Randy nodded. “I feel the same way. I’m actually optimistic, for the first time since the shit hit the fan.”
David smiled, giving him another shoulder squeeze. “Glad to hear it, Randy. We stick together, we’ll be okay. You follow my lead … we’ll be good.”
“Sure.”
Jessica pushed the screen door open, trying to nurse the arm with the IV needle still protruding from it. “I’m ready. Randy, can you get the new IV bag, please?” She still seemed tired, weak. Bryan, Charlie still in his arms, stood by her hip.
“Sure thing.”
David cupped his hand on her elbow, his other behind her back, and carefully led her down the steps and toward the Dodge dually. “There’s plenty of room in the backseat. We’ll hang the IV bag from the clothes hook, and you’ll be good to go.”
She nodded and smiled feebly. As he was helping her into the towering truck, she said, “He’s dead to me, you know.”
David’s throat squeezed on itself. “What?”
“Mitch. He’s dead to me.”
He brushed back a strand of hair from her eyes. In a comforting tone, he said, “You don’t know that for sure. That guy on the radio—”
“No, David. I said he’s dead to me. He may or may not be physically dead, but to me, emotionally …”
“Oh … well, let’s not think about any of that right now, okay?”
“I thought bad things, David. I wanted to do bad things to Mitch.”
“I know. Me, too.”
“I don’t think you under—”
“Sshh. Later. We can talk about it later. Let’s get you situated and comfortable.”
He helped her up into the backseat of the cab, and Randy got her IV going again. David assumed the sleeping pills had prompted her maundering about Mitch. She probably wouldn’t even remember the conversation tomorrow.
A few moments later, Bryan and Charlie joined her in the back. Finally, everyone and everything was loaded, ready to go. All that was left was to turn the key. After pressing the clutch, of course.
“We’re doing the right thing,” Randy said in a low voice intended for David’s ears only.
David simply nodded, assuming Randy was trying to convince himself more than anything. He reached for the key, a smile almost crossing his lips, when he stopped and frowned, his brows scrunched.
Randy eyed him, and with his voice still low, asked, “What is it?”
David answered with a raised forefinger. “Listen.”
And then Randy heard it. The unmistakeable crack and rumble of Mitch’s Franken-Harley. His eyes grew wide behind his glasses, a panic on his face that his beard couldn’t hide, no matter how thick.
David turned in his seat, his voice low and calm. “Bry, stay down, okay? Jess, you, too.” Jessica was already in the fetal position, nearly asleep. She nodded weakly while giving a thumbs-up.
“Is that the man you had a fight with this morning?” Bryan asked.
Randy shot a questioning glance at David.
Ignoring the question, David said, “Just stay low, okay?” Turning his head to Randy, he said, “You, too, Randy. Get low. The truck is so high, he’d have to climb the running boards to see in. But let’s not take any chances.”
Randy acknowledged David with a nod, then slid his mass as best he could and as low as he could into the seat.
The tinted windows made it seem darker than it really was, though twilight was in full effect. David cracked the driver and passenger side front windows a few inches. Instantly, the barking pipes got louder, closer sounding.
Then David saw the bouncing headlight throw a stuttering beam across the drive and yard. Bugs scattered in the spotlight, the Franken-Hog rolling closer. He felt his chest tighten, the anxiety growing, twisting his intestines. He ducked slightly, paranoid that the man on the motorcycle would spot him, come for him. He wondered if he’d regret not following through on his original plan to cure the cancer, this malignant tumor coming back stronger than ever.
He felt the truck vibrate from the bike’s V-twin. The rider revved the motor, exhaust kicking up loose grass and dirt, some of it pelting the side of the Dodge. Another crack of the throttle, and the engine went silent. Then the squeak of the kickstand.
Footsteps came next, crunching the grass. Then the distinct sound of boot heel on the shell of steps leading to the trailer house. Clomping boots meeting wood boards. David realized he had been holding his breath long enough to start seeing stars, and he exhaled slow and long through circled lips. The outside rearview mirror protruding from the truck wasn’t angled correctly to see.
The screen door’s rusty spring sang its tired song before yanking the door back to the jamb.
“Should we go?” Randy whispered.
David brought his forefinger to his own lips, shaking his head with quick snaps, then motioned with his flattened hand to keep it down. Randy shifted his bulk in the seat, causing the truck to rock slightly, and David scowled at him. Randy said he was sorry with his eyes.
They waited. Then waited some more, David’s fingers itching to twist the key and slam the gas. He was fighting a losing battle with impatience.
David didn’t see it, but he heard it through the ringing in his ears: the simultaneous sound of the screen door being thrown open and the racking of a shotgun. His heart immediately clogged his throat, his hand going to his pistol.
This is it. This is how it goes down.
He eased El Jefe from the holster and rested the weapon on his lap. He forced his lungs to slow down, to pull in enough air to keep him alert, keep his head and vision clear. It was growing darker by the minute, and he needed his eyes to keep up.
“Son of a bitch.”
The words muttered from the porch bristled David’s neck and arms.
“You goddamn dead sons of bitches.”
Quick steps across the porch, then the heavy thump of a man leaping and landing on the unforgiving ground. The truck rocked, someone slamming against it. There was a gurgling moan, almost a growl. Then the sound of a body dropping. A sickening series of thuds—wood and metal on skull.
“You walking, breathing dead motherfuckers.” Mitch’s voice had almost a hint of sorrow, remorse. He punctuated every smash with a fuck you.
David was holding his breath again. He’d been so focused on Mitch, he didn’t realize a shuffler had ambled into the yard. This concerned him, how quietly the creature had made its way through the yard and up to the house. He wondered if there were others. The blast of the shotgun answered his question.
“Eat that,” Mitch simply said.
Bryan jumped at the blast, a nervous whimper spilling over his quivering lips. David twisted, leaned into the backseat and put a calming hand on the boy’s knee. “It’s okay, champ. It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” He glimpsed Jessica. The commotion outside had her wide awake. Her lips were thin, eyes hard. David could hear her breaths coming and going through her nose. He touched her leg, reiterating that things would be okay.
David could just barely hear them, but he heard them, even through the ringing that had settled into his ears from firing El Jefe earlier in the afternoon. Screams. Down by the pond. Where he’d left two troublemakers.
David heard one more crack of wood on bone, then footsteps heading away, headed for the pond. Toward the screams. This could be their break. With Mitch far enough away, they could get a significant head start, lose him. He felt himself relax just a little.
He inched up in his seat, enough to see into the rearview mirror on the door. Mitch was indeed headed for the pond, the oasis that had helped feed the group over the last twenty-two days. Dusk had overtaken twilight, and David could just barely make out the man with the shotgun slung across his shoulder, strolling confidently, seemingly without fear.
Keep going, Mitch. Keep walking, you bastard.
He’d give Mitch another minute or so to get where he was going, where he’d be far enough away. Mitch would hear t
he diesel start up and drive away, but there’d be nothing he could do about it. They’d be well on their way, down the bumpy drive and barreling down highway 204 by the time he got that bike started up. If the bike would even start again. It was a crap shoot with that thing.
Randy spoke unexpectedly. “Maybe we should let him know—”
“Randy,” David said, cutting him off in an angry whisper. “We talked about this. He’s a liability, remember? He’ll only bring the group down. Maybe do something stupid. Get us all killed.”
Second thoughts filled Randy’s gaze. The peacemaker who craved harmony at whatever cost.
“That man will kill us?” Bryan said from the backseat.
David glowered at Randy.
See what you’ve done? You’ve scared Bry. Don’t become a liability, Randy. Don’t turn cancerous. Stay benign. You’ll live longer. We’ll all live longer.
“Of course not, champ. Nobody’s going to kill us. But we need to stay quiet. That man out there, he’s not a nice man, and we don’t want him to know we’re leaving. He doesn’t belong with us.”
Bryan nodded, seeming to understand David’s reasoning for leaving someone behind.
“Now, everyone just stay calm. As soon as he’s far enough away, we’re gone.” He cut his eyes at Randy, and the big man averted his gaze.
David slid El Jefe back into the holster and sat up in his seat. He focused back on the mirror.
Mitch had almost disappeared into the eventide, a veritable walking shadow charging into the gloaming, indiscernible from a shuffler save for his self-assured gait. Near him, another shadow briefly lit by the flash of the shotgun muzzle stumbled backwards. It was like Mitch was strolling straight into hell through the front door, taking out everyone in his way. Another blast, and another shadow crumpled. They were coming out of the woodwork now.
David had considered setting the trailer ablaze when they left, erasing a bad memory of a bad time. Removing any and all temptation to return, though he doubted they ever would. Why would they? But he thought better of it. Thought it might draw unwanted attention. Besides, leaving it in tact might delay Mitch, he reckoned. But now, he’d almost wished—
His hand was twisting the key before he realized it, and the burly Dodge’s engine ground with gusto, blowing black clouds, vibrating on its huge frame—a thoroughbred just waiting for the gate to spring. David swore he thought he saw Mitch turn and run toward them. His eyes glued to the mirror, he watched, but no one came. None that he could see, anyway. Maybe Mitch knew what was happening, expected it. Let it.
David cupped the gearshift knob, scratching into first, the dually lurching. They started down the drive, David taking it faster than he normally would. It was like a bad flight full of turbulence, wondering if the plane was going to fall out of the sky. Stuff and people shifted roughly, and all were vocal.
“Be at the end of the drive soon, guys.” David’s foot pressed harder, engaging second gear. Still, the dually commanded the rough driveway much more handily than the rental car ever had. David suspected the unsparing driveway had just as much to do with the demise of that vehicle than any other factor.
Despite his reassuring comments, his heart punched his sternum, his lungs, his ribs, his retreating soul. He felt like he couldn’t go fast enough, that Mitch and his brother and Gills were all breathing down his neck, nearly on top of them. Logically, he knew this wasn’t possible. But he felt it. Couldn’t help feeling it. That fear a little kid has, running through the woods as it’s getting dark, trying to make it home, feeling like something is right behind him, right on his heels. Claws catching wisps of hair. Drawing closer, until—
Both feet. David used both feet to stand on the brake, the shuffler coming out of nowhere. The truck slid slightly sideways, but he still hit it. The motor died, jerking the vehicle as it did. This frightened David for a moment, until he realized that he’d taken his foot off the clutch to press the brake. He started it back up right away, mentally thanking Jimmy and Angela for taking such good care of the Dodge. It ran like a champ despite David’s unintentional attempts at trying to destroy it.
“Everyone alright?”
Nods all around.
“Alright.”
He wasn’t sure what became of the shuffler he’d just made into roadkill, but he quickly decided it was pointless wondering. But something poked at his conscience. He wasn’t completely one-hundred percent sure that he’d hit a shuffler. Could have been a live person. Maybe.
But there was no reason for a living, breathing, thinking being to be walking up the driveway, right? Especially one that wasn’t smart enough to get out of the way. Stay out of the way. It wasn’t like the heavily grinding engine couldn’t be heard from a mile away.
A shudder rattled him, and he glimpsed the rearview mirror. It was a body. He could see it in the wash of taillights’ red glow. He thought he saw the heap move, but couldn’t be sure. He also thought he saw three men running after them, too.
Paranoia kicked him in the ass, and he grated gears until he was back into first, the rear tires spinning, branches clawing the sides of the truck. On the move again, his lungs opened up. Finally, they reached the end of the drive, a highway of freedom in front of them. Two choices: right or left. East or west.
“What do you think, hoss?” David asked, the blacktop pumping new life and relief into his exhausted soul.
Randy looked left and right several times, not wanting to make the decision. “I don’t know.”
David pivoted his head, peering into the backseat. “What do you think, champ? Left or right?”
Bryan scratched his chin, pondering the proposed question as though it were the most important one he’d ever been asked. “Mmmmm … right. Because we should always do the right thing.”
David smiled, and turned his gaze back to the road. “I like it, champ.” The boy had an uncanny way of making him feel better.
He shot one last glance into the rearview mirror to satisfy his own paranoia about being followed, then turned right onto the two-lane rural blacktop.
Despite the feeling of being followed, he forced himself to slow the truck down. The speedometer seemed to chastise him for going so fast, the needle wagging at him like a scolding finger redolent of his father’s.
Slow down, son. Gonna kill somebody.
Too late, dad.
Plus, once in a while, he’d see a shuffler ambling along the shoulder or in the middle of the road itself.
He felt like they’d escaped a horrible fate today and didn’t want to jeopardize their safety now.
He settled back into his seat. Randy was quiet, staring straight ahead. Bryan was quiet also, but awake. Jessica had fallen back asleep, no doubt from the residual effects of the pills. She probably wouldn’t be up again until tomorrow. He’d let her be.
Ahead, he could see the reflection of the truck’s headlights off the rental car. He slowed, curiosity tugging hard at him. He knew Mitch made it back, didn’t expect to see the Harley lying in the ditch anymore, but something made him slowdown. Something still off about the scene. He slowed the truck to a near crawl, but didn’t stop.
Then he saw it. In the dark underbrush, just at the edge. Something that gave him chills that no shuffler could give him. Something now scarier than the dead—the living.
PART TWO
The Great Pretender
Chapter 13
The stranger stepped from the gloomy underbrush just as the growling dually rumbled by. A Camel cigarette resided on his lips, the cherry glowing red hot when he inhaled. He plucked the vice from his mouth, giving it a flick, then let it dangle at his side to keep one of two Ruger Vaqueros company. With his thumb and forefinger, he smoothed his wispy mustache, then adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. He wore a black leather duster, collar turned up around his neck despite the sweltering heat. He had his reasons.
But this was no stranger. Not to Bryan, anyway. And not to Jessica. They knew his voice. One had looked into his eyes. He d
oubted he had made a positive first impression on either. Mission accomplished.
He watched the pickup accelerate away, the grinding gears telling on the driver, a driver not accustomed to piloting a manual transmission. For a moment, he thought the dually was going to stop, maybe ask if he wanted a lift. He would have declined the invitation, of course, if one would have come. He had a job to do here.
Thick diesel fumes hung on the air so heavy and dark he could practically taste them and see them in the night time sky. He tried to kill them with another drag of nicotine, and it helped. But he still got what he wanted from the ruckus of the six-wheeled machine rolling by.
The man could already hear them moving about, stirred by the noisy truck. All around him. With only the starlight and scythe moon to guide his steps, he stepped carefully through tall grass and around the abandoned car in the ditch. He leaned his backside against it, crossed one ankle over the other. Flipping back the front edges of his coat exposed the two wheel guns holstered on either hip. Fourteen shots—six in one, eight in the other. With the progress he’d made over the last few weeks, he doubted he’d need more than that. Another drag off the Camel filled his lungs, and he relished the hit. He dreaded the day he ran out.
Moaning from across the road. Squinting, he couldn’t make anything or anyone out. The biter must still be somewhere in the woods. Snapping branches confirmed this, actually made him feel a little more at ease. He had time. Then a dragging sound. On the highway. Twenty … thirty yards, maybe?
His eyes were adjusting, albeit slower than he would like. Night after night and day after day, he walked these woods, this stretch of highway, looking for what was once his. He couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t sleep, until he found … her. And he couldn’t have some backwoods redneck mistakenly taking her from him. Maybe his little radio announcement earlier in the day had done its job and scared some of the local yokels away. Maybe that was them in the dually. The kid from that morning, Bryan, didn’t seem all that scared. But he was sure his dad or Jimmy or whoever was driving would be rattled by the story of some legendary gunslinger emerging from the woods, engaging defenseless children in duplicitous conversation. Perception was reality, after all.
Dead South Rising (Book 1) Page 12
