Contents
What it's About
Copyright
Dedication
Part One - The Uninvited and The Unwelcome
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two - Show and Tell
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part Three - Head to Head
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Thanks
Also Available
A Final Note from the Author
The South is rising. Again…
Deep in the heart of a dying Texas is a place. A place that promises safety. Survival. Hope.
But this is no ordinary place. It’s a place where the dead want in, and the living want out.
Because after all, promises are made to be broken…
Welcome to the South. Where the dead are dangerous, and the living are deadly.
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This is a work of fiction. That’s right, I made it all up. All of the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed within are either products of my messed up imagination or are used fictitiously.
So relax. It ain’t real, folks.
Dead South Rising: Death Row (Book 2)
Copyright © 2014 by Shawn Langley
All rights reserved.
Sean Robert Lang
PO Box 312
Cushing, TX 75760
www.seanrobertlang.com
Book cover designed by Adrijus G. from Rocking Book Covers
For Cass. My everything.
PART ONE
The Uninvited and The Unwelcome
Chapter 1
The smiling young boy sat at the unfinished pool’s edge, legs crossed beneath him. He gripped the stick tightly, playing tug of war with his decaying friends that roamed the smooth concrete below. He yanked hard and won yet another round. He was beginning to think he was invincible, unbeatable. And he was loving this game he seemed guaranteed to win.
But a growing frustration seeped into him, because not all of his ‘friends’ were getting to play, and that just wasn’t fair. If he was going to declare himself the tug-o-war champion, he had to beat all the players, not just the ones who kept offering to play with him. He did enjoy and appreciate their enthusiasm. They were more than willing to play, and many of them wanted to play at the same time.
“We’ve got to take turns. That’s how the game works,” he told the rotting, writhing mob below.
They answered with snapping jaws, hisses, and snarls. And groping hands. Strong hands. Still strong, even in death.
The boy stood easily, setting the stick down as he pressed to his feet. He brushed his hands together, then wiped them against the dirty denim that adorned his legs. He was eager to get back to his game, to include those who’d been left out.
But he’d been careless, left his stick hanging over the concrete’s tiled edge, and one of his overly eager friends grabbed it.
“Uh! No fair! No fair!”
The boy’s shoulders slumped in disappointment and defeat, and a frown dug its way deep into his face. How could he have let this happen? He couldn’t be champion this way.
He stomped his foot once. “Okay, give it back.”
Then he waited. But his friends continued to hog the stick, refusing to hand it back. They seemed happy being the champions.
He huffed. “I said give it back.” After another beat, he added, “Please? Please give it back.”
He waited, hoping they’d hear his desperate plea, hoping it would work just as well on his playmates as it had once worked on his parents. But they ignored his demand, instead groping at him as though he were the stick. To play with. To take.
The young child shrugged. “I don’t have one right here. I have to go get another one.” He sighed.
More hisses. More snarls. Growls.
He ignored these as he ignored the stench of death wafting from that putrid pit and focused on finding another stick. He wanted to continue his game, wanted to be a winner, not a loser. Can’t lose a game he made up. This was his game, a game he was supposed to win.
Looking around, he spotted no other sticks. This disappointed him, as he desperately wanted to get back to playing tug of war, not searching for another stick.
He almost said a bad word in front of his new friends. He was glad he didn’t, though, because they might tell on him. Didn’t want to get into trouble. He’d already promised the adults inside he wouldn’t play near the pool.
“I’m going to find another stick, okay?”
The decomposing group growled encouragingly.
Hurry back to us. Hurry back now. We’re not done playing with you, yet.
The boy rather wished one of his new friends would go fetch another stick so that he could continue playing. He actually held off for a moment to see if one of them would crawl out of that slippery hole and help him find another tug of war tool. But no one offered, instead choosing to play without him, using the stolen stick.
Finally giving up on them, the child scanned the area, half expecting a new branch to magically appear so that he could get back to business. He had a game to win, after all. He didn’t have time for such nonsense as replacing his tug of war stick. Not when there was a perfectly good one right in front of him.
He brought the edge of his small hand to his glistening brow, shielding the rude sun that insisted on making his eyes hurt, making everything too bright and too hot. He had left his plastic Batman sunglasses inside the Alamo, tucked away in his backpack. He didn’t have time to go inside and get them, though. He had a game to get back to.
But then he stopped looking, turned back to the pool. Why should he have to go and get another stick? Why couldn’t he just reach into the pool and grab his stick back? It was his stick, after all, not theirs.
The boy started to tell them that they were being impolite, not playing fair. Being disrespectful. He liked that word: disrespectful. It was one of the last words his grandpa had taught him, and it was one of the big words that he understood and enjoyed saying. He especially loved emphasizing the ‘p.’
Dis-res-PECT-ful.
“You’re being dis—”
But he didn’t finish saying it, didn’t want to upset his squirming, slithering playmates. What if they told on him? Surely telling them that they were dis-res-PECT-ful would make them m
ad. Then they’d tell on him for sure. Would say that he was being dis-res-PECT-ful. And he wasn’t done playing. Not yet.
He shuffled to the edge of the pool, which excited his friends like so many dogs ready for a game of fetch. Except the boy was the ball, and they had no intention of letting go once they sunk their teeth into him.
“Don’t you want to play anymore?” He seemed oblivious to the fetor clogging the afternoon air.
He crossed his arms, ballooning his cheeks, pouting. His friends had dropped the stick and were now stepping on it. He leaned over, tipping on the balls of his feet, trying to get a closer look, to find the stick.
Crack.
“No,” he said, except with two syllables, dragging out the word. Like Noah. “Ah, man.”
They’d broken his stick, walked all over it. Now he had no choice. He’d have to find another.
He considered punishing them, stopping the game. Not playing anymore.
You broke it, so no more tug-o-war.
The idea made him feel powerful, in control. Like an adult. He’d heard how David had punished those bad men, taught them a lesson. He liked David, wanted to be just like him. He could punish his playmates, like David would, then he could be like him.
But if he really wanted to punish them, he’d take the stick away. Go in there and snatch it right out from under them. Then they’d have nothing to play with, couldn’t play without him.
Bryan scanned the area, his hand slicing his brow again, blocking the battering-ram rays from above. His shirt was starting to stick to his back, sweat tickling his tummy. But he didn’t care, hardly noticed. He was having too much fun in spite of these swimming pool friends playing a brand new game with him.
Keep away.
“I don’t want to play keep away,” he muttered to himself, still glancing around. “I want to play tug-o-war.”
He eyed the shallow end, but the steps hadn’t been built yet. Anyway, his stick wasn’t at that end of the pool.
Then he spotted the ladder that led down into the pool. His playmates hadn’t tried to climb out. The bottom rung was too high up, and they couldn’t raise their legs high enough. And they didn’t seem strong enough to pull themselves up. Bryan minced around the concrete’s edge, arms out like wings. Hazy, milky eyes below followed him closely.
On the other side, he grasped the two gleaming aluminum rails atop the ladder, then immediately pulled his hands away.
“Ow.” He waved his hands wildly, blowing on them. “Hot, hot, hot.” He hopped on his foot as though he’d burned it, too.
He reached out again, cautiously this time. His playmates had mostly migrated to the end of the pool by the ladder, where he was. Their hands were raised, clawing at the air and catching it. A few of them had hold of the ladder and were desperately trying to pull themselves up.
“I wish you’d just give me my stick,” Bryan told all of them. “It’s not fair that you get to play with it and I don’t. I got it for all of us, now I want it back. Anyways, you already broke it. So why do you want to keep it?” There was a touch of anger churning his tone.
Bryan eyed the ladder, studying, figuring. Planning. He wanted his stick—which had actually become two sticks—and he was going to get it. He was a big kid, after all. His grandpa had told him so, before the old man had gotten sick and before David had helped the old man ‘get better’ with that knife.
David promised that neither Bryan nor Charlie would get sick. Bryan trusted David. The man was his hero, because he was like a policeman, carried a gun like one. Punished bad men. Didn’t let people get sick. He wanted to be just like David.
That’s when Bryan felt the tug on his pants’ leg, felt his foot slip out from underneath him. His playmates weren’t done playing with him, stick or no stick.
Bryan’s poor little heart slammed into his sternum like a bird that had unwittingly flown into a closed window. But he didn’t scream, didn’t yell. His body got very heavy, very quickly. One of his friends in the pool had hold of his pants’ leg and wouldn’t release him.
“Let go!” Bryan ordered in a harsh whisper. He tried pulling his leg up but couldn’t. “I said let go! We’re going to get in trouble!”
He was losing this round of tug-o-war, and he slid, hands squeaking along the ladder rails. He landed hard on his backside, his calf dangling over the side wall. They had more than just his jeans, now.
Before he could chastise his playmates with a scream, sure hands hooked his armpits from behind and yanked him up and away from the groping ghouls. The boy’s shoe soared into the air, clonking a corpse on the head. The group grasped at the sneaker as though it were alive, could still smell life on it.
The man swung Bryan around and away from the pungent death pit, holding him out like a baby with a dirty diaper.
Bryan trembled. But it wasn’t with fear of the dead that had just tried to eat him. It was with fear of the living, of the stranger who had just saved his life. He just knew he was in trouble, didn’t dare twist his head to look over his shoulder at the man who’d just scooped him up. Strong words were in store, and he’d avoid them for as long as possible, if even for only a few more seconds.
The man walked several paces away from the pool before finally setting the terrified child in the burnt-up grass. Bryan did not turn around; he feared a spanking, or worse.
Behind the boy, leather creaked, the sound of someone making himself shorter. Bryan’s heart slammed a ferocious, fearful beat. Punishment was coming. Maybe a belt. He wanted to run, to get away. Far away. Hide under a bed. He shuddered, the memory of the stinging switch his grandpa often used on his backside fresh on his mind. He feared the switch, even more than the belt.
He flinched at the hand on his shoulder.
“You okay, Bryan?” The man’s voice was surprisingly soft, gentle. It didn’t sound mad or upset. And it rode on a heavy drawl, an accent that Bryan remembered from somewhere else. He hadn’t heard this voice in several days. Wasn’t sure at that time if he’d ever hear it again. But he remembered it, had definitely heard it before.
Chancing a scolding, the boy turned slowly to face the man crouched behind him, to face that familiar voice. The stranger smiled, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow across his face. Bryan wondered why this man wore such a big, long coat in the summer. He finally decided it was to hide the two guns he recalled seeing before.
Dropping his eyes, the boy answered the question with small, tight nods.
The man patted the boy’s leg with the lightest touch. “No scratches? No bites?”
Bryan shook his head, the stubborn little sprig of hair that would never lie down bobbing about.
The stranger’s smile widened, and he smoothed his wispy mustache while giving the boy another once over before standing, satisfied. “That’s good, Bryan. That’s very good.” He glanced around.
Bryan felt the need to explain himself, to make an excuse, but the words were stuck, choking him. He felt water in his eyes, and he blinked, not wanting to cry in front of this man or his friends in the pool.
Still glancing around, the man in the black coat and black hat held a hand to Bryan, silently urging him to take it.
Bryan hesitated.
“It’s okay, Bryan.”
The boy brought this hand to his brow again as he tried to look up at the cowboy man towering above him. He could no longer see the stranger’s face, and his eyes hurt from the stinging sun and unused tears. He wished he had his Batman sunglasses.
“Come with me, Bryan. Take my hand.” The man in the hat seemed to be in a hurry to get going now that he knew Bryan was okay.
Pressing his lips into a thin line, Bryan stood there, unmoving. He thought about what his parents had told him, to not go with strangers. But David said that if he knew someone’s name, then they weren’t a stranger anymore. Bryan had trusted David, and David was a nice man. He remembered this cowboy’s name. The man had told him while Bryan waited in the big truck for David to come back that day
, on the side of the road. Doctor Holliday. Bryan still wasn’t sure what the name meant, why this doctor only worked holidays. But maybe this Doctor Holliday was a nice man, too.
The doctor who worked holidays crouched in front of him, and he laid his hands gently on Bryan’s shoulders. He tossed another quick glance behind him, then said, “Do I scare you, son?”
A shallow head shake.
“Do they scare you?” the man asked, dipping his chin toward the pool.
Another shallow shake.
The man’s eyes narrowed, as if thinking hard about something. “How curious.” Another glance around. “Would you like to help me with something?”
A glimmer lit Bryan’s eyes. Or it may have been a left over tear.
Doctor Holliday said, “Something fun?”
Bryan nodded a slow nod, the ghost of a smile tugging his lips. He started to relax a little. He was feeling better about this Doctor Holliday.
“I could really use your help, Bryan. Do you like presents?”
The corners of Bryan’s mouth curved skyward, and he nodded more enthusiastically this time, the stubborn sprig of hair dancing about.
“Do you believe in Santa Claus, Bryan?”
A full smile this time, another emphatic nod.
“I have a present I need to deliver, just like Santa Claus. But Santa doesn’t deliver during the summer. Therein lies my conundrum.” The cowboy scratched his chin, his eyes wandering to the sky, thinking. He snapped his fingers. “I know. Could you help me deliver it? Just like Santa Claus would? I’m sure you’d land on his ‘good boy list’ if you were to help.”
Another energetic nod. He’d forgotten all about being in trouble, his lost shoe, the broken stick. Tug-o-war. Instead, he was excited at the prospect of helping this man who smelled of leather and sweat and looked like a cowboy.
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Page 1
