Contents
What it's About...
Copyright
Dedication
Part One - El Jefe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Two - The Great Pretender
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Three - Demons
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part Four - Better Dig Two
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Thanks
The South is rising. Again…
David didn’t know he killed another man’s wife. He was only trying to save his own family. His friends. Himself.
And now he’s being hunted. By the dead. And by the living.
He thinks he can handle the dead. But can he handle the living?
Welcome to the South. Where the dead are dangerous, and the living are deadly.
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 Book I
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. For always.
PART ONE
El Jefe
Chapter 1
The ‘Z’ word. Some ratings-hungry jackass of a journalist just had to use the ‘Z’ word. Some sensationalist ploy to get viewers and listeners tuned in, no doubt. No one serious used the ‘Z’ word. No one credible, anyway. Hollywood used the ‘Z’ word. Enough said.
But David Morris dared not turn off the radio.
He pushed the rental car’s flimsy accelerator pedal as far into the floorboard as the laws of physics allowed. One darting glance at the speedometer confirmed what he suspected: he should have taken the upgrade. That ten dollars saved could now very well cost Jessica her life.
Ninety-one. Or so. That’s what the needle steadily reported. It hovered, unchanging, except on hills, where it arced backward like a cowboy pulling the reins on his trusty steed. Or in this case, stubborn mule.
David hissed an explicative-laden torrent at the uncooperative, oft-abused rental. He knew he was pushing the vehicle and his luck. He curled and re-curled his fingers around the dainty wheel, squeezing it, hoping to breathe just a bit more life into the wheezing engine. Ahead, another hill.
Shit, shit, shit.
He needed a running start, a good amount of momentum before gravity said, nuh-uh, fuck you.
His new mantra became c’mon, c’mon, c’mon as he unwittingly rocked in his seat, transforming himself into a virtual pendulum, urging the gasping auto onward and upward. As the ascent commenced, the air seemed to thin out, strangling him and the struggling auto for breath. He hooked his collar and tugged, fanning his core. His foot tingled in objection to the relentless pressure applied to the gas, no thanks to a long-ago broken cruise control. He wiggled his toes but did not lift his foot.
The car stereo hypnotically hissed an alternating pattern of static, dead-air, static, dead-air—a perennial cycle scanning for a signal. For life. For hope.
Against better judgement, David picked up and fumbled with the two-way radio for the umpteenth time in as many minutes. He vehemently detested driving while distracted. A neighborhood teen had lost her life several months ago because of such poor judgement. But current circumstances called for hypocrisy, and his eyes darted from walkie to road, walkie to road—a deadly game of Pong. Reluctantly, he lowered the car stereo volume. Then, turning his attention to the two-way radio, he twisted the volume knob that doubled as the power switch. It chirped on, then silence.
“Mitch,” he said in a strong whisper. With the racket from his ride, whispering seemed pointless. Still, whispering comforted him. “Mitch.” He let go of the call button.
He cursed, glaring at the backlit communicator screen before rubber on rumble strips forced him back onto the straight and narrow.
Back in his lane, he licked his lips and shifted in his seat as he pulled in a huge breath, holding it hostage while the car knocked and coughed its way up the lengthy incline.
Surely he was in range. The packaging had stated twenty-seven miles. Of course, an asterisk tacked inconspicuously to the end of the statement alluded to the obligatory caveat: optimum conditions required for full range. Well, conditions sure as hell weren’t optimal. Far fucking from it. The disclaimer may as well have been an admission: This product sucks. Don’t buy it. David suspected that if the designers’ own lives had depended on the finicky plastic communicators, they would have done a few things differently, like making a product that fucking worked. He tossed the walkie into the passenger seat, and it bounced into the floorboard.
He freed his recent breath in exasperation, the speedometer needle crawling in the wrong direction. It taunted him, a plastic middle-finger wagging from the dash.
A Dodge four-door dually pickup blocked his lane ahead. No surprise, there. He’d passed the abandoned vehicle going the other way, heading into town.
As the limping auto neared the truck, he could make out a message. Olde English lettering arced across the tinted back window proudly proclaimed that Jimmy loved Angela forever.
How fucking sweet. Too bad forever came and went, David wanted to tell Jimmy. Oh, and you didn’t happen to see my wife, did you?
Another string of obscenities poured over David’s lips as he cursed the cowboy cadillac and his own vehicle in one breath. He swerved around the monster of a truck. The car responded by wheezing and slowing, and he slapped the wheel with his sweaty palms. A glimpse in the rearview mirror revealed a sinking sun sliding below the tree tops.
A sigh, then a shiver.
He stopped cursing to himself, at himself, and focused on the job at hand.
The new smell prying at his nostrils prompted another under-the-breath tirade. His eyes danced over the dash and it delivered more bad news.
“Shit.”
The wrong needle quickly crept the wrong way. A tiny orange engine glowed steadily accompanied by an icon resembling a thermometer that blinked red, a chime for every flash.
“No, no, no, no, no, no …”
The knocking under the hood grew louder, more pissed.
David steered the dying car onto the sloping strip of shoulder. Half way up. He had made it half way up the hill. If only he had crested. If only, and he could have practically coasted the rest of the way. Time now became a significant factor. For him and for Jessica.
White smoke snaked out from under the hood as he stared s
traight ahead, hands draped uselessly through the bottom of the steering wheel. His stomach cinched on itself.
Out of habit, he resuscitated the radio. He strained, listening, twisting his head so that his ear lined up directly with a speaker. So many times he heard a voice that wasn’t there, telling him everything would be okay. That he would be okay. That Natalee was okay.
Just come on down to Jake’s Fine Furniture, folks, where we’re dropping prices so low, we’re insane! And don’t worry, folks, because your wife is safe with us! Come on down anytime …
He slammed his palms into the wheel again while the static messed with his mind.
Think, think, think …
He watched white smoke continue to curl its wispy fingers, grabbing at nothing and catching it. He wasn’t a mechanic. Far from it, actually. His father had chastised him constantly until the day he died about the importance of having a trade, a skill. Managing a cubicle farm is not a skill, Dave, his father had preached. Welder, plumber, carpenter—all respectable trades, son. When this piss-poor economy of ours goes into the shitter again, you’ll wish you were twisting wrenches. Forty-five and unemployed, that’ll be you, son. Have fun at the unemployment office. Tell Susanne ‘hello’ for me.
Instead, he was forty-five and figuring out how to navigate a new, decimated world. There was no unemployment office, nowhere he could go and fill out tons of paperwork, then sit back and wait. And hope.
A newfound urgency surged within his core. He had to get moving. He had to get back. He had to get inside. Even if it meant that he wouldn’t like what he found …
Stop it.
He lopped the last thought from his mind like a rotten limb. He leaned forward, propping his forehead on the wheel. Jessica is okay. He repeated this over and over.
Jessica is okay.
Jessica is okay.
Jessica is—
Jessica is counting on me. Someone is counting on me. Get your ass moving.
As many times as he had driven the shitty rental up and down this two-lane rural road, he still didn’t have the route completely committed to memory. Two miles to go? Three? And why was no one manning the two-way radio? That had been the agreement. When someone went out on a run, another manned the walkie.
So it is written, so it shall be done.
He lifted his head to scan the area. The entire length of road resembled a big, natural hallway cut through the middle of a thick forest. Tall pine trees loomed on either side of the narrow blacktop, allowing only a strip of sky ceiling above. They stole the last few minutes of daylight, prematurely bringing darkness—and other scary things.
Think, David, think.
He glimpsed the mirror again, eyeing the dually, his options disappearing as quickly as the light.
David bumped the shifter into neutral and let off the brake. Gravity, his enemy mere moments ago, now defected to his side, pulling the car back down the hill. Slowly at first, then momentum picked up. He twisted his torso, throwing an arm over the passenger seat so that he could steer the disabled vehicle backward down the hill, toward another vehicle he hoped still worked.
He strangled the wheel, muscling it with one hand, fighting to keep the car straight. The rental swerved from lane to lane as he overcorrected again and again. It became easier to turn the wheel as the car rolled faster, but became harder to stay true and straight. Almost upon the Dodge, he pumped the brake, but rigor mortis had claimed it. He jammed both feet on the stiff pedal while spinning the wheel to avoid colliding with the pickup.
His head smacked the driver side glass when the car sailed into the grassy ditch. The earth did not give. A wheezy gasp left his lungs, and he struggled to breathe. His chest felt deflated, stepped on. Fireworks exploded in his vision and a hot pain tingled in his neck.
David sat for a few moments, rubbing his neck, his chest, his head. He needed a Tylenol. No, something stronger. He pulled on the door handle, and pushed, but the door caught gnarled earth. Not enough space to squeeze through. The ground had a hold of his exit. A claustrophobic panic grabbed his already struggling lungs and neck. He opened his mouth wide, a fish out of water battling for oxygen.
Movement. Up the road. He blinked, squinted. Darkness was descending fast, stealing his sight. Could have been a shadow. Maybe a tree bobbing. With no wind, he didn’t think so.
David dragged himself over the middle console, yanking the handle on the passenger door. Thankfully, the door swung open, gravity his friend once more, and he spilled out of the car and into the ditch. His neck burned again, a fire in his veins. He sat up, thankful for the dry ditch. No rain for several weeks meant no mud, no mess. Another small win.
Standing hurt, but he decided he’d live. His lungs filled more easily now, shaking off the shock of the impact. His neck still tingled, felt hot. Whiplash probably. He remembered what it felt like from years ago. He and Natalee both had become part of that club. Karla had been spared, thankfully, her car seat absorbing the brunt of the crash. Seemed like yesterday …
The shadow up the road moved again. A couple shadows? He had to get moving. Not a good idea to get caught out in the wide open by himself, with no one to watch his back. He lifted a foot, then the other, maneuvering himself out of the tall weeds and grass, and back onto the blacktop. He slid a hand along the brush guard of the Dodge, rounded the corner, and approached the driver side door cautiously.
David had learned quickly from his jaunts into town not to open doors or round corners without first verifying the area was clear. Shufflers had taken him by surprise only a couple of times before, nearly taking a chunk out of him. A quick learner, David moved deliberately, cautiously.
Jimmy and Angela must have loved their Dodge. It was tricked out nicely with an expensive lift-kit that made it tower like a monster truck. And lots of shiny chrome. Even the lettering professing their love forever on the blacked-out rear window was chrome.
David paused, glancing up the road. Despite the dwindling daylight, he could see them. Two of them. Maybe the rental’s death throes had alerted them to life on this barren two-lane stretch. They were not a threat—yet.
He turned his attention back to the Dodge. Planting a boot on the chrome running board, he hoisted himself up so he could peer into the vehicle, the dark tint and dying daylight making it difficult to see inside the cab. He squinted, then, curling one hand around his temple, pressed his face to the window.
A hand slapped the glass. A face followed.
David yelped, startled. He tumbled off the running board and onto the road. More flashes of light across his vision, the burning in his neck reignited. He sat up, brushing dust and debris back to the ground.
Should have known. Should have known that truck would not be empty. He almost started laughing. Almost.
He rubbed his stiffening neck, fire coursing through it. He could practically taste the flames. How he wished for ice. Something taken for granted, now a long lost luxury.
The two shadows up the road ambled his way. The air, once dominated by anti-freeze, now hinted of decay. He was downwind. At least he had that going for him. Snarls and hisses emanated from the two shuffling shadows. He’d need to move more quickly. Quit being that jumpy teenager he’d killed off so long ago.
David stood, wiping his palms together, releasing more dirt and dust. He stood several feet back from the truck, surveying and planning. Even in death, Jimmy apparently was not quite ready to give up his beloved Dodge dually. David decided Jimmy had enjoyed it long enough. Pulling himself back onto the running board, he lifted the door handle. Locked. The flailing undead man inside must have bumped the button and locked himself in. Or he had done it before he died, hoping to keep his diesel forever.
Forever. Hmph. Doesn’t matter, Jimmy. I’m coming in.
David hopped off the running board, wincing as something pinched in his neck, sending another lava flow up and down his tender nerves. He walked around the front of the truck again and to the passenger door. He pulled himself up, pe
ered inside, noting that Jimmy was strapped in all by his lonesome, Angela nowhere to be seen.
Looks like Angela had plans other than forever, there, Jimmy boy.
He tugged on the door handle, expecting it to be locked, and the door swung open, almost knocking him off the towering truck a second time. Jimmy growled, reaching, but the seatbelt restrained him. The smell punched David square in the nose. He sat on the edge of the passenger seat, just out of Jimmy’s reach, allowing the cab to air out a minute. He drew the knife sheathed on his own hip, held it, twisting it, the cab light ignoring the dull matte blade. Jimmy snapped his teeth, wanting a taste of fresh life.
David flexed his grip on the nylon cording that wrapped the knife’s hilt, then sheathed the weapon. It was strange, but the dinging sound inside the cab caused by the door standing ajar brought him back to a civilized time. He had yet to ‘kill’ a shuffler, and he decided today was not the day to start. Instead, he waved a hand high near the dome light, distracting Jimmy. With his other, he pressed the button on the seatbelt, and it retracted, catching on Jimmy’s shoulder. David then popped the locks before retreating, slamming the passenger door.
As he walked back to the driver side, he noticed the two shufflers nearly on him. He had maybe another minute or so before he’d have no choice but to contend with them. A revitalized urgency moved him.
He reached up and slipped his fingers under the door handle, throwing the door open. Jimmy lunged for him almost immediately, and David took advantage of the momentum, grabbing the dead man’s arm and yanking. There was a sickening snap as Jimmy spilled from the truck, his arm hung in the seatbelt, now bent at a most unnatural angle. David felt bile rise in his throat, something else to accompany the searing heat stuck between his skull and shoulder.
He grabbed the flailing Jimmy by the scruff of his shirt, desperately working to free him from the seatbelt. Bone grinding on bone sent more burning bile into David’s throat, and he clenched his teeth, stifling the wrong-way flow.
Finally, the seatbelt relented, and Jimmy sprawled to the pavement. He locked his dead fingers around David’s ankle. David brought his boot heel down on Jimmy’s wrist. More cracking. Jimmy’s grip weakened, but still held. David stomped again, and covered his mouth. He wanted to retch.
Dead South Rising (Book 1) Page 1
