David nodded. “Truer words, Gabe. Truer words.”
“I see you’re anxious to check out Doc’s latest doing. Be careful, Dave. Keep your emotions in check. That’s where he’s winning right now, getting you all riled up.”
David nodded.
“And remember, it don’t have to be just you against him. Alright?”
“Sure, Gabe. Thanks.” He handed the Janitor’s pistol back to him.
The old man patted him on the back again, allowing him a moment to himself.
Being mindful of the mire now coating the drive and grass, David made his way to the butchered box, an unholy dread clutching his chest.
Upon reaching it, he tried to look away but couldn’t, the world suddenly a washing machine on a frantic spin cycle, his arms and legs and torso heavy against the tub. Even his head fell forward, impossible to move, to look away. With an involuntary wince, he let his gaze lock on the mutilated cardboard. It was as though he knew exactly what he’d find.
And unfortunately for him, he was right.
PART THREE
Head to Head
Chapter 23
With a stiff arm still guiding her by the scruff, Tom swung his captive around and forced her forward, plunging them back into the darkening woods, toward the pond and beyond.
He kept her in front of him as they traversed the narrow trail, gripping and twisting the fabric in his fist, the tee-shirt’s collar a tightening noose. She gasped through the garrote, every breath a struggle. And Tom would make her earn every one.
He would not be easy on her. Not at all. He knew who she was, her voice familiar, her name spoken aloud by another.
Jessica.
Without remorse, he twisted tighter, and a sick joy surged inside him. The same sick joy he felt when he killed that obnoxious trio at the bar. And he smiled.
Jesus Christ, Doc. What the hell is getting into you?
Why… whatever do you mean?
You’re out to avenge Kate’s death, not just kill for the thrill. Those three morons had nothing to do with her death.
But this one did.
You’re losing your goddamned mind, Doc.
On the contrary, I’ve finally found it.
Tom unwittingly wrung the fabric, distracted and lost in his mercurial musing. “Keep your hands where I can see them, dahlin’.”
Through a husky breath, she managed, “I… I can’t…” She groped at her throat, coughed.
“You can and you will.”
The compactor had ceased its roar and rumble, returning a certain peace and calm to the wilderness. But the disappearance of the din also meant his aural cover was gone. They’d have to move quietly—and swiftly—to avoid detection. But perhaps… he wanted to be detected. Then he’d have another reason, another excuse to kill.
Jessica pawed at her collar again, and Tom stabbed her nape with Bertha’s barrel.
His voice harsh and low, he said, “Next time you do that, you’ll be eating bullets through the back of your pretty little head.”
Fear tangled her ankles. Tom gritted his teeth and yanked hard, saving her from a nasty spill. There would be no accidental pain inflicted, only intentional and by his hand. She pinwheeled her arms as he dragged her up, then held them out as if under arrest. She coughed violently again.
The distant crack of a gunshot caused them both to recoil.
His prisoner’s knees buckled and crashed into the dirt. But she didn’t fall completely forward; Tom’s fingers still clutched her collar from behind, halting her impetus, sparing her a mouthful of dirt yet again. But the fabric dug deeper into her neck, and she choked out a desperate bark. Her hands sprang reflexively to her throat again.
“Up.”
She rocked on her knees, caught between breathing and standing.
“I said, ‘up,’ dahlin’.” He jerked her neckband, hauling her to her feet.
Leaning in close to her ear, he said, “Next time you have to be told, Bertha does the talking. Understand?”
The revolver’s barrel kissed her neck. She was becoming well acquainted with his persuasive steel.
The tension against her throat eased a bit, and she took advantage of it, greedily gulping wheezy breaths. She hacked, making a noticeable racket.
With a wad of clenched fabric, he unceremoniously shoved her forward, a dog on a very short leash, and they were moving along the trail again. She was finding difficulty falling into rhythm, their strides significantly off. She yo-yoed as he aggressively yanked and pushed, the garment adorning her torso stretching to the point of ripping, challenging every thread. Another gunshot in the distance. Seconds later, another. And Tom wondered if perhaps he wasn’t missing out, moving the wrong way. Maybe he could end it all tonight.
But while he endeavored to distance himself from the shooting, others were drawn to it—and to his prisoner’s hacking. Ahead, a biter staggered out from behind a tree and onto the path, only feet away.
A sinister grin lit Tom’s lips.
You think you’re scared now—
He thrust Jessica straight at it.
An unwilling participant in a deranged and deadly game of ‘chicken,’ his captive flailed wildly. Still choked and unable to scream, Jessica tried digging in her heels, dragging her feet, but Tom was too strong, capitalizing on their forward momentum. Instead, she attempted a mid-air crunch, to get her knees up. To twist, to turn. Kick. Get away. The scene was oddly reminiscent of a cat being carried by the scruff toward a bathtub with the faucet on full blast.
Don’t fight it, dahlin’. Just… let it.
He uncocked and holstered Bertha in a hurry so he could draw his knife from his boot.
“You scared, dahlin’? You scared? ‘Cuz you should be! You should be fucking terrified, little lady!”
Tom shoved her into the growling beast’s chest, then yanked her back before it could wrap its arms around her, the biter stumbling forward stupidly.
“Scared yet? Huh?”
Again, he pushed her forward, a teasing treat for the dead, and the ghoul lunged forward, groped. Denied once more, its arms came together against its own torso, snapping like an empty trap.
“Where you going, dahlin’?”
She’d found sure footing, scrambling in an attempt to flee his clutches. But her effort to break free was severely short lived. Doc’s grip still tight on her collar, he simply flung her around, mimicking the hammer throw at a track and field event, until she came full circle and again faced the vile beast.
Doc wanted her scared shitless. No, beyond shitless. He wanted her life passing before her eyes so brightly and so quickly that it scorched her retinas.
Burn, baby, burn.
That’s when he felt the sharp pain in his shoulder, the snappy thud against the leather that adorned his back, like a baseball hitting a catcher’s glove. And he heard something thump to the ground.
What the…? Was that a—
He’d only turned his head halfway around when he heard (more than felt) the next blow. Just below his temple, near his orbit. Stars exploded against a sudden black canvas. His skull rang like a thick, dampened bell, vibrating his teeth, his sinuses, his awareness. The strike was so sudden, so unexpected, that the pain had yet to register.
Doc felt the warmth of his own blood racing down the side of his head, his neck, into his collar. He swayed in his boots, and he blinked, desperately searching for focus. For sight. Already, his face was swelling.
Footsteps. Racing footsteps. Approaching quickly. Not a biter. Was too fast to be a biter. But someone alive. Someone who could throw rocks and throw them with precision.
He shuffled around to face his attacker, dropping the knife, his hands sliding against his coat as he tried to draw his guns. But Bessie and Bertha resided just beneath the long leather coat, on the inside. He finally managed to get his hands on their grips but it was simply too little, too late.
The last thing he saw before blacking out was the flash of an empty glass bott
le racing toward his head. A familiar bottle that once consoled him as he cradled it, tipped it against his lips. Now in the hands of another, it dealt a crippling blow. Southern Comfort no more.
* * *
Jessica sat in the middle of the cramped path, her legs drawn up into her chest, arms wrapping them. She stared blankly at the dusty black heap only feet away. She couldn’t pull her gaze from it, her water-logged eyes locked on the blur of a body. Doc’s body. Her lip quivered, those last few horrible minutes playing over and over like some cruel gif, never to be forgotten.
She struggled to swallow, her saliva like sand. Never mind the smoldering in her neck and throat from an earlier fire, now doused.
The light was diminishing quickly beneath the thick umbrage above. The world had gone quiet, save for the noises that truly belonged in the woods during the late evening hours.
Taneesha kneeled on the ground beside her, rubbed her back. “It’s okay, girl. You okay. He ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
Taneesha’s words should have been comforting, calming. But Jessica found her vision blurring all over again. Her body shivered.
“You probably in shock,” Taneesha told her. “I ain’t no nurse, but we oughta get you back, quick-like. Get you checked out.”
On trembling legs, Jessica pressed to her feet, her gaze still on Doc’s leather-clad body. Her voice a scratchy mess, she said, “Is he… dead? Did you kill him?” She cleared her throat, brushing the bruises with her fingertips.
Please say yes. Please say you killed him.
Taneesha shook her head. “Naw. Knocked him the fuck out, though. Shitbag didn’t know what the hell hit him.” She chuckled, but a residual tremble remained. “Sure as hell gonna let him know when he finally wakes up.”
Jessica peered at the man who’d nearly choked the life out of her, barely noticed the rise and fall of working lungs. She wished Taneesha had killed him. Ended it. Wishful thinking.
Glancing around, she spotted another body several feet away, just off the path. She recognized it as the shuffler that Doc had tried to feed her to. Unlike her attacker, it was face down, its body completely still. No rise. No fall. She didn’t have to ask what happened to him. Despite burgeoning tears, she could make out the multiple knife wounds from a short distance.
“Bryan?” Jessica asked. “Is he okay?”
Taneesha nodded. “He’s fine. Had him head on up to the Alamo.”
“By himself? What if a shuffler—”
“Relax girl. Give the boy some credit.”
“I’m just…”
Taneesha patted Jessica’s shoulder again. “It’s okay to feel that way, girl. I don’t take no offense. I’d done chased him and that pup halfway to the Alamo when I noticed you wasn’t behind us no more. When I caught him, I told him to be super careful and go get help. Thought a rattler may have snuck up on ya. You had me scared, girl.”
“I had me scared.” Jessica managed a small smile. “Thank you, Taneesha, for coming back for me.”
Taneesha waved her off. “Aw, girl. Ain’t no worries. I know you’d’ve come back for me.”
Brushing her palms together, Jess said, “How’d you get the jump on him?”
“Throwed a couple of rocks at his sorry ass.”
“That knocked him out?”
“Naw. Got his attention, though. Knocked his ass out with that.” She pointed to the empty whiskey bottle on the side of the trail, then made a popping sound with her mouth.
Jess leaned over, getting a better look. The glass was slick, fresh blood obscuring the label. “Jesus,” she said.
“Never thought softball’d be a viable skill in real life, ya know?”
“You played softball?”
“Hells yeah, girl. Pitcher.” Taneesha mimed throwing an underhanded pitch.
“You hit him with an underhanded throw?” Jess didn’t know much about softball, but she did know softball and baseball pitchers threw differently.
Taneesha nodded again. “Yessum.” Gauging the skepticism crossing Jessica’s face, she added, “You ever seen any of them badass softball pitchers chuck a ball?”
Jessica shook her head, then winced, rubbing her neck. Her legs were starting to betray her, and she swayed slightly.
“Well,” Taneesha explained, guiding Jessica back to the ground, “I was one of them badass softball pitchers.” Then she smiled wide. “Pretty badass with a bat, too.”
Taneesha sat beside Jessica on the path.
Jessica’s gaze fell to an unconscious Doc. “I won’t argue that.” Dipping her chin at him, she asked, “So what do we do with him?”
“Tie his ass up, I guess. Torture him. Cut his nuts off and feed ‘em to him. Something.”
Jessica actually managed a grating laugh, her throat raw from Doc using her shirt collar as an impromptu garrote.
Jessica laughing actually got Taneesha giggling, which made Jessica laugh harder to the point of coughing out hoarse barks. That got Taneesha almost howling. They laughed so hard that they didn’t hear the voices. At least not at first.
Chapter 24
The roses ain’t blue,
The violets ain’t red.
Inside the next box,
Will be your wife’s head.
—Your enemy in life and in death,
Doc
Enough of the box was still intact to identify its contents. Or rather… remains.
Her heart. He was sure of it. David was no doctor or nurse or medical examiner. He was no pathologist or surgeon. Hell, he didn’t even do that well in biology, scraping by with a low ‘C.’ But he didn’t need to be any of those things. He’d seen enough pictures of the human heart to identify one. He’d watched the Discovery Channel a time or two and a few medical dramas. Even though he’d crushed the package with the soil compactor, he could still tell.
I’m so, so sorry. I broke your heart. Again.
He let the tips of his fingers brush it, and it was cold. In some sick, deep-seated desire, he wished it would beat again. Right there in his hands. At least it would give him… hope. Give him… something.
Beneath her heart, her other hand. Had to be. Except Doc had gotten creative, maliciously clever. Another message, no words written or spoken required. He’d folded down all her fingers except for one—her middle finger. A vicarious insult. David’s dead wife, shooting him the bird from beyond the grave, one last time. How fucking fitting.
Fuck you with all my heart.
David honestly didn’t know how much more he could endure. Life skirted the limits of existence. He wasn’t used to this, couldn’t imagine anyone having to go through this. Forfeiting his future crossed his mind more than once as he kneeled there in the curdling, pulpy death mire he’d created. Maybe he should have jumped off the machine while it was still rolling, and dived right into the gnashing drum. At least it would have been all over then.
He tried to think about something else. Anything else. Even someone else. That’s when he got help from somewhere else.
One by one, those still outside turned their attention toward the field, just beyond the fence he’d recently destroyed.
A boy. They’re saying something about a boy.
Still on his knees in the bloody morass, he turned to find Bryan in the distance, just outside the swath of destruction. He was calling out something, waving, all the while prodding his puppy along. Something seemed off.
David pressed to his feet, bits and chunks of flesh and organs dropping to the ground, his pants soaked through. Those stains would never come out, tattooed in the fabric, an everlasting reminder.
Lenny started toward the boy, slipping several times as he navigated the slick sections.
David hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Natalee. But he didn’t feel right scooping up her heart and hand, then talking to Bryan.
What’s that, kiddo? Well, sure, I’ll introduce you. Bryan, this is Natalee, my wife. Natalee, Bryan. Care to shake hands?
He couldn’t shield Bryan fro
m the horrors of this world forever, but now was not the time to introduce the boy to his estranged and mutilated wife.
Scraping up the saturated cardboard and its contents, he dashed toward the Alamo’s front wall, high-stepping through the gore. He dropped off Doc’s package, then set off toward Bryan, wiping his bloody palms against his ruined pants. Catching up to Lenny, they stepped through the mauled section of steel, then crossed the mashed bodies, meeting the boy just on the other side.
Bryan’s eyes were wide, scouring the muddled mess, trying to process what he was looking at while Charlie sniffed and nuzzled it. David immediately tried to distract him. No telling what kind of impression such a scene could leave on a young child, if he could even fathom what he was actually witnessing.
David snatched up the puppy, handing off Charlie like a football to the boy. Then, David placed his hand on Bryan’s shoulder, turning the boy’s gaze away from the grotesque aftermath and back to the more serene setting of the field and forest.
Lenny rested his hand on his hatchet, head pivoting, watching for more of the undead while David queried Bryan.
“Bryan, what were you doing in the field? It’s dangerous. You know you’re not supposed to go out there.” He pointed to where the child had just come from.
Bryan gave David a perplexed look. “I wasn’t out there by myself. I was with Miss Taneesha and Miss Jessica.” Charlie squirmed in his arms, whimpering again, unhappy that David had scooped him up, playtime cut short.
David and Lenny traded glances.
Lenny said, “I told Taneesha to hide out ‘round the waterhole ’til we came and got ‘em. Wasn’t sure how all this was gonna play out.”
David nodded. “So… where are Taneesha and Jessica now?”
“Miss Taneesha told me to come find you. She said Miss Jessica might be in trouble.”
“Trouble?” David kneeled before the boy, Charlie trying to lick his face. “Bryan, what kind ”—another lick from Charlie—“what kind of trouble is Jessica in?”
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Page 21
