Dead South Rising: Book 1

by Lang, Sean Robert

  David said nothing, his gaze glued to the broken world beyond the glass. He didn’t turn to Sammy. Didn’t acknowledge the hazing, the heckling. The bullying. He guessed his own death was high on their agenda, and preferred to suffer in silence. To not give these two banditos the satisfaction of getting to him with their tormenting harassment. He’d be as strong as his will allowed.

  Let’s get this over with. Make it quick.

  He guessed it wouldn’t be.

  But then Sammy stuck it in, and twisted. A searing emotional blade David could never ignore. And didn’t. “You’re little wifey sure looked hungry when I turned her loose on ‘ole Doc back there. I bet she was a fine little piece of ass before she started eating folks. Bet she goes straight for his crotch.”

  That chuckle. That goddamned chuckle.

  David had experienced rage before. Recently. Knew exactly what it felt like, recognized it easily. Had come close to acting on it several times, managed to turn it off, turn it away. But Sammy’s double-edged dig ignited something else in him that he’d never, ever endured before. And never wanted to again.

  He launched from his seat, consequences be damned.

  Sammy didn’t even see it coming.

  Stars lit David’s vision when his head hit Sammy’s with a horrible thud, and the truck veered off course from the collision in the cab. Sammy’s skull cracked the window.

  “Motherfu—” Sammy started. His voice had gone up an octave.

  David had him by the neck, best he could being bound. He bared his teeth, chest rumbling a guttural scream that sounded like nothing of this world. His bite found Sammy’s one good ear.

  “Fuck! Get him off!”

  Gills jumped forward from the back, reaching between the seats to pull David off of Sammy.

  Blood filled David’s mouth, mixing with his own. He bit harder, cartilage and skin tearing loose. Screams. Then, a whole galaxy of stars as Gills pumped his tattooed piston of an arm, the fist attached at the end exploding on David’s face. David swore his face broke.

  The world faded in and out, spinning on a wobbly trajectory. Another fist found its mark. He was into his own orbit now. David slipped from the seat and onto the stick shift. Gears ground, a growling protest, then the truck lurched. Another fist. Sammy’s this time. Something cracked. Hot blood ran down his throat and out his nose. He coughed, choked. Felt like he was drowning. His nose felt too big, like his lip.

  “Goddamn … shit!” Sammy screamed. He eyed his bloody hand, looked at himself in the rearview mirror.

  Gills exclaimed something in Spanish. David guessed it was an explicative-laden tirade aimed at him directly.

  The truck chugged into an abandoned car, died.

  Sammy cradled his torn up ear, blood streaking down his arm.

  David fought to stay conscious.

  Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Stay … awake. Stay …

  Voices became muffled.

  “My fucking ear!”

  “Kill that motherfucker. He ain’t worth it.”

  “Fuck. No, wait. We need that asshole.”

  “Fuck that.”

  David spit; something launched from his lips.

  Part of Sammy’s ear. Part … of … Stay awake … Don’t throw—

  He retched, blood and bile splashing the cab’s floor. Maybe one of his own teeth.

  Another obscenity laced rant. The slam of a door. Then another. Quiet, but for only a moment.

  Sleep. Now.

  Hands on his back, clawing at his shirt. His collar choking him while being dragged through blood and bile and out the passenger door.

  Sammy and Gills tried to stand him up, but his legs wouldn’t work, and he simply spilled to the asphalt in a heaving heap. His lungs wheezed. Or maybe it was his nose. Or both. He could no longer breathe through either.

  Natalee, I’m sor—

  He was losing a one-sided battle he never had a chance of winning. He was drunk on pain. Floating on the blacktop, spinning in his own low, dizzy orbit toward a numb nirvana.

  He thought of Natalee and how his last visions of her would be tainted with death and hate, Sammy’s filthy hands on her. Touching her. Freeing her, but not the way she was supposed to be freed. David would be dead before he could release her. He’d be by himself when this was all over. She wouldn’t be there on the other side, waiting for him. Like he’d promised himself she would be.

  The air left his lungs with such force, he believed he’d breathed his last breath. Gills’ gators. In his kidneys. His back. His muscles tightened, screaming for help as bruises welled deep down in his body and mind. His death was certainly near.

  Another well-aimed alligator boot, this time to the back of his head. He would have sworn on his mother’s grave that his brain spun inside his skull and landed upside down.

  Spin the fucking bottle. C’mere, Sammy. Let me bite another chunk out of your goddamned—

  The side of his face raked the asphalt. He was losing it—feeling … thought … all of it. He would not last another round of blows.

  Hands on either shoulder, yanking him to his feet, ready or not. The two men slammed David’s back to the Dodge, his skull smacking the metal, denting the shit out of both.

  David’s neck was a blazing inferno, incapable of holding his head up. His head dropped forward, lolling, drooling a cocktail of spit and blood. Sammy—or Gills, he wasn’t sure which—slapped his face. Either cheek.

  “Hey, over here,” Sammy said, waving his hand, his face in David’s. “Don’t you die on us.” He snapped his blood-crusted fingers. “Wake up, El Jefe. You still got a job to do. No sleeping on the goddamn job.”

  They let him go, and he immediately started sliding down the side of the Dodge. They caught him before he crashed to the ground again.

  Their voices faded in and out, a doppler effect of sorts teasing his mind. “Throw his ass in the back. He ain’t going no-fucking-where.”

  “Fuck him.”

  David was moving, but he wasn’t walking. Sammy and Gills carried him, his legs dangling, boots dragging. A long string of blood clung stubbornly to his oversized lip and chin. His left eye was swelling shut, closing off sight from the rest of the world.

  The tailgate dropped.

  For a moment, David felt the sensation of flying, his feet leaving the ground. He thought for a moment that maybe, just maybe, he was headed to heaven, after all.

  He scrunched his face when his temple hit the truck bed, his neck ablaze. He couldn’t do it anymore. Just couldn’t. He’d welcome sleep. Unconsciousness. Or death. Whichever came first.

  * * *

  Every muscle in David’s battered body begged him to stop. Cease and desist. Enough already. No more. Please.

  His bruised bones echoed those sentiments. But the men at his back would have none of it.

  “Keep digging, Shirley,” Sammy quipped from his perch on the dually’s dropped tailgate. High off the ground, he was swinging his legs in child-like fashion, his Smith and Wesson propped and pointed limply at David’s back. Guillermo sat beside him, picking at his own nails with his Arkansas toothpick.

  David stopped, standing the shovel so he could straighten himself and lean on it, catch his breath. Stinging sweat flooded his eyes. Well, flooded the eye he could see with. The other was so badly swollen, it’d be closed for days. If he even lived for days, of course. He had to breathe through his mouth since he could only sip the air through his broken and bulging nose. It was like trying to breathe underwater through a thin straw. Wasn’t happening. Not with the forced physical labor currently bestowed upon him.

  It was already early evening, the sun searching for the horizon. But that didn’t halt the heat, the blazing ball above delivering its typical and predictable crematory lashing of the land. Not a goddamned cloud in the ever-loving sky. Plenty of vultures soaring, the only creatures sharing that cerulean expanse.

  And down below, all around him, bodies. Over to his right, Mitch’s.

&nb
sp; “He said keep digging, puto.”

  “I need a break,” David said. His voice was nasally, his words tripping over a fat lip. He didn’t even sound like himself, the tones coming out all wrong. A stranger’s voice.

  “You’re fixin’ to get a break,” Sammy said, hopping off the high tailgate. He raised his revolver, pistol-whip style.

  David let the shovel drop, hands to his sides. With a shuffle of his feet, he turned to face Sammy. His countenance begged mercy through death. “Just go ahead … fucking shoot me. You’re … going to, anyway.” He hurt so badly, he could barely push the words out.

  Sammy stopped, raising the pistol higher, seemed to consider this.

  Gills slid off the tailgate, his stout frame vibrating the ground. He laid a hand on Sammy’s arm, prompting him to lower the weapon, then shook his head, gravity tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Later.”

  Sammy paused, eyeing his Mexican friend. A slow nod. “Yeah. Yeah, later.” He looked back at David. “You hear that, El Jefe? Later. We’ll kill you later. ‘Cuz right now, you work for Sammy and Gills, Incorporated. And you’re on overtime and behind schedule. So get to it, asshole.”

  Sheathing his Bowie knife, Guillermo added almost as an afterthought, “Could have avoided this whole mess, puto. All you had to do was let us borrow your truck. But you’s too proud. Too stingy. That’s all you had to do, and you’d be home with your dead wife, sticking it to her. Instead, you pull a gun on us. You and your fat friend. Cuff us to a tree. Leave us to die.” He shook his head. “Estúpido.”

  Sammy reiterated the last word as he hauled himself back onto the tailgate. “Estúpdio.”

  “I came back for you. To free you both.” David immediately regretted uttering the response. It sounded desperate and pleading. Like he was begging for his miserable life. Maybe he was.

  Smiling, Sammy said, “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

  “I did.” David’s voice was a hoarse mess. He coughed, winced.

  Sammy glanced at Gills. “You see Nancy come back out there after he left us cuffed to that fucking tree, Gills?”

  “I didn’t see no Nancy.”

  Another irritating chuckle, grating David’s tender spirit. It hurt to talk back, and maybe that was a good thing.

  “Yeah. I didn’t think so.” Sammy turned his full attention back to reclaiming his perch. “Maybe my brother’d still be alive if you had, El Jefe. His blood’s on your hands.”

  “I had … nothing to do with … Mitch’s death.” He grimaced, every syllable a struggle.

  “Oh, I beg to differ. Yes I do. You see, evidently you made ‘ole Doc back there a widow the night you peeled outta here so quick-like. Pissed him off real bad, you did.”

  David gravely disliked conversing with this redneck thug, but focusing on something other than the symphony of pain shrieking a discordant opus throughout his body helped plug the tears. He welcomed the reprieve, however brief and unpleasant.

  “I didn’t kill anyone’s wife.”

  “Oh, yes you did, El Jefe. Ran her down in cold blood. Like a goddamned dog.” Sammy patted the truck bed. “Exhibit ‘A’ right here.”

  David’s thoughts jumped back to that night. Mitch showing up on the Franken-Harley. Mitch grabbing the shotgun, heading to the pond where Sammy and Gills were chained to the tree. David and company taking off in the truck. The rough and bumpy ride down the driveway. The driveway.

  Driveway.

  He’d stood on the brakes halfway down the driveway to avoid—

  Shit.

  He didn’t know if he’d hit a person or an animal or a shuffler that night. He knew he’d hit something, though. Assumed it was a shuffler. Or an animal. Why would a living, breathing person be wandering around on Mitch’s driveway? His aching stomach churned, sick at the thought of killing someone alive. Surely Doc’s wife hadn’t been alive. Oh, god. Surely not. He wasn’t sure if he could forgive himself. Ever.

  Gills said, “I think el gato’s got his tongue again.”

  “He does look a tad pale, don’t he?” Another irritating chuckle. “So looks like we got us a bonafide murderer,” Sammy said. “Got the blood of two people on his murdering hands.”

  Gills stroked his fu-manchu, his lips forming the closest thing to a smile that they’d ever be capable of making. “Sounds like a serial killer to me, eh, Sam?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “We should do a service to society, execute that murdering bastard. ‘Fore he kills again.”

  “We should.” A deep nod. “And we will.”

  David couldn’t stop it. He dropped to his hands and knees. And threw up.

  Chapter 31

  Jessica Thompson strode through the main hall of Alamo Assisted Living. It was nearing noon, and she was eager to get on the road, to find David.

  She didn’t doubt for a second that she and Randy were doing the right thing by going after her cousin, though she admitted—to Randy, anyway—that she might be overreacting. But she’d rather overreact than not react at all. And regret it. He agreed.

  Besides, she’d sensed something off about David and their conversation from earlier that morning. Not necessarily that he had outright lied to her, but that he’d perhaps lied by omission, by not telling her everything that was on his mind. He’d held back. No doubt about it. Woman’s intuition and what not.

  Anyway, she owed it to him. He’d done her a solid by essentially saving her life. Minor detail. According to Randy, without the antibiotics, her kidney would have been in a bad way—as in no way at all. Shut down. Closed for business. Useless. Hers had been an extreme case, unusual, out of the ordinary. Unsurprising, seeing as how these were unusual and unordinary times.

  As she passed the front doors on her way to the back dock, she noticed a rather heated debate raging. Two groups, one larger, one smaller. The Janitor appeared to be heading the smaller group of about four, and someone he called Roy was representing the larger group of about eight. She considered stopping, but opted to slow her gait instead, picking up part of the conversation.

  The Janitor had the floor. “…rethink this, Roy. We’ve been over this—”

  “No, Gabe. You’re wrong about this. And I won’t be a part of no mass slaughter.”

  Jessica slowed even more, listening at a discreet distance.

  “Think about what you’re saying,” the Janitor said. “You’re condemning us—all of us—to death with that line of thinking. Now, c’mon back and we’ll—”

  “You just don’t get it, do you, Gabriel? Because it’s not your son out there roaming the field.” Roy wiped at his cheek. “I’m going out there, and I’m getting my boy. My Scotty. And I’m bringing him in here.”

  Gabriel visibly bristled, his shoulders pulling back, chest puffing. “I can’t let you do that Roy. It’s too dangerous.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  The argument discomfited Jessica, and she almost went to get Bryan to take him with her in case things here got … bad. But she continued around the corner and toward the dock, the acrimonious dispute fading behind her.

  She pressed forward. She didn’t have time to get involved. Besides, it wasn’t her place, wasn’t her fight. Not yet, anyway. She still considered herself a guest. They wouldn’t listen to her. The Janitor proved to be a persuasive guy, in her opinion. And besides, she had her own issues to contend with. David needed her, and she planned to be there for him just as he’d been there for her.

  Jessica could still hear the blustering echoes behind her as the warehouse door came into view. She did like it at the Alamo, and hoped the men would resolve their differences. Hitting the road again, looking for a new home, fending for themselves—all unappealing prospects. She craved the safety and comfort a group with chemistry could provide. And she prayed the rapport of this place didn’t undergo a nuclear reaction and melt into resentment and animosity.

  She pushed through the first set of double doors and strode into the warehouse. The same wa
rehouse where David and the Janitor had earlier planned to remedy the problem now being disputed in the hall.

  Jessica had made it a point to check on Bryan and Charlie before leaving. It was obvious to see that Bryan was happy here. At least for the moment. There were two other children for him to play with, and Charlie loved the attention of all those little fingers scratching his head and belly. And Bryan just loved the buffed floors. Better than any toy Santa could bring. She swore he’d wear out a pair of socks a day just sliding up and down the halls.

  Outside on the dock, she found Randy and Leonard. Of all things, they were discussing professional wrestling. Better to walk up on a conversation about faux fighting than the one she’d just fled from.

  “Hey, Jess,” Randy said, turning to acknowledge her.

  “Jessica. How you feeling, girl?” Lenny asked.

  “Hey, y’all. Doing better. Much better, thanks. What are y’all talking about?” As if she didn’t know.

  Randy smiled. “Best heavyweight champion in WCCW history.”

  Leonard laughed, his mountainous shoulders shaking. “Your boy here seems to think that real pro wrestling died in the ‘90s.”

  Randy poked the big guy’s chest. “The ‘80s was where it was at. Two words—Von Erichs. Best wrestling family ever.”

  “But Kerry was only world champion for eighteen days after he took the real title from Flair. Ain’t no kinda reign.”

  “Took the title? You make it sound like he just walked into the ring, picked up the belt and walked out with it. Kerry won it. He owned Flair. Plus, don’t forget Kerry’s brother had just passed. There was a lot of emotion that day that drove him to win it.”

  Leonard gave Randy a dismissive wave. “Alright. I’ll give you that. But if we’s talking best of all time, I gots to give it to the Nature Boy, baby. The man’s a living legend. Held that title for years, not days.”

  Despite being eager to get going, Jessica smiled, relieved there was a conversation going on somewhere in the world that didn’t involve the dead and how to handle them.