for being barked at.

  “No, really. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just …I’ve got some things … important things … I want—need—to wrap up. Alone.”

  “It’s okay, I said.” She was no longer looking him in the eye, her hand a stop sign.

  “Maybe tomorrow, huh? The Janitor mentioned something about a supply run, and you’re welcome to come.” He raised his arms slightly at his sides, beckoning a reconciliatory hug.

  Jessica nodded tight, quick nods, then ran the pads of her fingers across her cheek, heading an errant tear off at the pass.

  He gave up on the hug. She needed time. Time to reset. As tough as Jessica was on the outside, she was just as sensitive and soft on the inside. A living, breathing Tootsie Roll Pop. His wife, Natalee, had a very similar disposition and makeup. Maybe that’s why he got along so well with Jessica.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Tomorrow, it’s a date. Okay?”

  Another quick nod. Another swipe at her cheek. Lips tight, frowning.

  Damnit. Fucking coward. Should have told her.

  He’d blown his chance. Now was not the time to tell her about Mitch. If she was this delicate over something so small, how would she react to such an intense, emotional revelation?

  He easily talked himself out of telling her. No brainer, there. She wasn’t ready, couldn’t handle it.

  Hell, I’m the one who can’t handle it.

  Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. She needed more rest. Besides, delivering such heartbreaking news at this juncture would be just plain cruel. He’d wait.

  * * *

  Confession time with Jessica did not go at all as David had planned. Not that he had really planned anything. But that brick of guilt resting on his conscience was still there, pressing, grating. He was going to have to tell her everything, eventually. Pangs of guilt pinged around inside him like a tilting pinball machine.

  She was in a fragile state. Best not to upset her any more than necessary.

  David continued lying to himself. Of course, he knew better. He knew that she was upset because he’d snapped at her. Because he’d been an asshole. A jerk.

  Just like Mitch.

  His boots echoed in the main hall as he retreated toward the back dock, trying to push Jessica further from his mind with every step he took. He was looking for a reason to get angry, to get pissed off.

  Deal with it later.

  He had other pressing matters to contend with. Thoughts of Natalee slowly pushed out thoughts of Jessica and confessions. Today, he decided, would be Natalee’s day.

  Today, on day twenty-four, he would sever ties with his past so he could focus on his future. Clear-headed, unclouded. He would go home one last time. Say goodbye. Free her soul. And his conscience.

  I’ve been a very selfish bastard.

  David didn’t think anyone would blame him, if his actions were to ever come to light. He’d acted as any rational husband would have acted at the time, given the circumstances. It was really early and no one knew how things were going to turn out for sure. Natalee was just sick was all, he’d told himself over and over, until he believed the lie. He’d held onto to hope, and hope hadn’t delivered. Had become slippery. If he couldn’t grab it, he’d become it. He wou
ld be hope.

  He patted the folded up note that rode in his chest pocket. His unintended excursion into the pond had all but ruined it. But he didn’t need the blurry blue ink to know what it read. The letters, the words, every curving line of cursive was etched into his memory. Her last words to him. Unspoken. But he put her voice to those words. Could hear her tongue cradling those syllables in her soft southern accent.

  David swiped his eye with the pad of his thumb, blinking madly. He wanted to be angry. Angrier. Not sad, reminiscing.

  “Dave.”

  David stopped at the sound of his name being called aloud. Another brush of his thumb across his cheek, and he pivoted on his heel to face the rich voice. “Hey, Gabriel.”

  The old man dipped his chin at David, eyed him a moment before speaking. “Everything okay, Dave?”

  David nodded. “Yeah, sure.” A quick sniffle.

  The Janitor did not push.

  Shifting attention from himself, David said, “Um, how’s Roy?”

  “Been better. Brought him inside. Trying to talk him into letting us take Scotty down, so we can have a proper funeral.”

  David wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “He not being agreeable?”

  The Janitor exhaled a big breath, looked down the hall, away from David. “This … plague. Messes with people’s minds. People like you, me … we see it for what it is—death walking. Those people out there”—he pointed a crooked, bony finger toward the front doors—“outside that fence … ain’t sick. You know that. I know that. Some people think they know that. But when they see someone they know—someone they love—logic … reasoning … it all goes out the window.”

  “So Roy thinks his boy’s just sick.” Said the hypocrite.

  The Janitor nodded, eyes back on David. “Had to hold him back. Tried to open the front gate and let Scotty in.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I don’t blame him, Dave. I really don’t. Scotty’s the only family Roy’s got left.” He shook his head. “It’s hard, trying not to be insensitive. But this ain’t some flu bug that clears up in a few days. I’ve become desensitized to it quicker than I’d care to admit. But you gotta be, or else you’ll act like Roy.” He finished by jabbing a thumb toward the front doors. “And folks like Roy, well …” He let David fill in the blank.

  And David filled it in with himself. He swallowed hard to stave off the flood of hypocrisy surging his throat, trying to make itself known. His thoughts immediately swooped to Natalee.

  “I’m gonna make a quick trip …” David said, pointing to the dock doors.

  Gabriel raised one brow while the other fell over his squinty eye. The accusatory look made David feel uneasy.

  “You sure about that? Can’t it wait?”

  “It’s something I really need to take care of. Today.”

  The Janitor’s impaling look never ceased. Stroking his chin, he added, “Certainly can’t stop you. Can’t say that it’s wise, either.”

  “If it wasn’t important—”

  The Janitor reeled in his piercing gaze, waving David off. “Hell, you’re a big boy. You know what you’re doing, El Jefe.”

  David cringed slightly. He was beginning to loathe the nickname. He was no chief. Didn’t ask to be. Never cared to be. Circumstances had dictated action, action carved out Karma, and now Karma was making good on universal promises.

  He decided that once he set his wife free, he would reinvent himself. Shed the El Jefe moniker and everything else he’d lived with prior to this whole dead debacle, up to this very moment. Return to his roots, to who he really was. Do the right thing for the right people. Bryan deserved a role model, someone to look up to. David could be that person, but he needed to set his wife—and his demons—free.

  The Alamo was a good place. A safe place. Staying made sense. But he’d keep an open mind. He was leery of relying on others to such a degree. He wasn’t a loner, but life on the road—on the move—still appealed to him as an option if need be, despite his initial thoughts of a place like this one. He thought back to the fifth-wheel travel trailers he’d seen on the way to the Alamo. One would be perfect for them. For Bryan, for Jessica.

  Always greener on the other side. Always want what you don’t have.

  They had safety, shelter, sustenance, society—all right here. And now that they’d found it, he was seriously considering other alternatives.

  He was sure that Randy would stay, though. Lenny and Randy were getting along famously. They connected, like two brothers separated at birth, reunited.

  “… do you mind?”

  David had totally tuned out the Janitor. “I’m sorry. My ears … from firing the pistol the other day … still ringing,” he lied. “What was that?”

  Gabriel was holding what looked like a business card between his fingers and extending it to David.

  David accepted it, reading it aloud. “Alamo Assisted Living, eight eighty-nine, Highway—”

  “No, no. The back. Flip it over,” the Janitor said, twirling a finger.

  David turned the card. On the back, he found a short, hand-written list.

  The Janitor said, “Excuse my chicken-scratch.”

  David’s eyes bounced from the Janitor to the card and back.

  “It’s a list of medical supplies for Doc Gonzalez. Some things we’d planned on picking up for her today. If you’re going out anyway, I figured—”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. No problem,” David said, waving his hand. More déjà vu.

  “I can send Lenny with you.”

  David, scrunching his lips, shaking his head, said, “No, don’t worry about it. Y’all have your hands full here with that rotting mob out front. Plus, trying to deal with Scotty and Roy.” He waved his hand again. “I got this.”

  “We normally don’t send anyone solo. Too dangerous.” Gabriel rubbed his chin again, eyes to the floor. “Look, I know you’re trying to pull your weight, be tough and all that, but you’d be much safer with backup. Another set of eyes and hands, ya know?”

  “I appreciate it, Gabriel. I really do. But I’ll be fine. I practically lived in town for weeks during the worst of it. By myself. So don’t worry about it.”

  Those piercing gray irises peeking out from beneath the Janitor’s black bushy brows cut at David. Sliced at him. Carved him up and left him to bleed out pure guilt. He didn’t want to appear ungracious, an unappreciative guest—the asshole.

  Mitch had been the asshole. He wouldn’t be Mitch.

  “Really, Gabriel.” He forced a smile. “I’ll be okay.” He held the card up, flicked it with a snap. “And I’ll pick up the supplies. No sweat.”

  The Janitor expelled a sigh of defeat. “Alright. I see there ain’t no convincing you.” With a beckoning hand, he turned and started away. “Follow me. Got one more thing for you.”

  Chapter 25

  Tom sat in David Morris’s La-Z-Boy recliner, his elbows propped on the armrests, Ruger Vaquero’s flipping on his fingers. He twirled the one in his right hand one full rotation, then grasped it, stopping the spin. The barrel pointed skyward, and he clicked the hammer back.

  He spun the gun in his left hand as he dropped the hammer of the other. Cocking the left gun, he twirled the right. And so this went on, an alternating twirling, stopping, cocking, dropping. If the steel could sing, it would sing in a round.

  Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream—

  “Gonna blow your goddamned head off, there, Doc,” Sammy said, another granola bar filling his mouth. “Getting all fancy and show-offy, spinning them pea shooters.”

  “Would you please finish chewing before addressing me. Please.” Tom continued his alternating firearms acrobatics while he stared through the thin blue curtain that hung over the living room windows.

  From his seat on the stairs, Gills piped up. “Could see better if you’d open that curtain.”

  “Leave it be,” Tom said.

  Gills shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Tom Mackey
continued his vigilant gaze through the fabric and glass, his eyes never veering, barely blinking.

  Sammy swallowed, then cleared his throat. It didn’t help. His voice still sounded torn and shredded. “What makes you so sure he’s coming?”

  Twirl. Cock. Twirl. Drop.

  Still working his guns, he gave a nod toward the undead woman duct taped to the dining room chair. “He’ll come for her.”

  “And if he don’t?”

  Tom stopped spinning his guns, barrels pointed to the ceiling. He pressed to his feet, and turned to face the two men behind him. “Then,” he said through his thick southern drawl, “I guess your services are no longer required.” He slowly lowered one of his revolvers at Sammy.

  Sammy showed his palms, backpedaling, falling into a chair. “Whoa now, Doc. Easy there. I ain’t saying—”

  “Then what are you saying?” He stepped forward.

  “I’m just saying”—he twisted his head toward Guillermo—“Help me out here, Gills.” Sweat was beading on his forehead. His head swiveled again. “Gills?”

  “He’ll come,” Guillermo said, dragging the blade of his Bowie knife along the speed-bump scars on his cheeks. “He’ll come.”

  Tom smiled, motioned to Guillermo. “Now see? Gills gets it. He understands.”

  Sammy sat splayed in the chair, arms and legs cocked at odd angles. He looked like he would slide right off the seat.

  “Now relax, Sam. Have another … whatever you were partaking of.” He turned back to the window, rounded the chair, and sat back down. Planting his elbows, he resumed the firearms circus act on his fingers.

  Sammy sighed, relief ringing in his breath. The wooden chair creaked under him as he straightened. Shooting Gills a glance, he said, “The fuck you looking at?”

  Guillermo smiled, then chuckled, the blade still scraping his cheeks. He laughed harder until it finally morphed into a genuine belly laugh, his stout shoulders shaking.

  “Asshole,” Sammy muttered through a frown. He leaned forward, staring at nothing.