She shook her head. That note. That creepy fucking child’s poem, mangled and twisted to express his vengeful whim. Threat of death in poetry.
What a dramatic, sick fuck.
It was after the argument with her cousin that she decided to take matters into her own hands. She would make things right. David was too weak, still too bruised and beat up. Inside and out, mentally and physically. Besides, she owed him her life.
She kept replaying it, David telling her to leave, to get out. Sent her packing, basically. He was seething when she’d left him, when she’d run into Luz Gonzalez, the doctor, in the hallway.
Luz?
Jessica.
I’m sorry to ask, but I need a huge favor.
What is it, Jessica?
It’s David. I’m worried about him.
I’m afraid I am, too, Jessica. We all are. What do you need?
Is there a way you could…
Could what?
Keep him… here?
What do you mean?
Like… restrain him? Lock him up in a room somewhere?
Dr. Gonzalez had given her a sidelong glance, brows cocked and eyes questioning, but then agreed in rather quick order. It was as if Luz had read her mind, or this was a common request. Or… like she’d been planning to lock him up all along.
Sure, Jessica. No problem. I’ll take care of it.
Thanks, Luz.
Glad to help.
Thanks again.
It pained her asking Luz for help, especially after their very public quarrel. Asking meant saving David from himself and Doc, so she choked down her pride, and did it, anyway. But Jess needed more than just the doctor’s help. This she knew, so she set out to find Randy after speaking with Dr. Gonzalez. She wanted to take him with her, for back up. For moral support. To tell her she was doing the right thing.
But he eluded her.
Probably off somewhere with Lenny.
Those two. They were inseparable. Always talking about professional wrestling or football. Lenny was the best of both worlds, simultaneously filling that big brother/best friend role. A presence missing from Randy’s life for so many years. She was happy he’d finally found it, especially since Mitch had always treated him like a second-class citizen. Anyway, someone deserved some semblance of happiness in this shitty world. Maybe she’d find some herself, soon.
Jess searched the halls, first checking the south wing, then the west. On the west wing, she peered out the tinted front doors. A couple of men armed with rifles chitchatted on the sidewalk leading to the front gate. One of them acknowledged her with a dip of his chin. She wondered how he saw her behind the dark doors, then realized the sun was shining straight into the vestibule. It was already late afternoon or early evening, the blazing ball above about to call it another day.
She reciprocated with a limp-wristed wave, turned, and headed for the north wing, where Randy’s room was. She doubted he’d be there, but deemed it worth checking.
At his door, she knocked lightly. “Randy?” she whispered into the wood. She really wasn’t sure why she was whispering. It was just so quiet inside the Alamo. A library sans books. Better keep quiet unless she wanted her knuckles struck with a ruler.
Where the hell is everybody?
She rapped on the door again. “Randy?”
After waiting in silence for few moments, she walked over to the east wing. She passed a couple of folks on the way, which helped quash the haunted house vibe. With the Doc debacle still relatively fresh, she assumed most everyone was probably outside, searching, guarding, keeping their collective eyes peeled.
She pressed through the warehouse doors, and they slammed shut behind her with a robust clank. The sound evinced memories of her school years, the kids rushing through those worn out double doors at the day’s final bell, the squeaky crash bars barely able to withstand the barrage, the constant day-in/day-out shoving from all those hands and hips. So many years ago…
On the loading dock, she scanned the scene. Nobody in the back lot, no one inside or outside the fence. Looking farther beyond the wrought iron palisade and into the field revealed more of the same. It was empty, lifeless. Not even a shuffler roaming the field. Usually there was at least one ambling about, sniffing them out.
She guessed the men must have eliminated them while searching for Doc. Unless they’d funneled them into the pool on the south side of the building. Jess found this strange. Initially, when her group had arrived at the Alamo, the residents had treated the undead as a legitimate threat, opting to stab or shoot them, just as her own group had done at Mitch’s place. She was still getting used to the idea, of killing the already dead, but had quickly grown to accept it as a necessary evil. Especially if she desired a long life. Or longer life.
But over the last few days, the Janitor had ordered that any shufflers roaming the premises be placed into the empty pool. Carefully placed there, ensuring none of them were ‘hurt’ or ‘injured’ any further. Strange. So very strange, especially for Gabriel. David told her that Gabriel believed as they did, that the shufflers were dead people walking and should be exterminated, humanely. A knife to the brain, preferably, or a bullet. Either worked effectively well, ending the perceived misery.
But after the meeting that morning, she understood that he was bending to the whims of the Infirmaries, was just attempting to keep the peace until he could convince certain folks—Roy for one—that killing shufflers was the right thing to do. The safe thing. The only thing. With Roy out of the picture now, she wondered how many others he’d have to convince.
Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen Gabriel since David’s run-in with Roy. It was like the old man had disappeared, too. Nowhere to be found. Jess wasn’t worried, necessarily. She assumed he was out and about as well, probably leading an armed group around the grounds out near the tree line somewhere, or maybe they’d pressed deep into the woods. Hunters hunting, hot on the trail. She wondered if they’d shoot Doc on sight, or if they planned to capture him.
Kill the bastard.
She descended the dock stairs, walked through the back parking lot. The Dodge dually was still there, as was the compact car assigned to her group. It was the one with three bullet holes in the trunk, courtesy of Sammy Thompson, her brother-in-law. They’d had to bungee-strap the trunk lid closed to keep it from bobbing open on the highway. White trash gangster stuff right there. Any other time—before shufflers, for example—it might have been hilarious.
She decided to go outside the fence, opting to avoid the pool and its decaying denizens. The whole thing creeped her out, made her sick to her stomach. Reminiscent of a horror movie, she just couldn’t bring herself to go near it—that holding tank for the dead—and her skin prickled at the thought of Bryan being beside it by himself, near that putrid pit of death and despair. She hoped that the Janitor could talk some sense into some people, and do it quick, so that they could drain that pool of the rotten foulness that currently inhabited it.
Jessica wasn’t surprised to find the back gate closed but unlocked. Figured that if people were out hunting Doc, they may need quick entry onto the premises. Still, with no one in sight, they’d left the back door vulnerable…
After slipping through, she rolled the gate closed behind her, wincing at the metal on metal clang, then stared into the open field after glancing around to ensure she hadn’t attracted attention of the dead kind. A strange feeling overcame her, like she was trespassing, not supposed to be there. Reaching behind her, she groped for the Sig Sauer compact pistol riding in her waistband. She knew it was there, remembered tucking it in like a child at bedtime. But she’d grown accustomed to it, and no longer felt the steel on her skin.
Satisfied the sidearm hadn’t abandoned her, she curled her fingers around the hilt of her knife as her eyes roved the field. No movement, from either the living or the dead, besides the tennis courts, of course. It just didn’t make sense. Usually there was one or the other, or both.
Th
e baked earth beneath her feet longed for rain, felt like concrete on her soles. She tried to recall the last time she’d even seen a cloud, felt a raindrop.
One month? Two?
She thought back to that horrible deluge that had stripped Mitch’s driveway, how it had scraped away the dirt and rock and grass, leaving a winding scar between the highway and the trailer house. That damned driveway where David supposedly ran down Doc’s wife. Supposedly. Jess guessed the woman a shuffler that had wandered down the drive. Wrong place, wrong time. Deal with it, Doc. Should have kept your bitch tied up.
Like David did with Natalee.
The thought almost made her retch.
But seeing how David had reacted to his own wife’s death—keeping her in his home, unable to let her go—lent credence to Doc’s vengeful plight. She didn’t agree with it, thought it unfounded. Sick, even. Yet, she found it oddly chivalrous and romantic, that these two men would kill each other over their dead wives. Nothing left to prove, to live for, other than the honor of those they’d loved more than any other. She couldn’t help but wonder if Mitch would have done the same for her, or if he would have just moved on and fucked the next thing that came along with two legs and still living.
She guessed ‘B.’
She was already half way to the tree line before she’d realized it. This actually made her happy, as she’d wanted to avoid the sinister sounds and pungent air wafting from the pool area. If she strained to listen, she could hear them hissing and moaning, snarling. With nothing to excite them or tease them, they’d settled down. She had no intentions of riling them up, and thus kept her distance.
But the slowly decomposing dead still roaming within the chain link of the tennis courts seemed a bit more excited than usual, as if they could somehow sense her, lick her essence off the breeze. Even from a hundred yards away.
Jessica forced herself to stop and thoroughly examine the field again, just in case she’d missed something… or someone. A portion of the tennis courts was obscured by a tall mound of earth, but for a moment, she thought she caught movement outside the gate. Walking a few more feet to her right brought almost the whole structure into view. She observed the usual movement, expected it, and stood staring at it for a moment. Then, something stood out that normally would not have—non-movement.
Among the mass of bodies churning inside the chain link, there appeared to be two, or perhaps three, figures that seemed rigid, staring right back at her. Near the ground, redolent of predatory cats in wait. Watching, anticipating, preparing to pounce. She narrowed her eyes, squinted, the late afternoon/early evening sun casting confusing shadows. She swore one of them was holding a shotgun, another boxes—
Bolt cutters?
Surely not. The shadows, the lighting, the distance—her own nerves—just painted a disconcerting and ambiguous picture. Could be some of the Infirmaries standing guard, protecting the dead from… death? Maybe it was feeding time or something.
Yeah, that’s it.
Conscience in conflict—and tired of arguing with the Infirmaries bunch—she decided to dismiss it, blaming her eyes, calling them liars. And she wasn’t about to investigate the foul and vile beasts rotting away on those courts. Not by herself. Especially if those were Infirmaries standing guard. No thanks. She’d had enough of them for several lifetimes, and there was enough on her mind without clogging it with more of the dead. She hoped they’d let her be.
Tossing several more glances behind her, she continued striding through the tall yellowing weeds and grass, and toward the barbed wire fence that fronted the forest. With each step, grasshoppers leapt, like little frightened springs, desperately trying to hop out of the way, to avoid being stepped on and trampled. She aimed for the trail, just on the other side of the fence, that led to the stock pond. It was the only other place she could think of where Randy and Lenny might be, since Randy actually enjoyed fishing. He was probably teaching Leonard a thing or two about the etiquette of hooking a bass.
Upon reaching the tree line, she pried open the barbed wire, being careful not to let it snap shut on her as she squeezed through. Any time she’d opted to go over instead of through in the past, she’d ended up buying a new pair of jeans. Jess couldn’t count the pairs of Levi’s the hungry barbed wire had eaten over the years. With her favorite jeans inevitably becoming scarce and harder to replace, prudence was in order.
At Mitch’s urging, she usually just cut off the legs, effectively transforming the denim into every man’s fantasy—the iconic Daisy Dukes. And she wore them well. Too well, at times. Mitch had insisted she wear them all the time, often bellowing a hearty yee-haw in true Dukes style every time she walked by. He liked showing her off to his guy friends, too, until one of them slapped her on the ass. At least Mitch had been enough of a gentleman to allow Jessica the first punch.
Squeezing through the barrier without incident, she proceeded down the narrow path leading to the pond. She stopped about every ten feet or so, listening for voices—and for groans and hissing. She didn’t want to be accidentally shot, or bitten. It unnerved her, being out there by herself in the woods. Shadows bobbed, fooling her into looking at nothing. From above, leaves waved in a susurrant sway, thanking an overdue breeze.
And it was hot. Damn hot. She wasn’t sure, but she believed August had arrived. Maybe yesterday, or today. The tip of a typical Texas summer spear, piercing and gouging until she sweated and bled misery. Maybe once this whole Doc thing was over with, they could move to Alaska. Or, they could just skip the whole Doc thing, and move to Alaska, anyway. She doubted she could convince David, though.
She twisted her ear to the sound of a snapping branch. A footstep? An animal? Lenny and Randy?
Doc?
“Hello?” she eked out. Like some stone effigy, she stood there, unmoving. The breeze still tickled the leaves above, but kept its wiggling fingers off of her, leaving her hair plastered to her forehead. She could feel her heart on her spine, the sudden rush of thumping blood, pounding and assaulting her ears.
Did I just hear…?
The field, now well out of sight, attracted her like a magnet. She considered turning around, running back up the path, hurdling the fence—barbs be damned, hello Daisy Dukes—and cowering in the Alamo. And immediately, she second guessed herself, her intentions. How the hell was she going to hunt down Doc, and finish this if she couldn’t make it down a simple trail without jumping at every little noise?
She tugged the pistol from the small of her back, forced herself to press forward. Whether smart or not, she was stubborn. Didn’t know when to say, ‘no.’
One foot, then the other. She crept along the path, half expecting the bogeyman to pop out of the underbrush. And call her a coward. Then curse her for having Luz lock up David before taking a bite out of her.
Damn tasty bitch, right here. Mmm, mmm! Loves me some leg of Jessica! Be easier to get to if you’d wore your Daisy Dukes, sweetness.
Her vision had gotten spotty, ebbing, then she realized she’d stopped breathing. When she pulled in a breath, she caught whiff of something foul.
Jesus. Where’s that horrible smell—
She couldn’t see the body, but there had to be one nearby. It was close.
Jess froze, listening. She tried willing her feet to move, but they wouldn’t, seemingly welded to the dirt. Within the trees, darkness was sneaking in early, the foliage above acting like window tinting, allowing only scarce light in. The crickets and cicadas were still talking to each other, and the birds still had something to say, despite the day slipping away.
But she also heard something else. Something that got her moving again—someone crying.
Chapter 13
You’re a sick man, Doc. A very sick man.
Indeed I am—love sick.
That’s not the diagnosis of ‘sick’ I was referring to.
Why, whatever do you mean?
Seek. Help. Now.
Those who help themselves…
Se
riously, Doc. You’re losing it.
I’ve already lost everything. What more is there to lose?
Tom wanted desperately to bitch-slap the boisterous bantering rattling his skull from the inside out. He was sick of it. Over it. Done with the mercurial menace in his head, that unsupportive SOB. Besides, Tom never knew who he was talking to half the time. If only he could shoot it.
If only.
He wanted to converse with his sweet Kate, to hear her angelic voice, to touch her lavender-scented skin, to press his parched lips to hers, drink in the whole of her. All of her—spirit, mind, body… to quench that insatiable thirst for her.
He missed her love.
Fucking David Morris.
Tom thumbed away yet another tear. He was tired of tears, just as he was tired of the unwelcome utterances within. Neither of them served a purpose any longer, just got in the way, distracted him. Aggravated him. Angered him.
Come back, Kate. Please… just… come back. I’ll do anything…
She would talk to him, sometimes. Her sweet voice, he’d hear it. So vivid—so… alive, sometimes—that he had to glance around, be sure she wasn’t in the room. Of course, it wasn’t possible. Would never happen again. Not in this life. Not on this earth. His mortal ears, never to hear her voice again. He wished badly that he believed in ghosts.
He slammed his fist against the bar top, took another desperate pull from the bottle. The liquid gold sloshed inside the vessel, dancing like living stained glass.
“I miss you, dahlin’.” A sniffle.
His original whiskey bottle lost during his retreat through the forest, he detoured, seeking out a replacement, and found one in the most obvious of places. Leeson boasted one bar—The Bearded Bayonet. And in true southern style, the place had been drank dry for the most part. But he lucked out, found a half-full bottle of the cheap stuff along with enough hooch to entertain him for a good part of the afternoon. The generic brand splashing over his tongue straight from the bottle wasn’t Southern Comfort, but it sufficed. Got the job done. Just like he’d get the job done. Soon, it would all be over, a profoundly wicked man dead.
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Page 11
