David considered fucking with him, telling him whatever.
Yeah, it’s over there, just by the tree line. Dig there. Oh? Not there, you say? Probably in the pond, then. Yeah, try the pond, right out in the middle. Not there, either, you say? Maybe Mitch buried the secret treasure in his ass. Yep, that’s where he hid it. Gonna have to dig him up. Should of checked when you had the chance … pendejo.
But David would be the one digging, doing all the work. Just like he’d dug Mitch’s grave. All by himself. And he just didn’t have it in him to dig anymore, even to stall Sammy. He just couldn’t, being physically and mentally spent. Besides, when nothing was found, they’d either call him a liar, or believe that Mitch must have moved the stuff, rendering David no longer useful (other than for digging, which he would refuse) and therefore expendable. In either case, they’d beat and/or kill him. He figured he was a deadman, so why not have some fun with them?
David must have drifted off, because Sammy shook him hard. “I said what’s it gonna be? I’ll duct tape that goddamn shovel to your bloody stumps and have you dig all over this goddamned field until you find it. Comprende, asshole?”
By this time, Gills had sidled up to Sammy, his Bowie knife gleaming in the final waning rays of the day. He appeared eager, ready to play with his sharp toy. He was a hungry shark circling a wounded seal. Scraping the blade against his own scarred cheeks, he reiterated Sammy’s request. “He said, what’s it going to be, cabrón?”
That fucking fury that David had done such a fantastic job of keeping at bay for most of the afternoon and evening just couldn’t be kept in check any longer. It started in his core, a quaking rumble, vibrating through his legs, his arms, warming his body like heating elements on a stovetop. He felt like he was going numb, yet he felt everything—every throb, every ache, every cut and bruise. Exhausted muscles tightened. His second wind was going to be a tornado of rage. And there was simply no stopping it. He wouldn’t even try to.
David stood as tall and upright as his beaten body would allow. He coughed lightly, then said, “You wanna know … where it is?”
“Damn skippy,” said Sammy.
Guillermo crossed his massive arms, the knife still protruding firmly in his grasp like some metal sail.
David practically mouthed, “I’ll whisper it.”
Sammy furrowed his brow, frowned. “Wha?”
“I’ll whisper it to you,” David breathed.
Sammy leaned in closer.
With a wheeze, David’s beaten lungs pulled in a handicapped breath, then he looked Sammy straight in the eyes. “Fuck. You.”
The corners of Sammy’s mouth turned toward the darkening sky, and he slowly swiveled his head to look at Guillermo. “You hear that, Gills? El Jefe just told me—”
As Sammy’s head was pivoting back to David, David mustered the thickest, nastiest wad of phlegm he could manage. Then fired it. Like gooey buckshot. Straight into Sammy’s open eyes.
A casual observer might have guessed Sammy’d been stung by a wasp based on his reaction alone. He reeled backward, hands flailing to his face. His ankles tangling, he landed hard on his ass. “Motherfucker!” He desperately wiped at his eyes, blinded by the mucous and blood and spit.
Gills reacted with haste—probably to avoid another phlegm projectile—grabbing David’s hair and slamming his head against the side of pickup. He quickly pressed the blade to David’s neck. Two bloody rivulets appeared beneath the knife’s edge, creeping down David’s neck, mixing with his sweat. Gills meant business.
Using his shirttail, Sammy wiped away as much of the mess from his face as he could. He pressed to his feet, brushed his hands together. “Oh, boy.” A chuckle. He started toward David. “You are one dead motherfucker, I’ll tell you what.” Another chuckle.
David couldn’t speak. He dared not move. Guillermo’s blade was sharp and licking at his life. One simple slice. That’s all it would take. Just a turn of his head. Then he considered pressing himself forward, saving the ruthless Mexican the trouble. Offing himself. To be done with it. Not give these two assholes the satisfaction.
“You are so fucking dead you don’t even know it,” Sammy said. His head was lowered, nostrils flaring, and huffing like a bull about to charge.
The only thing between David and Sammy was Gills.
Then Guillermo turned his head slightly, cutting his eyes to Sammy.
Sammy started to shove Gills to the side. “Move, Gills. He’s—”
“Shh. Listen,” Guillermo said. He still had David’s hair clutched, knife to his throat. “You hear that, amigo?”
Sammy was still pumping furious breaths, his fists clenching over and over. He flicked his nose with his thumb, like he was about to start boxing.
“I don’t hear nothing.”
“Wait … there it is again.” Gills nodded toward the cab of the truck.
Sammy eyed Gills doubtfully, his own ears deceiving him, casualties of gunfire too close to his head. “I still don’t—”
“Cállate, cabrón.”
“You shut up.” After firing off a sneer at Gills, Sammy obliged his Mexican pal, then opened the cab door. And with the door now open, Sammy heard it, too.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Sammy said, a sinister smile creeping across his face.
And that’s when David heard it.
No. No, no, no, no.
From inside the truck cab, a two-way radio beeped. “David? Are you there, David? Answer me, please.”
Jessica’s desperate voice drifted from the cab via the two-way the Janitor had given David that morning. For safety. Just in case.
It was a done deal, David’s death. The ink was wet and drying fast. Jessica’s was signed, as well. And if Randy accompanied her, the big man would be a part of that deadly deal, too.
Chapter 36
Jessica put it off for as long as she dared, and for as long as she could. She fought her fear, though. Stepped right up to it, punched it right in the throat, and was duly rewarded. Rewarded with the absence of that drawling, menacing voice that had tormented and teased her with death. That had told her David was dead. That had told her Mitch was dead. That voice that had called her dahlin’. Seemed like that voice might have been right all along, though.
But instead she’d found another voice. One just as malicious, just as depraved. And she knew this voice, had met its owner. That dusty, vocal-chords-through-the-lumbermill tone. The one filled with arrogance and conceit. And that chuckle. That shitty little cocksure chuckle.
“He’s full of shit,” Jessica said to Randy, clutching the now silent two-way radio in a tight, trembling grip. If she was trying to convince herself of the fact, she was failing. Miserably.
“I still don’t get why Mitch would go along with this,” she continued. She was shaking, angry. “He’s an asshole, not a murderer. I mean, I know he and David hate each other. Hell, can’t stand each other’s guts. But never in a million years would I have guessed he’d throw his hat in with those two. Stoop to this. I mean, threatening to kill someone? To kill David? They’ve gotta be bluffing. Gotta be.” Instead of pinching herself to see if she was dreaming, she hooked her seatbelt with her thumb and let it snap back fast against her shoulder. Nope, not dreaming. Wide awake.
Crossing her arms, she glared at Randy. And then she saw it again. That little tell Randy had when he was holding something back. Hiding something. She’d caught glimpses of it here and there all day. With a heavy beard and thick-framed glasses obscuring a good bit of his face, she couldn’t always spot it, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Not this time. There was something more. Something he wasn’t saying.
But he did eventually.
“They’re lying. About Mitch.” He swallowed hard. “Mitch … he’s …” Randy started. He was looking straight at her, looked like he’d seen a ghost, but then averted his gaze.
“Mitch what? What’d he do?”
He let out a long, lingering breath, emptying his huge lungs. Then gathered
a gulp of courage. “David was going to tell you … tonight or tomorrow … when you got to feeling better.”
“Tell me what?”
She knew it. Just knew it. Randy had been holding back. And so had David. Whatever Mitch had done, it must have been pretty serious, because Randy was having one hell of a time spilling it.
Her impatience brimmed. “Tell me what, Randy? We’re losing time, here.”
She was frustrated. Outraged. But also scared. Uncertain. And Randy’s stalling and pussy-footing was pissing her off.
“For Chrissake, Randy. Spit it out, already.”
And just like that, he blurted those three words she would not soon forget: Mitch. Is. Dead.
The words slapped her eardrums, and she flinched. She simply sat there for a moment, stunned, allowing those three syllables to penetrate her. Those powerful, impacting three little beats. Where would Randy have heard such shocking nonsense?
She jabbed a thumb to the passenger window, as though Mitch’s place were on the other side of it. “But … on the walkie … just a second ago … Sammy made it sound like … like Mitch was there and …”
Randy just stared at her, sympathetic eyes peeking through thick lenses, his lips pursed. The tiniest of head shakes.
But how could this be? They—David, Bryan, Randy, herself—had all left together that night, and—
David went back. That night. David went back. He acted so strange this morning. Did he—?
Her voice quivered. “Did … did David … did he …?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask properly. Her imagination filled in the blanks in the worst possible way. David wasn’t a killer. Or was he?
Randy quickly and vehemently shook his head. “No, no of course not. He didn’t do it. He found him. Mitch was already …”
Jess brushed a tear from her cheek. “Bitten?”
Randy shook his head again, though not quite as forcefully.
“Someone … living? Killed …?”
This time Randy nodded. “Yeah. Someone else did it. It wasn’t David.”
And she was suddenly much more scared. Much more afraid. Going on terrified. She didn’t ask him who had actually killed Mitch, not that Randy would have known. Or maybe he did. She just automatically assumed Sammy and/or Gills had done the deed. Who else would have done it? If Randy was right, if Sammy was willing to kill his own brother, or allow Gills to do it for him, he’d have no qualms about taking David, a complete stranger, out of the game of life.
She was officially terrified.
And now she understood why Sammy had refused to let her talk to Mitch on the radio. He had lied about him not being there. In a sense, anyway.
Try me, Sammy’d said. Just try me, and see if your boy David lives. You got till nine o’clock to get your fine little ass out here. Now don’t you be late for our date, sweet cheeks.
Those kissy, smoochy sounds. That chuckle.
Ugh.
She swung the passenger door open, leaned out, and retched. She couldn’t stop it, snuck up on her much too fast and all at once. Her insides were spinning, a blender on high.
When she finished emptying her stomach, she sat up slowly, brushing hair out of her face, running her arm across her lips. Her throat burned, sizzled with sick. Her eyes were glazed and glassy. She needed to cry, but couldn’t. The tears had unexpectedly dried up, disappeared. Her whole body spun, catching up with her insides, and she fought off another round of vomiting.
Randy said, “Close your door.”
She was still dazed, unaware.
Randy tried again. “Jess, close your door. Hurry.”
Her head did a slow turn to look at him, and he quickly started the car, throwing it in gear. It lurched forward. And as it did, Jessica felt the tug on her shirt.
The undead lady didn’t get a good grip, and Jessica stayed in the car, mostly. She was suddenly thankful for the little things, like her habit of buckling up.
Seatbelts save lives.
As the car jolted forward, the door swung closed on her arm, acting as both a hinderance and a help. More help than hinderance, since it forced the undead woman to break her grasp. Jessica didn’t even scream, but the door slamming on her arm seemed to wake her from her trance.
“Ow, shit!” Jess yanked her arm back inside the vehicle, the rotting corpse beating on the outside of the car. She cradled her throbbing, soon-to-be-bruised arm.
With all of Jessica’s parts safely inside the vehicle again, Randy jammed on the gas and hauled ass about a mile down the road. The area appeared devoid of shufflers, so he stopped. But he kept a keen eye out. Highway 204 wasn’t much more than a slim hallway through thick forest, a narrow strip of darkening sky for a ceiling. Light was leaving them fast. As was time. Sammy had been clear about that, too.
Killing the engine, he said, “Jess, I’m so sorry. I should have told you. But I promised David … he wanted to be the one to tell you. Since he found him and all. I’m so sorry.”
The spinning was slowing, and she was starting to feel grounded again. She sat quietly for another minute or so.
The very real possibility of David’s death weighed heavy now and she understood the gravity of the incredibly volatile situation. She hadn’t taken Sammy seriously, thought he was full of shit. Boys being boys and such. She had talked back to him, even. Given him lip. David had sounded like crap when Sammy put him on. Didn’t even sound like himself, truth be told, and she questioned if it was really him. Actually thought it was Mitch fucking with her. But things were getting very real, very fast.
“We’ve got to go now.” She slapped the dash.
Randy nodded. “Right. Good idea. Get back to the Alamo, get some reinforcements, come back—”
“No,” Jess said, “we’ve got to go to Mitch’s.”
He just stared at her for a few seconds, big fish eyes blinking unbelievably, swimming behind thick fishbowl glasses. Finally, he spoke up. “It’s a suicide mission, Jess. Ain’t no two ways about it. Call it Kamikaze if you’d like, but if we go out there … those maniacs will kill us.” He let out a heavy breath. “And us dying won’t save David. So the only option I see’s to get back to the Alamo, round up some folks and—”
Jessica raised her voice, startling him. “There’s no time, Randy. Don’t you get it? Sammy made it clear. If we’re not there by nine o’clock, David’s as good as dead.”
And to think just that very afternoon she’d dismissed clocks and the extinct need for time. She suddenly found herself fighting her old nemesis again. Time was everything. Then nothing. Then everything again.
Time.
“We don’t have time, Randy,” Jessica said. Her voice shook with fear and anger and regret. And impatience. Randy had made his argument, and Jessica would have none of it. “They’ll kill him. They said they would.” Her eyes glassed over, no longer able to contain the salty flood surging behind them, replenished. “They killed Mitch, and I believe they’ll kill David.” And she meant it.
Jess knew she was right. Had a knack for it. Sixth sense, woman’s intuition, whatever folks wanted to call it. She had an accurate and acute case of it. Always had, all her life. And despite Randy’s persistent resistance, he knew it, too.
Now, only moments away from Mitch’s place, they had to make a critical decision.
Randy removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and said softly, “I don’t want to die, Jess. They’ll kill me. I held a gun to their faces. I helped cuff them to that tree.” He sniffled. “They’ll kill David whether we go out there or not. He’s just bait. They won’t kill you. They’ll kill me.” His hands had begun to visibly tremble.
Jessica felt for him, laid a hand on his arm.
And as badly as she hated to admit it, Randy was probably right. On both counts. She doubted that Sammy and Guillermo would kill her. They were bad dudes, for sure. No doubt about it. And she suspected serious evil intent, specifically with regard to David and Randy’s executions. But not her
s. Most likely take her hostage, prisoner. For what, she didn’t know. Maybe they’d force themselves on her. Have their way with her. Maybe.
She couldn’t even believe she was having to make such a decision. Only a month ago, she was standing in line at the grocery store. She couldn’t even remember what all she’d gone in for. Junk, probably. Trash food. Mitch was fond of chocolate-covered donuts, always sending her out for some.
Was. But not anymore, because he’s dead. Mitch. Is. Dead.
She shook her head with quick snaps, focusing. Time was slipping away. They were going to be late if they didn’t get going.
Driving in guns a’blazing would be suicidal, to use Randy’s term. But really, what other choice was there? When the clock struck nine, the guillotine would drop on David’s neck. They needed to be there to stop it. Or at least make it challenging.
She considered scouting the tree line, sneaking in through the south, as David had supposedly done. Randy had his rifle, but he wasn’t a great shot. It’d be risky. Much too risky. And it wouldn’t work, anyway. When she mentioned it, he shut her down immediately, citing his large, difficult-to-maneuver size and poor marksmanship. He was right on both counts. Not to mention his lack of confidence. There was no way he was traipsing through a mile of dense forest, not with his bulk. The brush and foliage were hardly conducive to brisk and furtive passage, even for someone of Jessica’s petite build. She struck the idea from the rapidly shrinking list.
Over the next several and very precious minutes, she wagered everything and anything that came to mind, no matter how ludicrous or outrageous. But nothing seemed even remotely workable. She saw no other way. If David had even a shred of hope for survival, she and Randy would have to go in with hands high, and pray for a merciful welcome.
But even then, she struggled with marching a man to his inevitable death. Maybe it was simply too late for David. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be. The end. Roll credits. Thanks for playing the game of life.
Tell him what he’s won, Grim Reaper. Well, Bob, David has just won an all-expenses-paid trip to the beautiful land of the afterlife. It’s off to the spirit world for him. But he won’t be alone. He’ll be accompanied by his best friends in the whole, wide world, Randy and Mitch. You remember Mitch, don’t cha, Dave? Left him to fend for himself, remember? He’s waiting, and he’s got a few questions for ya.
Dead South Rising: Book 1 Page 34
