Dead South Rising (Book 1)

by Sean Robert Lang

  Lids fluttering, forearm in his throat, Mitch could only manage a barely perceptible nod and mouth, yeah.

  Antagonistic bursts of green streaked from David’s eyes as he leaned all his weight against Mitch, the man’s wan complexion draining even more.

  Finally, David let go, and Mitch slid to the street in a heap. Coughing, he rubbed his neck, not daring to look at the living who just attacked him, seemingly unprovoked.

  White-knuckling the knife, David strode on heavy aplomb to the corpse heaving on the fence and thrust the dark blade into the being’s temple. Like a slashed tire, a dying hiss signaled the end.

  The creature writhed, grasping at nothing, the hazy light left in his eyes dimming away. Lodged in the barbed wire, he never fell to the ground, but hung there, like some pirate flag, warning others of another undead crew to stay away. A simple caution—a second death awaits those who dare enter.

  David didn’t move, the bloody blade glistening at his side. Though stealing weighty breaths, he still felt light-headed. As he stood there, he replayed what he’d just done, again and again. A scary realization surged, one he couldn’t fully grasp. His mind was emptying, as though a tsunami were about to strike, pulling the ocean away from the shore. If hope still existed, he needed to head for higher ground now, before it was too late.

  But he relished seeing the seabed and its secrets for the first time, what was hiding under there all along, just below the waves of his conscience. The old world—the living world—could never satiate this sudden unsavory rush. Time stood still with him now as he watched Tim Bartlett hang lifeless and unmoving on that fence. He would savor his first, and he had Mitch to thank.

  Thank you, Mitch.

  * * *

  Twelve minutes. Mitch had been gone twelve minutes, if the clock in Jimmy and Angela’s truck was telling the truth. Twelve minutes ago, Mitch fired up the Franken-Hog and scooted his cowardly ass back to the house, his corkscrew tail tucked tightly between his legs.

  David’s hands rested comfortably in his lap while his unwavering stare pierced the windshield, landing nowhere in particular. Putting Mitch to rout felt good. Putting Old Man Bartlett to rest felt better.

  And so he sat, reliving and relishing his induction into the now. His own personal exoneration, an acceptance of himself in this disconcerting new reality. He’d been running on emotional empty for the last twenty-one days and then some, ever since he had found that note on the kitchen table. It may as well have been twenty-one years ago. He would eventually come clean with Jessica and Randy. Tell them the truth about his wife. But not today. Today, he would celebrate the now and the future, not the past.

  Another five minutes slipped by, a hint of breeze brushing the left side of his face. It brought with it the subtle stink of death and sweet honeysuckle. The unlikely aromatic concoction nudged him, encouraging him to emerge from his twisted trance.

  His face fell to meet his palms and he rubbed vigorously, as though he were half-way through a mindless graveyard shift at the office. He blinked wide, big blinks.

  Time to get moving, gotta get back.

  He started to reach for the ignition, but instead reached for the glovebox. There was no reason for this subconscious change of course. It was as though his hand knew something he didn’t, off on its own divining rod detour of discovery. When he fingered the latch, the door did not drop as his mind had predicted. A locked glove compartment. This intrigued him. Greatly.

  David ripped the key from the ignition. He leaned sideways, jabbing, toothy metal finding its mark, the click and pop of an insignificant lock. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he didn’t expect much.

  But what he found there would forever become his legacy. His calling. His beginning, and his end. It would shape him, mold him. Of course, he had no idea at that moment the importance that seemingly paltry speck of time held. He had just put Mitch in his rightful place and performed his first undead kill. The universe had already whispered to him just minutes before, your time. It’s your time now.

  Here, though, inside this unlikely vault, he would find the punctuation mark on that affirmation. The proverbial seal on the deal.

  Reaching in with both hands, David delicately retrieved the tangle of leather and steel. The buckle sang a sweet note like a musical triangle in an orchestra, which joined in chorus with creaking cowhide. He set the rig in his lap, running the pads of his fingers over the elaborate embroidery and raised designs, orgasmic in feel and sight. And smell.

  But it was what resided inside the holster that piqued David’s spirit of exploration. Curling his fingers around the grip, he tugged the weapon, freeing it from the fragrant leather’s grasp, exposing it to the world for perhaps the first time. He lifted it, twisting the pristine piece, admiring the black gloss finish, the flowing ornate designs … the smell of virgin steel. And it felt right. Like it had been his all along, made just for him.

  He uncurled his fingers, the custom P38 pistol perched squarely on his steady palm. In stark contrast to the black-hole finish, white pistol grips gave the gun an otherworldly appearance, redolent of a photo negative. He swore the grips were bleached bone. A familiar symbol carved in the center of the grip grabbed his eye next. He deemed it trite, banal even, but somehow fitting, perfect—yin and yang.

  And turning the handgun over once more revealed another portent, probably the most significant and telling of all. Inscribed on the slide, amongst the ornate engraving, were two words: El Jefe. The Chief. And David knew, without a doubt in his heart, he was meant to be here, in this world. Right now. Undead be damned.

  He sat there, cradling the weapon, his finger curled around the satin-finished trigger. He couldn’t bring himself to let go, not quite yet. The pistol held him just as he held it. He was holding his identity in the palm of his hand, not who he was, but who he was becoming.

  Finally, he slid the gun back into its hand-tooled home. He urged himself to move. It was still early in the day, with plenty still to be done. Plus, the baking sun wasn’t doing the slaughtered pig in the truck bed any favors.

  David opened the door and lowered himself to the ground, pulling the gun rig out with him. Beside the diesel dually, he wrapped the deep mahogany leather around his waist, the weapon on his left hip, crossdraw-style. The knife resided on his right hip, and there it would stay. Sacrificing the dead silently still trumped the bang of bullets. And being right handed, it made the most sense for the blade to stay put within easy reach. Besides, the knife now held a sentimental place in his heart, having been used for his first kill. He took a moment to thread the sheath onto his new belt before clasping the buckle. He exhaled deeply, savored this new part of him.

  Satisfied, he started to pull himself up and into the cab.

  “Jimmy?”

  David’s boot slipped and he smacked his shin against the running board. From behind him, a prepubescent voice.

  He hopped backwards, shin stinging. “Jesus.” Lifting his leg, he gave it a quick rub. Slowly, he lowered his limb back to earth, showing his palms to the young boy standing only feet away. “Hey there,” he said, grimace morphing into a smile. “Gave me quite a scare.”

  The boy clasped his hands behind his back, rocked on his heels. “I’m sorry, mister. Didn’t mean to.”

  “I know you didn’t, son. What’s your name?”

  Hesitation, then, “Bryan.”

  David’s smile widened a little. “Well, hi, Bryan. My name’s David.”

  The boy cocked his head, then pointed to the truck’s rear window. “You’re not Jimmy?”

  David chuckled while acknowledging the chrome script with a glance. “No, Bryan. I’m not Jimmy.”

  “Are you just borrowing his truck?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  Bryan twisted his lip, then swiveled his head around, looking. David tried to follow his gaze.

  Finally, David asked gently, “What are you doing out here all by yourself, Bryan? Where are your parents?”


  The boy shrugged, his torso twisting back and forth.

  “You don’t know where your parents are?”

  “I’m staying with grandpa for summer vacation.”

  “Oh? That sounds nice, Bryan.”

  Bryan nodded, a ghost of a smile peeking through.

  “We should probably get you back. I’m sure he’s worried about you.” David stepped gingerly toward the boy, trying not to spook him. Laying a hand on his shoulder, he asked, “Where does your grandpa live?”

  The child pointed back down the road. “Grandpa’s not home, though.”

  David rubbed his chin. “Where is your grandpa?”

  Bryan twisted again, pointed a single finger toward the figure on the fence.

  An overwhelming sickness swelled inside David, and he felt like puking. His head seemed to float, and non-existent clouds ebbed and flowed across his vision.

  Calm down. The old man was already dead. Just calm down. Calm the fuck down.

  But it tore into him, churning his insides. Unseen hands squeezed his esophagus, his trachea, and twisted back and forth, wringing them, trapping inside what so badly wanted out.

  He must have leaned too much of his weight on Bryan, because the boy tried shuffling away.

  “Bryan … I’m … I’m really sorry. I didn’t know … had no idea …”

  “Is my grandpa going to be okay?”

  David closed his eyes tight, fighting back a barrage of emotion as he kneeled before the boy. He thought about lying, telling him that his grandpa would be fine. That everything would be okay. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t deliver on that promise. Unlike David’s own father, he would shoot straight with Bryan. Or at least straighter.

  Still kneeling, he clasped the boy’s shoulders and held him at arms’ length. He was now in serious-talk position, a pose he knew well from his own childhood. “Bryan, your grandpa was very sick.” He watched his eyes for understanding—and tears. “So sick, that he … he’d never really be … well … again.” David dropped his chin, pulled in a breath. “Do you understand?”

  “Will I get to talk to him again?”

  Through a thin, forced smile, David answered, “One day, Bryan. I’m sure one day.” He stood, squeezed Bryan’s shoulder, then patted him on the back.

  Bryan scrunched his brows in heavy thought. He turned and gazed at his grandpa again, seemed to ponder what he’d just been told.

  “How about you ride with me in Jimmy’s truck? We can borrow it together.”

  The boy looked up at David, hesitant to answer, then his eyes landed on the gun hanging at this stranger’s side. He stood there, unmoving, then his finger went to the corner of his mouth.

  “What do you say, Bry?” David eyed him carefully with a sideways gaze. “I get it. Your parents taught you not to accept rides from strangers, didn’t they?”

  Bryan nodded with a weak smile.

  “That’s good, Bryan. That’s good that you mind your parents. But I’m not a stranger, anymore. Do you remember my name?”

  He nodded again, this time bigger. “David.”

  “That’s right, Bryan. You have a good memory.” He wiped away the sweat trickling from his own brow. “And we can’t be strangers anymore if we know each other’s names, right?” Eager to get going, David tried to make him feel more at ease by compelling a genuine smile.

  “I guess so.”

  “Let’s grab some of your stuff, then we’ll hit the road. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. You’ll have fun riding in the big truck. I promise.”

  Chapter 6

  Jessica knew she didn’t have much time. She could hear Sammy’s yammering outside, smothered by the thin trailer house walls. He and his buddy were already pushing Randy’s buttons, tearing him down, figuring him out so they could cajole him over to their side. Whatever side that was. She had to hurry.

  She found her Sig Sauer P238 compact handgun, a beautiful gift from Mitch, inside the nightstand drawer right where it should have been. Ejecting the magazine, she double-checked to be sure it was loaded, a habit she developed years ago. Satisfied, she thumbed the safety and tucked the gun between her waistband and the small of her back, hoping it would remain there. Unused.

  She needed to pee, wanted to lay back down, stick the IV needle back into her vein. The Levaquin had worked wonders in a short amount of time, but she was nowhere near better yet. Her back ached, especially her right kidney. Of all the times to get the worst UTI of her life. Randy had said it was serious. Life-threatening, if he couldn’t get it treated. He’d called it something else, though. Started with a ‘P.’ Fancy name for a glorified urinary tract infection.

  She took care of one of the three immediate needs.

  Voices and laughter. Outside. She drew her lips into a tight scrunch, angry that these childish men were picking on Mitch’s friend. Her friend. Of all the people Jessica had come to know in her life, Randy was tops. She often thought, especially when enduring a verbal lashing from Mitch, how different things would be had she met Randy first. Sure, Randy was no looker. But his heart was pure gold, and Jessica loved gold.

  When she’d finished with her bathroom business, she moved to the kitchen. She decided to make good on her promise to provide Sammy and Guillermo with some water. Maybe if she could just stall them, keep them contained, content. At least until Mitch made it home.

  She pulled two glasses from the cabinet and filled them from the tap. They had run out of bottled water only a week into the whole ordeal, but thankfully they had their own well. And she was just as thankful Mitch had the foresight to install a solar-powered setup. Water was no problem for them, as Randy had alluded to earlier. Maybe they didn’t have to leave. Maybe they could make this place safe. Maybe David was wrong.

  But Mitch would still be there. She doubted they could convince Mitch to leave his own place. Then again, depending on what Sammy wanted to discuss, maybe it would just work itself out.

  She considered popping a pain pill, then thought better of it. She wanted to keep her wits about her, stay sharp. Well, as sharp as she could be, given her weakened state. The arrival of the two strangers had set off a surge of adrenaline, and she was riding high for now.

  Curling her fingers around the glasses, she started toward the door, then stopped. Propped against Mitch’s recliner was a walkie-talkie. With their smartphones no longer useful, the group had agreed early on to carry a communicator on runs. She remembered the range being around twenty-five miles or so. Her heart flipped, and she set the glasses on the table, practically dove for the device.

  She twisted the knob, powering it on. “David? David, are you there?” The button beeped when she let it go. Seconds crept by. “David?” Beep.

  After another few seconds, she tried again. “Mitch? Hello? Mitch?” She waited, the beeping of the button her only company. “Anybody there?”

  “Who is this?”

  Jessica didn’t recognize the voice. It caught her off guard.

  She stuttered slightly. “Um … who is this?”

  A long blast of silence followed. Then, “I do believe I asked you first.”

  She didn’t like the tone. The slow southern drawl evinced arrogance. Whoever it was, he sounded like he was playing games, like in some ‘B’ horror movie.

  Against her better judgement, she pressed the button. “Where’s David?”

  Another long pause. “You sound downright delicious. What’s your name, darlin’?”

  The fuse to Jessica’s temper hissed an angry spark. She didn’t have the time nor the patience for this. And she didn’t like being called, darlin’. “I asked you if David was there.”

  “No, I’m afraid David can’t come to the phone right now.”

  She sucked in an angry breath that fanned her ignited rage. “Well what about Mitch? My husband?”

  “I’m afraid he is indisposed of as well, darlin’.”

  She was already tired of this unproductive bantering. “P
ut David on.”

  “I told you, I’m unable to oblige you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. David’s dead.”

  Her jaw unhinged, and she sank to her knees. Her lungs emptied, spilling precious air. Air she needed to keep her conscious and in control.

  No. No way. This guy’s lying. Flat out lying. I call bullshit.

  She gulped a shallow breath, enough to challenge the voice drifting from the box in her hand. “What about Mitch then?”

  “I’m afraid Mitch is dead, too.”

  She shook her head, lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, she said, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, believe what you want, darlin’. But how do you explain the fact that I am talking to you right now using their CB radio?”

  Jessica shook her head again, this time with quick snaps, and fanned her face. She’d begun to sweat profusely.

  Wake up. Gotta wake up.

  “Easy,” she said. “You’re using your own radio. You just happen to be on the same frequency. Now get off this channel.”

  “Morris. David’s last name was Morris.”

  An eternity of silence. Jessica’s heart clogged her throat. Grainy drizzle clouded her vision. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Heaving, she fell forward on her forearms.

  Click … hiss … “Darlin’? You still there?” Beep.

  She glimpsed the two-way, but let it be. This was too much. This cruel man with the heavy southern drawl, calling her darlin’, was fucking with her. That was all. She knew this. He had to be.

  She retched, but it was dry.

  Then, from outside the trailer, gunshots.

  Chapter 7

  “Slow down,” David said to Bryan as the boy bounded up the steps to the old farmhouse. Seeing this boy in such a Norman Rockwell moment tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he smiled genuinely.

  Bryan turned to look back at David, an apologetic frown on his face.