Copious duct tape littered the room, some of it in strands on the floor, some still attached to chairs. Some of it bloody …
What was he up to?
One of the dining chairs was smashed to splinters, the tape the only thing holding the parts in a jumbled bunch. An end table, knocked over, broken in two. Lamps, shattered. The flatscreen, face first on the floor. The walls, scuffed, holes in places. Blood smears. Another dining chair on its back. Bloody footprints. That smell of decay on the air.
Obviously, a struggle had occurred here. But when? She crouched beside the blood. It seemed relatively fresh. Hours, maybe? Certainly not days. Or weeks.
She froze, a sound from upstairs startling her. She listened intently, her gaze glued to the staircase. Randy appeared at the top near the banister.
“Nothing up here,” he said, his volume closer to normal. “Any idea about down there?” He started descending the stairs, and they creaked angrily under his substantial weight.
She blew a relieved breath, slowing her runaway heart. “No, I’m still putting it together.”
Even through his thick beard, she could read the concern on his face when he spotted the blood near the door. He eased his body to one knee beside the find, lifted his glasses for a clearer view. Then, he dipped a finger into it. “This happened today.” He turned his gaze toward her, even deeper concern now carving his features.
“Do you think it’s shuffler blood?” she asked.
His eyes darted back to the pool again while he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, testing the fluid’s viscosity. When he glanced at her again, she could read it in is face, especially with his glasses removed.
“Shit,” she said. She refused to believe it was David’s. She could tell, though, that Randy was already thinking the worst.
He said, “Do you think someone—?” He stopped abruptly.
“What? Do I think someone … what?”
Using the rifle for support, he heaved himself back to his feet with a grunt. “Do you think someone … took him and his truck?”
The fact that he glazed over, do you think someone killed him and took his truck, did not go unnoticed.
She crossed her arms, still gripping the pistol. She was biting her bottom lip, her nerves a fiery mess. She didn’t want to answer, nor did she know how to answer. But deep down, she didn’t believe David was dead. Why kill someone and take them with? Especially now, with death and bodies at every turn, everywhere?
They just stood there, unmoving, for several moments, their heads slowly swiveling like security cameras, trying to capture the image of a long gone perpetrator and crime committed. That’s when Jess noticed something she’d missed the first twenty times she’d scanned the area.
She crossed to the couch and picked up a sheet of paper tucked almost fully underneath it, only a wrinkled corner peeking from beneath. She’d been so distraught over the blood that her mind hadn’t registered it. A bloody boot print marred the outside of it. The paper was warped, like it had been water-logged at one point. The mostly blurry ink adorning the inside confirmed that suspicion. But it was what those barely readable words said that really threw her into another world.
Randy didn’t seem that interested in it, and he continued scanning the room. “I think I’m going to double-check the other rooms, see if I can—”
“She left him,” Jessica said flatly, her eyes still glued to the page.
He paused. “Who left who?”
“Natalee. She left David.”
He raised a brow and demurred. “Left him? I don’t think so.”
She gave him wide-eyes and pursed lips as she held the ragged paper high, saying, it’s all right here, without uttering a word.
“But he went looking for her every day, when this whole thing started.” Scratching his beard, he added, “He made it sound like she just hadn’t made it home. Why would he be looking for her if she’d already left him?”
“I don’t know, but she did. I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like she wrote this over two months ago.”
“Two months ago?” One at a time, Randy started touching the tips of his fingers to his thumb, his own makeshift abacus, fingers helping figure and confirm what his brain already knew and told him.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “He loved her. Loves her.”
“Well this is a ‘Dear John’ letter of epic proportions.” She glanced at it again. “I can’t make out some of it, because something spilled on it, but the gist is there.”
In an effort to exonerate David, he said, “Maybe when the shit hit the fan, he decided to try and find her, you know? Be that knight in shining armor, win her back and all that chivalrous stuff. Things change when the world goes to shit like it did. They did have a daughter together.”
“Maybe,” she said, thumbing her lip, still eyeing the paper.
She skimmed over it a couple more times, then tucked it away along with her pistol, sliding them into her jeans’ pocket.
Randy said, “I really wanted to avoid this, but maybe we should try raising him on the walkie.”
Immediately, she bristled, goosebumps covering her entire body. She lifted her eyes slowly to his, knowing it was the right move, but dreading that drawling voice that teased of death only days before. She would do anything to avoid that voice. Almost anything.
Chapter 34
I told you, Doc. I told you. You should have listened to me.
There’s nothing I can do about it right now.
Yes there is. You can go after those no-good, double-crossing sons o’ bitches, that’s what you can do.
Well what do you think I’m gearing up to do right now?
Right now? You’re dragging around a dead woman, that’s what you’re doing now.
In due time, in due time. She’ll serve a purpose. Part of the grand design.
Grand design? Face it, Doc. Things didn’t quite work out like you’d planned.
It’s not too late. I can make this work. I will make this work.
I told you that you should have killed those two good-for-nothing thugs when you had the chance. As soon as Kate’s killer walked through that door, you should have blown their brains against the walls, then plugged David. You had two guns, for Chrissake. Two guns, two thugs. Ain’t rocket science, Doc. They didn’t stand a chance. None of ‘em did. And now those two thugs have your two guns. And the man who killed your Kate.
I had a plan. A perfect plan.
Didn’t turn out so perfect.
My new plan will.
We’ll see, Doc. We’ll see.
Thomas Theodore Mackey yanked the rope tied around the emaciated woman’s neck, begging her cooperation through forceful persuasion. She wasn’t quick. Nor was she sure-footed. Four times she’d fallen, already, forcing Tom to stop, stoop, and drag her up by her blouse. She couldn’t bite him. He’d made sure of that. Sammy and Gills had left plenty of duct tape. It was a big roll. They should have used more on him. Maybe he’d be dead now instead of plotting his vengeance against them.
He originally thought he’d just hop into his ’87 Chevy pickup, Old Faithful, tossing his bound and gagged undead hostage into the back, and head home. But he guessed that ‘ole Sam and Guillermo had suspected he might actually escape, so they slashed all four of Old Faithful’s tires. In all actuality, they probably did it just to be mean and spiteful. That poor Chevy never did anything to them.
Fuck them.
Instead, he led his decaying prisoner past his pickup and down the street, searching for other methods of quick transport out of town. He certainly couldn’t walk home from here. It was much too far. It’d take him the rest of the day, all night, and into the next morning. Especially with Mrs. Morris in tow. For the most part, she followed very well, eyeing him as a meal, though quick turns sometimes confused her, as did sudden changes in direction.
Based on his own experiences, he surmised her stilted mechanics were a direct result of Mr. David Morris not properly cari
ng for his severely sickened spouse. Didn’t feed her regular or proper. Even the undead needed their strength. Of course, in Tom’s eyes, the dead—at least in his wife’s case—weren’t truly dead, but rather ill. A temporary ailment, cure to follow.
Oh, he still planned to execute David’s unwell wife. And he still planned to do it in front of the careless and murderous bastard. Was greatly looking forward to it. And he had envisaged killing Sammy and Guillermo once they identified all those involved with his own wife’s death. But they’d beat him to the proverbial punch, as it were. Played their ace up the sleeve a tad early, raking in all the chips and leaving him broke without a vindictive pot to piss in. Oh, how he would enjoy watching those two buffoons suffer. He’d slash their throats like they’d slashed his tires. Fuckers.
Sam and company had been in such a hurry to scurry off with Mr. Morris, to punish him, that they’d failed to do a bang up job of killing Tom. The failed attempt was banal, devoid of real vision—the setup Sammy had employed—tying (duct taping) Tom to a chair, turning the undead Mrs. Morris loose on him. Locking him and the biter up inside the house. Clever, if not entirely original. Ultimately, ineffective. He started to wonder if perhaps Sam was infatuated with the idea of revenge, not actually carrying it to fruition. Tom would teach him a valuable lesson there.
Tom just hoped Mrs. Morris would ‘survive’ him defending himself against her vicious advances. She came at him—teeth ‘a gnashing, arms ‘a flailing—like she hadn’t eaten since the whole thing started. And he’d be right about that. David himself would have confirmed that he just couldn’t bring himself to provide her with the fresh human flesh she required, was trying to work up to it. One day.
Tom elected to fulfill that most basic of needs later, keep her weak for the time being, just in case. Didn’t want her breaking free, doing a number on him. He had people to kill, after all, and while he could technically kill them once he himself was dead, he doubted he would enjoy it as much. Too much of a crap shoot. And he preferred poker, anyway.
He checked several vehicles in an adjacent neighborhood, but came up empty. How America loved their cars. All were locked, no keys left in any of the ignitions. And he wasn’t skilled in the art of ‘hot-wiring.’
Someone alive actually had the audacity to yell at him, shooed him with a shotgun from their beloved Ford Mustang. Tom suspected having a leash on Mrs. Morris deterred the Ford’s owner from engaging in lively conversation with him. Unfortunately, Sammy had disarmed Tom, and he was traipsing through the neighborhood sans-weapons. Well, save for a measly knife he’d lifted from the living room floor. The same knife Sammy had knocked from David’s lax grip when David had unwittingly stepped into the house. If Tom would have had Bessie and Bertha still holstered at his sides, that Ford Mustang would have been his. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Instead, he settled on an old Ford Ranger pickup, an early ‘90s model he stumbled across at a nearby business complex. A company truck for Bug-B-Gone, an extermination company. What a stupid name. Memorable, but stupid. Too many letters for a seven-digit phone number.
Bug-B-Gone’s suite comprised glass and metal—mostly glass, which he happily and easily kicked in. Nary an alarm sounded. And why would one sound? The famous ‘grid’ was unequivocally down. No power to speak of.
The keys to truck number three (as evinced by the tag marked ‘3’) hung dutifully at attention behind the counter, and he plucked them straight away. Needless to say, he got his Ford, though he was still a Chevy guy at heart.
He decided to explore the business office front to back. Bug-B-Gone wasn’t the kind of place folks thought to forage in times like these, and he suspected a treasure or two awaited within. And he’d be right. He replaced his Camels that Sammy had seen fit to abscond with. That granite-jawed asshole had lit one up right in front of Tom, blew smoke (and bad breath) all in his face. Then laughed. Flicked ashes onto Tom’s lap and onto the brim of his hat. How incredibly fucking rude. Tom planned to instill manners into that man before taking Sam’s life and shoving it up his dead ass.
Behind the counter, Tom didn’t wait to indulge. He sucked in the calming fire deep, savoring the hit on his lungs, his throat. He closed his eyes, the hint of a smile cracking his dry lips. Releasing the cloud into the stale office air, he held the cigarette out, filter first, toward Mrs. Morris, who was tied off to the kicked-in doorway frame. She squirmed in her duct tape straight jacket.
“Smoke?” Tom asked, then smiled a full smile to himself as he turned back to the counter. “I thought not.”
Let me guess. You quit ages ago. The patch? Hypnosis? Cold turkey?
Plugging the cigarette back between his lips, he continued his rummaging. Nothing more of interest on the counter.
A small refrigerator below caught his attention.
How delightful.
He swung open the small door, and a putrid punch to the nose made his eyes go wide, blink wildly. He waved his hand in an attempt to chase away the aroma of lunch-gone-bad. Very bad. Like growing-green-hair bad. He almost preferred the smell of Mrs. Morris. Almost.
After his eyes stopped watering, he broke into one of the sealed water bottles, immediately satiating his throbbing thirst. The food was no good, obviously, but water alone was fine for the moment. He’d alleviate his hunger at home.
Not much else was left to be had, but he’d found enough. Smokes, water, the truck (in order of importance) all topped his wish list, recharged him. It was a successful haul, one that helped swing his mood in the right direction.
Outside, he assisted Mrs. Morris by helping (shoving) her into the bed of the pickup truck. She required a bit of ‘encouragement’ (shoving) but finally the undead woman acquiesced with his help (shove). A compressor/pump/sprayer of sorts shared the truck bed, and he lashed her makeshift leash to the contraption in such a way as to discourage her from leaping out of the back. Not that she’d have an easy time of it. Her torso cocooned in duct tape, she was balance-challenged as it was. Getting herself on two feet, or even one knee, would be a near impossible feat without help. His help. Still, he wanted to ensure her safe arrival. Well, safe-er arrival. He needed her. For his plan.
And with the twist of a key, he set his new-er plan in motion. He was riding again. Many had crossed him, and he would not make the same mistakes. And anyone else who hindered his vindictive mission would be sucked into his vortex of vengeance. Paddles and life jackets be damned.
Chapter 35
The East Texas sun was sliding away, signaling the end of another dire day in David’s Deadland. And he felt his life essence being dragged with it, chained to the fiery ball as that fantastic orb of life-giving (and life-taking) flame began falling away into the vast nothingness of night. The morning would surely bring the sun’s return, but David wasn’t sure he’d be there to see it.
Sammy and Gills proved relentless in their demands. David finished his first task, finally, carving Mitch’s final resting place out of the earth. He’d worked the shovel until the handle snapped in two. Sammy blamed him, of course. Said David did it on purpose. Accused him outright. David had done it on purpose before, when he was a kid, to get out of a chore assigned by his father. A young David had deemed the job pointless, and to prove it (and so he could hurry on to his friends, who were enjoying time at the mall arcade), eradicated the means to complete said task. He thought at the time he was being clever, sneaky. No matter. His father simply found an alternate tool with which complete the task, providing David with a small garden trowel in place of the busted shovel. What would have taken maybe an hour grew to half the day. No arcade for David. And his father docked his piddly allowance to buy a new shovel. Needless to say, David never purposefully broke one of his father’s tools again.
Growing impatient—and eager to move onto more rewarding endeavors—the two banditos actually pitched in, dragging the dirt with their boots, helping David cover the hole now housing Mitch’s body. Of course, they cursed David the whole time, much li
ke his father had that day so many years ago. David didn’t care, though. He wanted to be done with it just as badly as they did. He honestly wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue pushing and punishing his body. Sammy and Gills had beat him thoroughly, and he came close to fainting and passing out so many times that he lost track, quit counting. In a sense, he was over it. Over them.
Let’s just get this fucking over with.
After saying a few weak words in tribute to Mitch, Sammy grabbed David’s arm, dragged him away from the graveside, and stuck a finger in his face, resuming a conversation started earlier. “I’m not going to ask you again,” Sammy said, practically grinding the few teeth he had left.
David let an exhausted and exasperated breath slip over his parched, plump lips. That tiny gesture said it better than David could have with any amount of words.
I’ve already told you time and again, dick. Are you too fucking thick-headed and stubborn to hear what I’m telling you? For the one-hundred and seventy-fifth time, I don’t fucking know where Mitch hid whatever the fuck it is you are looking for. Get a goddamned clue, already. Now let me go in peace. Damnit.
Sammy, gripping David’s shoulders, shook him like a child scolded, slammed him against the dually. “I said I’m not gonna ask you again. You don’t come clean, you’re gonna start losing bits and pieces, starting with Mr. Pinky there.” He grabbed David’s wrist—the non-fractured one, thankfully—and held it to David’s face, curled down all of David’s fingers except his pinky. His eyes were tight on David’s one good eye, the eye Gills hadn’t shut with his fist, emphasizing just how ‘fucking seriously gangster’ he was about to get ‘on David’s ass.’ “So what’s it gonna be? Huh? Gonna be goddamned hard digging your own grave with no fucking fingers.”
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