David held his hand to Gabe, and the old gentleman took it. Shook it.
“You’ll be okay, Dave. Things’ll work out fine, ‘cuz they have to.”
“If they start shooting at us?”
“They won’t.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am.”
Pulling in a deep breath, David gave a nod, acknowledging that he was as ready as he was ever going to be.
Gabriel stepped up onto the Dodge’s running board, heaved himself into the cab, while David walked around to the rear of the truck, and let down the tailgate. It was still daunting, the height of the towering truck, and David reconsidered how he was going to get into the back.
The driver side door slammed shut, and a moment later, the window dropped. Gabe eyed David in the mirror on the door. “Need a hand?”
David just shook his head, making eye contact with Gabe’s reflection. Then, he turned his attention back to the building, spotting a trashcan. He held a finger to the Janitor, telling him to wait a second.
He flipped the heavy-duty plastic trashcan over, spilling its contents, then crawled on top of it. From there, he easily hauled himself onto the tailgate, rolling into the truck. He made his way to just behind the cab, slapped the top twice, and said, “Ready when you are.”
Beneath him, the burly beast of a vehicle shuddered to life, the grinding diesel engine spitting its inky hot breath through twin chrome smokestacks that protruded out of the bed. As much life experience as Gabriel had, David assumed the man had driven a stick shift automobile a time or two. No need to worry about the truck dying on the old man.
David kneeled, one hand on the bed railing. The Dodge lurched forward, rubber clawing concrete, as it aimed for the rolling door. As high as the truck stood, he didn’t expect any debris to fly at him. Might get splashed with a decomposing body part or two. Still, better safe than sorry. He ducked into the bed. He just hoped they had enough room to get a good running start.
He needn’t have worried. The iron gate wasn’t built to withstand such a brute-force collision, nor were the undead bodies just on the other side of it. Unencumbered, the brawny metal beast plowed it down as easily as a fist through tissue paper. It did make one hell of a clangor, though.
David winced, biting his lip at the pain shrieking through his body. This was the most activity his fragile frame had seen in days. He’d barely moved since the beating he’d suffered at the hands of Sammy and Gills, and he didn’t realize just how deep his bruises had burrowed. He wished he’d swallowed some pain killers or something to dull the throbbing aches and stabs that suddenly made themselves known. The adrenaline coursing through him helped, but it didn’t kill all the suffering sensations.
His fingers gripped the rail tightly, trying to anchor his body, keep it from bouncing madly about the bed.
Thankfully, they didn’t have far to go. Maybe eighty, ninety yards. But he’d have to act quick. The din of the Dodge surely drew some unwanted attention from the front of the Alamo, and he could just feel the Infirmaries’ breath on his sweat-slicked neck.
The truck bounced and rattled all the way to the collection of construction vehicles, which were parked near the tennis courts. Without warning, tires locked, tilling dirt and grass and weeds. A dusty cloud mingled with puffing black fumes. Momentum carried David forward, and he smacked the cab, shoulder first.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“You alright back there, Dave?”
Pressing to his feet, David nodded, flipped a weak wave. Gabriel had stopped right in front of the heavy soil compactor. This was the closest David had been to the machine since he’d first laid eyes on it three days ago, when he’d arrived at the Alamo.
It was an imposing contraption, construction yellow with a large knobby drum for a front wheel. It reminded him of an off-road version of Fred Flintstone’s car. He guessed the cylinder probably towered five or six feet. He could just imagine making the world’s largest waffles with one of those things. The two rear wheels were more like traditional tractor tires. Two bars wrapped the open cab. Already, weeds and vegetation were creeping up the vehicle after only a month of neglect.
He glanced at the other heavy construction vehicles parked near the compactor, and wondered if one of the others wouldn’t be a more suitable choice. But they appeared more complicated in their operation. The drum compactor seemed much simpler, with no blades or buckets to contend with. Besides, he’d never piloted a bulldozer or a road grader or a back hoe before. And he certainly had no desire to do so now. He could handle forward and backward, left or right. Already, he could envisage the blood-covered drum, brutally rolling out a dough of bone and blood and flesh and—
“Dave?”
“Yeah.”
“We gonna do this?”
“Yeah.”
He studied the safest way to dismount the pickup, eschewing injury and the very few dead ambling about. He preferred not having to jump to the ground, then turn around and conquer the drum compactor like some metal Mount Everest.
“Dave?”
David huffed.
Give me a fucking second, will ya?
“Yeah, Gabe?”
“Better get some pep in your step. Looks like company’s coming.”
David pivoted on his heel. Gabe was right, as usual. The frenzy from the dually demolishing the gate—not to mention the heavy metal song of the engine itself—had definitely drawn attention, just as he’d expected it would. And it was attention of both the living and the dead.
Damn.
Gabe had managed to sidle up close to the compactor, so David chanced it. Hiking a leg over the bed, he balanced himself as best he could and set himself up for a tricky transferal. He glimpsed the building again, noting that there were at least four men heading his way in a hell of a hurry. They appeared armed, but no shots had been fired. Yet.
He eased the rest of his body over the side of the truck, like a retreating child who had just stolen a cookie from the jar on the counter, and let himself down, feet dangling, feeling for the drum. They found it, and he pushed off from the truck, his arms pinwheeling for balance. He was in the zone.
I’m in the fucking zone.
A gunshot whip-cracked the air, and he reflexively tried to duck, almost tumbling from the machine.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
No shooting. That’s what Gabe said. They wouldn’t dare shoot. Well, Gabe, they’re sure as hell shooting. Calm the fuck down. Just a warning shot. Only a warning shot.
Time was grinding now, slowing, things around him becoming surreal. He just knew at any second he was going to awake from some cruel, messed up dream. Maybe he’d eaten a bad brisket. Spoiled potato salad. That was it. He’d just been sick. Slept all night, except for the times he had to get up and puke his ever-loving guts out. He’d wake up in the morning, kiss Natalee, have her help him tie his tie, while they both sipped their gourmet dark roast coffee. He’d sit at the kitchen table with his iPad and see what was newsworthy on Yahoo! and MSN and CNN. Then, his teenage daughter Karla would interrupt his healthy but shitty breakfast, begging for a new smartphone because all the other kids have one and it’s just not fair that they all get one when I have this antiquated POS…
Antiquated. She’d actually used that word with him. POS—piece of shit—he expected. But antiquated… Two weeks before she’d died in that unfair, shitty automobile accident, she’d used the word antiquated. Such a smart girl, if not a spoiled one.
Thanks, Nat. Thanks for spoiling our daughter rotten. She’d’ve made a man proud and happy, had she lived long enough. Spoiled rotten, I tell ya. She’s surely rotten by now, innocuously tucked away inside that goddamned ten-thousand dollar box we bought to stick in the ground and cover up with dirt—
A stupid tear slipped down his cheek. He couldn’t fucking believe it. Of all the inappropriate times to lament her untimely death.
Now ain’t the time for an emotional meltdown, El Jefe.
A
nother gunshot rang, spanking the tree line across the way, the echo mimicking the sound of two shots. The jogging man had the rifle’s barrel pointed at God, and not David.
Warning shots. Gabe was right, after all. They won’t shoot us. Only trying to scare us. Subdue us with faux firepower muscle.
But the snap of gunfire on the air caused something just as dangerous to snap inside of David. He fought the sudden, overwhelming desire to pull his own pistol, and blow the man’s face off.
Fire that fucking gun again. I dare you.
With precarious precision, David stepped to the apex of the wheel drum. His arms no longer pinwheeled, his footing sure. He almost chuckled to himself, positive that he looked like some lithe circus performer balancing atop a treacherous rolling prop. Should have been an elephant up there, not him.
Look at me, folks! The amazing Death-defying David! Will he get squashed? Will he live to see tomorrow? Watch him balance atop the world’s largest rolling waffle iron while he blows the face off some fuck that thinks it’s hilarious to shoot at him.
He reached out, fingers of his injured hand wrapping the railing that surrounded the driver’s seat. Pain streaked through his wrist, his arm. Could feel it zip through him. Immediately, he grabbed the same steel with his left hand, then pulled himself against the chipped yellow bars.
The Infirmaries were closing in. If he and Gabe were going to make their stand, it had to be right then. No more time for bullshit reminiscing. No more casual strolls down memory lane. He had to get his motherfucking head in the game. There was still tons of work to do. He had to find Jess. Find Bryan. Save Randy. Lenny. Figure out just what the fuck they were going to do once he flattened out every dead fucker roaming the field and fence line. And God help the living that got in his way.
David tossed his leg over the railing. Then the other. He stood upright in the cab, then let his body fall into the weathered vinyl seat. His eyes darted around the controls, figuring things out on the fly.
The key… the key. Where’s the goddamned key? Gabe said the other day it was in the ignition…
It was Highway 204 all over again, commandeering the Dodge dually. Tossing dead-but-not-dead Jimmy to the pavement. The man’s bones cracking, tangled in the seatbelt. Leaving the shuffler to die again in the middle of the highway by another’s hand. An undead speed bump.
My truck now, motherfucker.
A sudden malign anger surged through him, more powerful—and welcome—than even the superpower-bestowing adrenaline his heart so graciously pumped through his swollen, thirsty veins. Someone else had started this, and he damn sure wanted to finish it. Goddamnit, needed to. Only three days had passed since he’d killed his first shuffler. And now, he was about to commit a mass slaughter of historic proportions. He was ready. Able. And way more than willing.
And fucking looking forward to it.
Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all. Even the living. Fuck. Them. Too.
And right then, something else happened. Something pricked his conscience, his very being, like a ship that had mistakenly run into the shallows. He felt the bump, realized he’d nearly run aground, but had managed to keep the vessel at sea, averting a major disaster. But not before the damage was done. Not before cracking the hull, ruining it. No longer would it be whole again. Pure. The water would get in. Eventually, the ship would sink.
And so it was with David. Something, in that moment, happened to him. His hull breached. A poisonous saltwater, a mere oozing drip now, that over time would eventually scuttle his ship. He welcomed it, unsure exactly what he was letting in, just knowing that it felt and tasted good.
The Dodge started pulling away, alerting David to the then and there. As if by divine guidance, his fingers found the key, and he twisted it.
The universe smiled on him. At him. Patted him on the back and encouraged him for a change, because the engine turned over on the first try. The massive machine spewed a sick, thick cloud through a heavy cough. But it was alive, started with barely a stumble. And then it roared like some pissed-off dragon when his hand found the gas. And David smiled as he clutched the wheel.
Chapter 20
The single-drum compactor chirped its telltale backup beep, the metallic beast’s muscular frame vibrating like mad, buzzing David’s bones and teeth and the ground beneath. Across the way, a flock of birds erupted from the tree tops like a fireworks display. Game on.
David was already feeling an acute numbness in his hands as he gripped the wheel hard. Given the pain in his right wrist, he welcomed the desensitizing effect. Actually dreaded when he’d be able to fully feel it again.
The four men jogging toward him stopped, and they tossed around unknowing and unsure glances, obviously confused about what to do. How to stop him, if they even wanted to. They’d never faced such a strange threat, and it showed in their hesitation and expressions. These four were the only barrier between the rumbling soil squasher and the shufflers.
After lining up the massive machine with the Alamo, David revved up the rpms, jerked another lever, and the vehicle lunged forward, the knobby drum grabbing and groping the ground. It moved faster than he would have guessed, but that was okay with him. Time was his enemy, and the less of it on the Infirmaries’ side, the better.
Already, his mind played ahead, envisioning a tamped field paved with the bodies of the dead. The Infirmaries were helpless to stop him, or so David believed, a cocky, brazen hubris filling him. Making him heavy and impenetrable. Such a dangerous thing. He’d been a cocky asshole to Sammy and Gills. And it got him hurt. Badly hurt. A lesson quickly learned, just as quickly forgotten.
But he just couldn’t help feeling like he’d already won this battle, like he was reliving something again rather than engaging in it for the first time. The highlight reel spun in his mind. Saw himself on the winners’ podium, hoisting a gleaming trophy into the air—a severed, silver head, shining resplendently. The confetti falling, fluttering, a colorful snow. Pats on the back. Congratulations abound. Champagne for all.
So just what was going through your mind, El Jefe?
Well, Bill, I’ll tell ya. I was in the zone.
In the zone?
Yes, Bill. In the motherfucking zone.
And just how does one get into the ‘motherfucking zone,’ El Jefe?
You gotta be born in the zone, Bill.
Born in the zone?
That’s right. You’re either in the zone, or you ain’t.
Another lie.
Backing up, nearly stumbling, one of the four Infirmaries lowered a rifle at him.
David kept one hand on the wheel, his other gripping a control lever. He considered for a moment drawing his Walther. And using it. His anger wanted him to.
But he trusted the Janitor, that these four were just scared and harmless, brainwashed by Luz Gonzalez. He could just imagine them pissing themselves the closer the compactor got, preparing to dive out of the way at the last possible moment like stuntmen in a big-budget action movie. Surely they wouldn’t shoot. Surely.
These men stood their ground. And even though they’d probably not try to kill him, he had no plans of promising them the same. If they weren’t smart enough or have the presence of mind to move, then they weren’t smart enough to live.
To live. Natalee was once alive. She once… lived. Karla once… lived.
And immediately, his mind betrayed him. Took him out of the now, painted reality with a deceitful color dipped in and dripping hatred and regret.
All at once, he was back in his living room, Sammy Thompson and Guillermo Torres flanking his sides. But this time, in this altered memory, they didn’t get the jump on him. That sledgehammer fist didn’t connect with David’s jaw. Guillermo’s alligator boot didn’t plunge into David’s stomach. And Doc Holliday didn’t escape like the slippery coward he was. No, none of that… happened.
What is wrong with you, man? You’re fucking losing it…
Vicious, virulent passion guided his hands as he aimed
the monster of a machine straight for the living barricade now only yards away. And in David’s eyes, that barrier looked like four identical Doc Hollidays, all clad in long leather dusters and wide-brimmed cowboy hats, mustaches and soul patches twitching in anticipation of a dirt nap. David didn’t flinch. But they did.
As he closed the gap, the four men relented, sidestepping the rumbling, shaking beast. David swore he saw non-existent coats flare. No one tripped. No one slipped. Nothing as dramatic as someone getting a foot caught in a gopher hole, trapped and doomed to death by drum compactor.
David rolled right by them, and the four men just stared, guns no longer pointed at him. They twisted their heads, gauging and predicting where the machine would end up, if anyone else alive was in danger.
Pivoting his head, David saw the Janitor stop the pickup beside the men, yell something to them, pointing. They looked bemused again, not sure who was in charge, who they should be listening to. What they should actually be doing. This was good. This was very good.
But then they realized what Gabe was telling them.
Get in. Get in, now.
So focused on David and avoiding the knobby drum, they’d become oblivious to the obvious undead dangers stumbling around them. And that, for David, summed up everything that was wrong with Luz’s and Roy’s way of thinking—complacency toward the dead resulted in even more dead.
One of the men narrowly escaped a shuffler, yanking his elbow out of its grasp. Still under the sick spell of the Infirmaries, he didn’t shoot it or even fight it, just pulled away, an innocent game of chase on the schoolyard playground.
Gabe patted the Dodge’s door, urging the men to hop inside or jump into the bed, to get out of danger. And the men obliged, climbed aboard as another couple of shufflers closed in on them.
With the living barrier removed, David tried to shake away untrue images and refocus on his morbid mission. He aimed for the plodding dead in the field, lining the palisade fence. Even some of the cadavers appeared befuddled and distracted, not sure whether to retreat to within the confines of the gated area, or to charge headlong into this heaving, rumbling menace bearing down on them.
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Page 17
