“David? You’re scaring me…”
He didn’t hear her. All he could hear was the sound of another’s voice. The voice of a woman he had fallen in love with, had asked to marry him. Who had said yes and had bore his only child, Karla. A woman he’d promised to take care of, to love ’til death did them part.
’Til death do us part. Here’s one of my parts… dear.
He couldn’t stop himself. He reached into the box, and held her hand once again, his thumb stroking the blood-caked skin. He recognized her hand, knew it was hers. Doubt did not exist. But if there were any doubt, it was quashed by the ring on the dainty decaying finger. He’d recognize that ring anywhere. He’d found it, picked it out, bought it. Gave it to her—a happy proposal on bended knee—and laid eyes on it everyday thereafter. Touched it when they’d held hands, just like now. He knew her hand well, and the ring was simply his last name attached.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there like that, holding his dead wife’s hand inside that box. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours. No way to tell. He didn’t hear Jessica scream, didn’t notice her run out of the room, yanking Bryan with her. Didn’t notice her come back into the room, tears streaming down her face, Randy in tow, along with Doctor Gonzalez, others. Didn’t notice them all looking at him, talking to him, at him, coaxing him to let go—to just let go.
He’d found his wife. Or she’d found him.
Chapter 5
With Southern Comfort-fueled patience, Tom Mackey waited. Sip, swallow, wait, repeat. His trigger fingers itched, craved a kill. A very important kill. The kill of his life.
He’s in there, dahlin’. And he’s alive, so says the boy.
I know he is, Doc. And you will kill him. Soon. For me.
For you. Soon. I will.
Three days ago, he’d returned to Mitch’s place to retrieve his dead—murdered—wife’s body, to lay her to rest. Kate deserved a proper burial. He would not allow her to rot on the side of that shitty driveway like so much roadkill. And she was there, right where he’d left her that horrible night, after finding her viciously run over. Mauled by metal and rubber guided by the carelessness of a soon-to-be dead man.
That goddamned David Morris.
And like any other faithful husband who loved his wife unconditionally, he broke down all over again, spilling endless tears over her, onto her. For her. He wished he could bring her back. Wished he could see her chest move with life again, her lips smile, her lids flutter. Eyes glow. Smell her lavender bath soap mix with her natural scent. But his grieving tears held no such magical, mystical healing power, and she remained… dead. Ironic, in a world where the dead lived.
He clutched his chest, bowed his head. Southern Comfort could only comfort so much.
After he had loaded up her body that day, he decided to check out Mitch’s place one last time. He presumed that Sammy and Gills had killed David, finished him off, as it were. Left the body for the biters and vultures and dogs… and maggots. Given the hellish depth of Tom’s rage and need for a very specific spiritual restitution, he had to be sure. His future, his existence—his life—hinged on destroying David. But he found no body—at least not the one he was looking for, and he again thanked the god beneath his heels.
He did find two friends, though. Two friends he thought he’d lost forever. The reunion lit a ring of hope around his hurting heart, his love for them second only to the love for his wife. Gleaming resplendently in the dirt of the drive, among the weeds and the rocks and spilled blood, were Bessie and Bertha—his beloved Ruger Vaquero pistols.
This wasn’t just a fortuitous find; it went beyond chance or luck. Destiny, not serendipity, had brought him and his steel back together. Tools of reckoning, extensions of himself. Fate was giving him the green light, the go ahead, and he had every intention of doing just that.
In Mitch’s yard and in the pasture, under a bright morning sun, he found no Sammy, no Guillermo. No David. Tom had checked each and every corpse in the vicinity, while adding a few others to the collection, and discovered only twice-dead strangers. This delighted him, further proved that his mission of vengeance—his calling—was right and true. He would kill David. He would kill Sammy. He would kill Guillermo. Jessica. Randy. Bryan. He would kill them. All of them.
He stole another sip of Southern Comfort before movement by the building snagged his eye, and he smiled a smug, knowing smile. Four or five men, armed and searching, as though looking for an intruder. An uninvited guest. A living one. Bryan had delivered.
Well done, kiddo.
Tom stepped back, pinching the brim of his hat. He felt invulnerable there, veiled in the tree’s shroud and shadow. He doubted the men could see him. His observation post, roughly two-hundred yards south of the building, was on the edge of the woods, immediately behind the barbed wire fence that divided forest from field. Even if they spotted him and were to light out after him, he’d have a significant head start. Never mind that he had more bullets than there were people to chase him. And he was a good shot. A very good shot.
As he watched the men sweep the grounds inside the wrought iron fence, he tugged back his coat’s edge, rested a palm on Bessie, his six-shooter. His heart fluttered, happy to have the western-style wheel gun holstered on his hip once again. He felt complete, whole. Dangerous.
Immortal.
“Curb your jealousy, Bertha,” he drawled to the eight-shooter hanging low on his other hip. “You’ll both get your chance at the big dance.”
In his mind’s eye, he rehearsed David’s death for the umpteenth time—visualizing, really seeing it happen. He envisaged a gleaming Bessie, her majestic barrel pressed to David’s terrified heart. The scarlet spray of the first kill shot. David’s heart conceding this life, wispy white smoke coiling from the empty hole, a symbolic white flag of surrender.
I… give… up.
Life essence extinguished.
Tom would watch, wait for David to turn. And he would turn. He’d become… a biter. But before he could take that first bite, before David could taste the living, Tom—
Doc
—would press Bertha’s equally magnificent barrel between David’s foggy eyes. He’d revel in that glorious moment, inhale it like his favorite cigarette. Taste it like his favorite whiskey. Feel it like his wife’s electric touch. Love it as he’d loved Kate’s pure and innocent soul. He’d live it as if it were his last moment to live.
Be that moment. Become it.
He’d thumb back the hammer, hear it click splendidly. Another blast of crimson and steaming pale flesh, the barren glow gone from David’s eyes a second time. Forever, never to glimmer again.
A near orgasmic sigh left him as glass met his lips, and Doc took a small pull from the whiskey bottle, savoring the bite. He desired a cigarette with his liquid lunch, but didn’t chance one. Not with Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement residents just across the way, working to ferret him out. He needed to be cunning and smart, not give away his location with smoke signals. Smells.
Over here, ladies and gentlemen. Follow the traces of tobacco smoke crumb trails.
Stupidity and carelessness got folks killed in a hurry. Was true before the dead roamed, was true now. Be smart. Stupid kills. He thought he’d read that on a bumper sticker once.
Leaving stray drops on parched lips, he squinted, trying to gather clues as to the group’s progress. There was pointing, yelling. The pool full of biters a source of contention. Temporarily, at least. One of the men got in another’s face. Shoving. More pointing, arguing.
A house divided. How delightful.
Tom’s little gift had made waves, created a rift fueled by fear and the unknown. Proposed questions with no answers.
How did this happen? Where did he come from? Where was he?Inside the fence? How? Why would someone do this? Why, why, WHY?
Ask motherfucking David Morris. Ask him, why?
Doc had stirred serious emotions. Mix those with alarm and terror, along with a dash
of the unknown, and things would go his way, by his plan. Not that he had much of a plan…
How he yearned to have been that famous fly on the wall, witnessed David’s face when the cardboard released its secret. He could only imagine for now, but his imagination was vivid, and he smiled. He’d be sure to ask David about it before squeezing the—
The whip-crack of the rifle shot and exploding bark beside his head snatched him from his musing. He lost a breath, dropped to one knee.
Another shot sullied the peace, and he was certain, positive, that lead had found flesh. Had heard the sickening punch of bullet through body and bone. He patted himself, convinced he’d caught it, been that mark. And he’d be partly right.
Tom—his identity—was the mark, the intended target. His physical body, however, did not catch the metal meant for him. Another entity mistakenly thought to be him was sacrificed, unwittingly stood in for him. A divine intervention allowed Tom’s life to continue while freeing the decomposing soul of another, now twice dead.
On the other side of the tree, the ghoul gurgled in its death throes. Knees giving out, it hit the ground with two distinct thuds.
Tom breathed hard, thankful breaths.
Musing—and slightly tipsy—Tom had been blind to the dead man beside him. Assuming he was alone, he’d been careless, self-absorbed, unobservant… stupid.
Be smart. Stupid kills. You know what they say about assuming, Doc. Makes an ass of u and—
I know what they say.
Do you, Doc? Do you know what they say? Do you know what they’re saying about you right now?
Who? That bemused and befuddled group of inbreds across the field?
Whom else would I be talking about, Doc?
Perhaps you’d prefer conversing with company that gave a fuck.
Tom tuned out the contentious voice yammering away incessantly inside his head, deciding instead to listen to his gut. And it screamed at him loud and clear:
Get the hell out of here. While you still can.
Chapter 6
David swung his legs out of the bed, and the box fell to the floor. But the hand—his wife’s precious hand—remained firmly within his own. He would not let go of her again.
The barrage of emotions beating him down ran the gamut, from one heart wrenching extreme to the other. Back and forth, from suicidal sadness to unbridled fury. These feelings propelled him like some spiritual nuclear reactor on the verge of meltdown, both powering and poisoning. They got him moving, thinking past worldly possibilities. Whoever had done this to him—to her—would endure a punishment, a judgement, beyond any this physical existence alone could ever deliver. He would find a way, would call on hell itself if need be.
Voices faded in and out.
“… back down, David. Please. Just lie back down and…”
He felt as though he were being lifted out of bed, but no one touched him. He was standing, but didn’t remember pressing to his feet.
“… hurt yourself if you…”
Gliding. Along the floor, floating toward the door.
“… David… David …”
The room glowed like heaven, or maybe hell. He wasn’t sure which. It had gotten bright, suddenly… brilliant.
He lifted the beautiful hand within his own and gazed at it, the ring glittering and sparkling, just as it had done that day under the lights at the jewelry store. A dazzling purity, untarnished, redolent of the soul he would later give it to.
His cheek stung, his body becoming suddenly heavy.
“David!”
Jessica’s frightened tone shattered his reverie like a mirror, and he brought his own fingertips to his face, rubbing where she’d slapped him.
“You’ve got to snap out of this. Please.”
His uncovered eye darted around the room, finding focus, losing it, then finding it again. There were others watching him, hands pressed together, tented beneath chins. Lips pursed. Looks of sorrow, of deep concern. Of fear.
Doctor Gonzalez moved toward him, reaching for his wife’s hand.
David yanked it back reflexively, a knee-jerk reaction.
The doctor said, “David, it’s not healthy. You could get—”
“Don’t touch me.” His voice boomed despite bruised lungs. Gripping Natalee’s hand harder, he held it in plain sight of the others. With breaths out of rhythm and on the brink of a sob, he said, “Where did… where did Bryan get…?”
Those in the room answered with only blinks and stares.
His voice more sure, “I said, where did Bryan get this?” He held his wife’s hand higher, a visual punctuation mark.
Jessica braved an answer. “He… he said that… Doc was here. That Doc gave it to him.”
David’s shoulders heaved as he pulled in deep breaths, throbbing, fractured ribs be damned. The physical pain he’d experienced seemed somehow superficial now. A surface aggravation, easily scraped away. He’d shed it like a snake sheds its skin, be done with the shallow suffering so he could focus on the deeper hurt buried and pulsating in his heart.
“Where is he?”
Those in the room traded unknowing glances.
“Where is he?” David yelled. “Where is Doc?”
Jessica’s hands slapped her ears. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” She seemed ready to cry.
David crossed to the door, slung it open. It rattled, vibrating on sure hinges. He stepped into the hall, calling out, “Bryan? Bryan? Come here, Bryan. I need to talk to you.”
Hooking his arm, Jessica tried pulling David back into his room. “Leave him alone, David. You’ll scare him. He’s already upset. He didn’t know what was in the—”
“I need to know, Jess. I have to know.” He shook the dismembered hand at her, his emotions swinging back toward despair. “Doc… he mutilated her. My god, Jess…”
She chanced a tender touch. “I know, David. I know. He’s a monster.”
He felt his knees weaken, and he wanted to let go, collapse in a heap to the floor. Lie there for hours, days, forever. Before he could, Bryan materialized down the hall. He approached David, his pace slow and cautious, steps taken by a mischievous child caught, about to face the belt. Or the switch. His chin quivered, sad eyes glassy. Charlie, his puppy, followed with the same, depressed gait.
David’s nails dug into his own palm as he worked to calm and quiet the erratic noise inside him. Seeing the boy and his dog was like Vicodin for his hurting heart. He kneeled, hiding his wife’s hand behind his back. No matter how distraught David was, he couldn’t subject Bryan to the sight of it.
But he couldn’t hide the tremble in his voice. “Hey, champ.”
Upon reaching David, Bryan said softly, “Are you mad at me?”
David held him by one shoulder. “Of course not, Bry.”
“I heard you yell. Like you were mad.”
“Not at you, Bryan. I could never be mad at you.”
Brushing away an errant tear, Bryan said, “Who are you mad at?”
David felt his throat closing, choking him. “Where did you get the box, champ?” He coughed lightly. “The present.”
“Doctor Holliday gave it to me. To give to you. He said it was like a Christmas present, and that it was fragile.”
Breathing became shallowed, and David dipped his chin to hide his own tear. Recovering quickly, he said, “Where… where did you see Doc?”
The child pointed back behind him, toward the warehouse double-doors.
“In the warehouse?”
“No, outside.”
“Outside? Past the fence? In the field?”
“By the pool.”
David hesitated, then said, “The pool? How did he get… Why were you by the pool, Bryan? We’ve told you to never go outside without an adult, no matter what. Remember? And to stay far away from the pool.”
Bryan’s lips thinned, chin quivering again. A shallow nod.
“Who gave you permission to go out there?” That familiar choppy anger churned just benea
th his tone.
The boy hesitated.
Urging him on, David said, “It’s okay Bryan. You’re not tattling. I need to know.”
“Mister… Mister Roy told me to go outside and play. That the adults were busy inside at a—”
“Roy?”
Bryan nodded.
“He told you to go outside, by yourself?”
Another nod. Trembling.
And immediately, the pendulum of pain swung toward raging anger, smashing through the wall like a wrecking ball and exposing a newfound fury he didn’t know existed.
But he was relieved to find it, that simmering misery of absolute hate that stoked his outrage and ate the pain. It was there, in his blood, seething. Always there, he’d tried his best to ignore it, leave it be, occasionally poking at it, teasing it, like some dangerous caged animal. But always with his back to that wall, never breaking through. Until now.
And with rage and hate and hurt, an epiphany. He’d learned a critical life lesson recently, one that he’d failed to acknowledge before, but would certainly abide by forever going forward: finish what you start. Or someone else will.
Had he killed Mitch, like he originally planned, these fallen dominos might still be standing. Instead, they toppled, loosing a hellish series of events that could only end in despair and ultimately death. David’s despair. David’s death. Their despair. Their deaths.
Should have killed him. Should have killed Mitch. Should have killed Sammy. Guillermo. Should have killed them. Shoulda’… woulda’… coulda’… Will.
And maybe had the Janitor executed David’s plan to flatten the shufflers that had surrounded the Alamo’s fence, Roy would still be acting like a normal person instead of sending innocent, defenseless children to their deaths. But the Janitor hadn’t, and Roy had. In a strange way, David welcomed it, because it gave him something to focus his aggrieved soul on since Doc wasn’t readily available to kill. A practice target. Roy had it coming.
He pressed to his feet. He started to turn, then stopped. “Thank you, Bryan. You did nothing wrong. Hear me? You and Charlie… you’re good.” He actually managed a smile, then added, “Hang out with Jess for a few minutes, okay?”
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Page 5
