Gunshots earlier in the evening concerned him. He had heard them just minutes before the diesel pickup passed by. Actually, anytime he heard shots, his nerves went on high alert. Not because he was worried for himself, that he’d take a bullet or spray of buckshot to the face. No, he was proficient enough to defend himself against an attack of that nature.
And he was, quite frankly, content rubbing shoulders with those less-than-alive. They were rather sluggish, most of them. Inattentiveness, carelessness—those were the real dangers.
If he couldn’t see undead coming, he could typically hear them. Or sometimes smell them. For supposedly being dead (according to the news reports), their pungency really didn’t bloom until they were truly killed. It was almost as if they’d been preserved, dipped in formaldehyde or something. Glaze-covered donuts, but not near as sweet. That walked. And bit the living.
But once put down for good, they reeked to high heaven. Absolutely odious. It was as though the decay process was accelerated, squared. Cubed. Something. It was horrible. And he couldn’t let that happen to her, his Kate. It was his Kate that concerned him.
His Kate.
When they met ten years ago, he deemed it not simply fortuitous, but rather a relationship ordained by heaven itself. She was perfect in his eyes, not a blemish inside or out. She was his everything. She understood him, she got him. Loved him. Only him. And when she fell ill, he prayed hard to that same heaven that had brought them together under the most perfect of circumstances to fix her. Make her better.
But then that heaven, that same benign bliss above, reneged on the agreement. It wasn’t the same halcyon heaven he used to thank everyday. Like the biters that now roamed the woods, it was still up there, pretending to be alive. And he no longer wanted anything to do with it, would hawk on it if he could spit that far. The pearly gates could burn for a thousand years for all he cared. Then he wouldn’t waste his precious saliva, wouldn’t want to risk putting out the condign flames.
When he found her, he would take care of her, until heaven changed its mind and fixed her. Made her better. He would not give her up. God help anyone who tried to stop him.
He pulled a Ruger Vaquero .357 pistol from his hip, cocked the hammer, pointed, fired. Thud. He normally didn’t let them get that close.
Can’t get careless, lackadaisical. Pay fucking attention. Get on task.
The muzzle flash didn’t affect his eyes too badly. They’d be readjusted in a moment. He made a mental note.
Thirteen. Six on one hand, seven on the other.
It was good to know, to keep up with how many shots he had left. Life and death, actually. He kept more bullets on his belts, but it was important to know where his defenses stood.
He’d learned early on his searches to aim for the head. Much more permanent … quick … humane. He made the discovery after emptying one pistol and half the other into one of the biters. Reluctantly, it had finally gone down. And he’d done enough damage, practically tore it in half, that it didn’t get back up. But it writhed, hissing, for a good while afterwards before it finally succumbed. The next one he took down with one shot to the head. Lesson learned.
His eyes now adjusted to the dark, he looked the biter over. Some of them had sores, marks, like other biters had nibbled at them, then decided they were the wrong food. Maybe they’d been involved in a feeding frenzy, like a group of sharks, and had accidentally chomped chunks out of one another. Seemed feasible. Reasonable.
He hoped he wouldn’t find Kate that way.
There was more noise down the road, more dragging sounds, moaning. Behind him, snapping and cracking. Same in front. Time to start paying close attention. He’d rung the dinner bell with his Ruger. He’d seen it time and again during his outings. Noise—gunshots, diesel duallys, motorcycles—attracted them. Even normal level conversation could be enough. There’d been more clamor lately, attracting more of them.
He was torn about this. On one hand, it stirred them up, increased his chances of finding his beloved wife. Maybe even draw her to him. The flip-side was that it contaminated the area with biters from other areas, from farther away. More of them to comb through.
Finishing his cigarette, he flicked the butt onto the blacktop. He’d smoked it down to the filter, so no tell-tale sparks danced across the road when it hit.
Through the woods, another gunshot. Shotgun blast, by the sound, he reckoned. Evidently, not everyone had piled into the dually lifeboat and made for the hills. He favored encouragement through fear, preferring not to kill the living. But sometimes it was just unavoidable. Kate was out there, after all, and he had to protect her. At all costs. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.
“I’m comin’, dahlin’.”
* * *
He didn’t like taking down biters with a knife. Despised it. Yes, it got the job done. Yes, it got the job done quietly. Yes, he’d save precious bullets. But there was something about getting the actual blood on his hands.
But stealth had become immediately important. He would practice prudence, not give away his location. And he had a feeling about tonight. That tonight would be the night. He would find Kate tonight. And he’d take her home, care for her, until this dreaded spell of soul death lifted, and she was herself. Again.
He strolled down the middle of highway 204, following the shotgun blasts. He’d heard four more since the last one, wondered what he was in store for when he got there. Every shot brought him closer, but every shot also meant that the unthinkable could have happened.
Positive thoughts, Tom. Positive thoughts. You’ll find Kate. Nurse her back to life. Everything will be okay. No one else will have to die.
He thrust his knife almost reflexively, straight into the biter’s eye socket. It was easier, a more direct path to the brain, which he surmised the destruction of incapacitated the walking sick.
If they’re just sick, then why are you killing them, Tom?
Because, if I don’t, they’ll kill me.
Do you know that for sure?
Well … no. But the news person said that a bite—
Do you believe everything you’re told, Mr. Mackey?
Of course not.
Then you must know in your heart they’re dead.
No.
Kate Mackey is dead, Tom.
No she’s not. She’s sick. She’ll get better. She’s not like the others. I just have to find—
You know what you’ll have to do when you find her, Tom. You’ve been doing it all along.
Tom shook his head and muttered under his breath, “No, no, no, no, no. You’re wrong. And don’t call me that. That’s not my name anymore.”
You ain’t no Doc Holliday.
Yes, I am. And she’s my Kate.
You won’t like what you find, Doc. You won’t be able to cure it. Because you ain’t no Doc.
“Fuck off,” Tom Mackey said aloud, startling himself.
He stood motionless, straddling the yellow lane divider in the middle of the highway. Blood dripped from the blade glistening in the rising moon.
“If they were dead, they wouldn’t bleed,” he whispered to the trees. “I can save her. There’s still a chance.”
Another shotgun blast. He was close. He flung as much blood off of the blade as he could, wiping the rest on the bottom of his pants leg. He moved over to the ditch, looking for a shortcut through the dense brush, but found none. He assumed a driveway must be close, hard to spot just as his own was.
The rising moon helped his vision. It wasn’t full, but one-quarter provided plenty of light on yet another cloudless, star-filled evening. He couldn’t even remember the last time he saw a cloud, the elusive wind-driven strangers that never came around anymore. It was as though they knew the area was sick, and chose to stay away. Far, far away.
Then he spotted it. A driveway reflector, sticking out of the ground at the edge of the road like a sweet beckoning lollipop. Had he looked away for even a second, he would have missed it, t
he moonlight glinting off the metal surrounding the round red reflector. He’d found his difficult-to-find driveway.
Trotting, he covered ground quickly, dodging two biters rather than stopping to take them out, carefully checking to be sure they weren’t his wife first.
I can feel it. I will find her tonight. After nearly a month, she’ll be home.
You won’t like what you find. I’m telling you, Tom.
My name’s Doc now. I don’t go by Tom Mackey anymore.
Whatever you say, Doc.
I’ll go back to ‘Tom’ when Kate comes home.
Better get used to ‘Doc,’ then.
He skidded to a stop, then cursed the other voice in his head, the taunting and truculent naysayer. He would show that disbeliever cowardly hiding in his subconscious. He’d show him.
Turning on his heel, he quickly stepped onto the narrow driveway, and started making his way, a confident gait, pressing inward.
I’m telling you—
You’re telling me what? This is it, I can feel it.
I’m telling you to turn around, now. Before—
Before what?
Before you can’t.
He slowed. The driveway was a virtual mini-canyon. If he twisted or broke his ankle here, that pugnacious pip-squeak yammering away inside his head would drive him insane while he lay wounded and captive.
Ring the dinner bell for the biters.
With renewed vigilance, he moved forward, staying to the center of the drive as best he could, out of the treacherous ruts. Branches grabbed at him from either side, closing in. He was normally immune to claustrophobia, but something about this stretch of dirt. Something.
Something’s not right.
The stench of death almost backed him up, made him turn around. The small slice of dark but sparkling sky above was barely lighting his way, the moon obscured by overhanging foliage, but gaining and moving higher.
He considered using his flashlight, a palm-sized military-style light that he’d purchased from the army-navy store over a year ago. Touted as being the brightest, he thought it would come in handy living in the country. And he’d been right. Storms from months ago had induced power outages that lasted for days. One lasted a week and a half. That one light could illuminate a room and then some. He’d shone it over his yard once when he first got it. He bet planes could see it if he pointed it to the sky. If planes still flew. They were as extinct as the clouds these days.
Tom approached the heap lying in the driveway with extra caution. Just because it was down on the ground didn’t mean that it was completely dead. He’d seen it time and again on his outings. Had nearly been nipped in the ankle on a couple of occasions. Thank goodness for trench coats and cowboy boots. He’d put spurs on if they weren’t so noisy.
The corpse ahead reeked. He surmised death—true death—had occurred forty-five minutes to an hour ago. That’s usually how long it took before one really started decomposing the old-fashioned way. After another day or so, it would probably be unbearable. He’d joked to himself that it would strangle the hairs inside his nose.
His heart kicked up a notch. The corpse in the drive was a woman. His lungs clawed at him from the inside, scratching his throat with each labored breath. He preferred the branches scratching at him from the outside. He stepped closer, trying to ascertain her identity. It was the same way almost every time he came upon a woman biter—it wasn’t a biter until he’d verified it wasn’t his Kate. His beautiful Kate, Mrs. Mackey.
Once he ID’d the body, he would declare it a biter. Until then …
He stopped about five feet away, the putrid mass turning his stomach. As often as he’d encountered the smell, it was still tough getting used to. He wasn’t sure that he ever would. Once he found Kate and brought her home, he wouldn’t have to any more. Except to defend their home. But he had plans, tricky ways that he’d keep them at bay. Kate would like his ideas.
Get ready for I told you so.
He clenched his teeth, as much against the sick cauldron bubbling inside his gut as against the coward inside his subconscious, poking his head out to goad him.
I told you to shut the fuck up, already.
Whatever you say … Doc.
It was too dark. He couldn’t see, the moon taking its sweet time rising above. His eyes to the sky, he wagered it’d be another fifteen minutes or so before it would be high enough to light this thin strip he found himself in. He’d have to risk the light.
Fumbling in his coat pocket, he finally produced the small light. He was reluctant to sheath his knife. Biters had a way of sneaking up on the living. Ninety-nine percent of the time he saw them, heard them, smelled them. He had a feeling. Tonight was a night of one-percents. He wouldn’t chance it. If he was going to find his wife and protect them both, he had to be vigilant and on guard.
He exhaled deeply, then tried to avoid inhaling just as deeply, settling instead on shallow breaths through parted lips.
Let’s get this over with so I can get back to finding my love.
The light clicked on with the press of his thumb. The brightness surprised him, even though he knew what to expect. He shielded part of the intense glow with his weapon hand, the blade catching light. He couldn’t believe how much blood was still on the knife, even though he thought he’d wiped it clean.
He shuffled forward, hinging slightly, trying to get a good look. The woman was face down. He’d have to roll her over. His stomach stirred again, dreading the inevitable.
Just nudge her over with your boot.
But what if it’s … her?
You’ll never know until you—
He squeezed his eyes tight. The woman’s hair was blood-streaked blonde.
Kate’s hair is blonde.
The woman had a svelte build.
Kate is slim.
He stepped back. What if this was Kate? What if all of his searching, planning, hoping—was for naught? It couldn’t end this way. Destiny wouldn’t allow it. Heaven may have pissed and shit on him, but destiny surely wouldn’t be as dubious. He turned his back to the body, white-knuckling the knife.
He half expected the woman to stand, come for him. Talk to him. Maybe tell him where he could find Kate.
I am Kate. Look at me.
He shook his head, hard snaps. Lips pressed so hard they were nearly indiscernible.
Open your fucking eyes. Stay alert. You trying to die tonight?
For the first time that evening, the voice he’d been sparring with was right. Opening his eyes helped him open his lungs, allowing precious oxygen back in the supply chain.
It was time. Time to lay this distracting farce to rest. It simply couldn’t be her.
He turned back to the corpse. He thought for a second it had moved, changed positions. Mocking him.
Turn around again and see what happens. I dare you.
He pulled in a deep breath, despite the pungency. He stepped up to the body and stopped. He simply couldn’t bring himself to use his boot. Kneeling, he put the flashlight in his teeth, held his blade at the ready, and used his newly freed hand to roll the body.
Everything inside him melted, felt like he was floating. Light as the lightest of feathers. If he fell backward, he wouldn’t have hit the ground. Probably the opposite. It was like the laws of physics had become capricious, undependable. If you fall backward, you should hit the ground, but not always. Depends. Depends on how the laws of the land were feeling. Tonight? They felt like fucking with folks—full-on fuck-with-people’s-head mode. In particular, folks who find their dead wife’s body face down in the middle of a remote country driveway.
His chin quivered uncontrollably, tugging his lips. He tried to see through the burgeoning blur, but it was a futile effort. Within seconds, the salty tidal wave crashed over his cheeks, and a whimper spilled over his trembling lips. They were hard tears. Hard sobs.
Told you so.
Shut the fuck up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up …
His ass
met the dirt, legs giving out on him. He didn’t care. His shoulders slumped, bobbing with each turbulent sob.
“My Kate. My beautiful Kate. Kate.”
A biter could have easily had at him, and he wouldn’t have cared. Wouldn’t have moved. Would have welcomed the bite.
Minutes dragged by, his sobbing subsiding with each one passing. And then he admitted what he didn’t have the courage to admit only minutes ago. He knew he’d find her tonight. He knew he’d find her dead.
You knew. You knew it would end like this. How could it not, Doc?
Destiny. Destiny promised we’d be together. That she’d get better.
Destiny lied, Doc. Flat out lied to your ass. Sounds like you lost another friend.
He wiped his eyes, then played his light over the encroaching bushes and limbs, behind him, and down the drive. Finally, he shone the beam on his wife. She glowed angelic in the light
His heart was a Tasmanian Devil on cocaine. He expected it to explode at any second. But he stayed conscious. Didn’t pass out, didn’t die on the spot of a broken heart. He wiped at his cheeks again, trying to clear the blur, determine what happened.
He worked on getting a hold of himself, shutting his prodding inner voice down. Emotions had to be set aside, room made for a pragmatic approach. Couldn’t break down again.
Then he noticed something. He cocked his head, another tear spilling down his cheek. Letting it plummet to the dirt, he reached out, brushed his fingers across his wife’s forehead, teasing her blonde tresses out of the way. The fetid smell had disappeared, now that he knew it was her. He imagined he could smell her lavender bath soap, her favorite perfume. Leaning over, he kissed her blue lips, and another wave of sorrow hit him. He was torturing himself, but he had to say goodbye. Kiss her goodnight one last time. His eyes roved over her stiffening body, stopping where he’d noticed the trauma.
Tire tracks. Fucking tire tracks. Two distinct treads—
like a dually
—on her legs. His gaze moved over her body again, and it was clear. Blunt trauma. She’d been hit, run over. Plowed into. He shone the light farther behind her, and fresh ruts where a truck had skidded in the dirt confirmed his diagnosis.
Dead South Rising (Book 1) Page 13
