Dead South Rising (Book 1)

by Sean Robert Lang

  He dreaded plunging back into the stretch of thick forest. With his hearing slightly compromised from firing his gun earlier in the day, he had to rely more heavily on a handicapped sense of sight. Though the glowing crescent above shone bright, it wasn’t a full moon. Besides, the woods were dark, even darker than the field in which he now stood. But despite the ringing in his ears, he heard movement—shuffling. His head slowly pivoted in search of the perambulating dead. And he found what he was searching for. More of them. One actually tripped, toppling to the ground in a face-plant that would have sent a living person to the emergency room. If emergency rooms still existed, of course.

  Still, he reckoned his chances against the dead were better than against the living. Given the slew of gunshots that had come from up by the house, going back the way he came made the most sense. While he’d love nothing more than to hop back on the bike and get to the truck more expediently, he didn’t want to chance an encounter with Sammy and Gills. If he could get far away, he doubted they’d ever be a problem again. With everyone dying, the world was getting bigger, easier to hide in.

  David started backtracking, avoiding the occasional grope and grab. One shuffler managed to hook his shirt sleeve, but a hearty yank freed it. The earlier slaughter had planted plenty of stench on the air, so he couldn’t rely on his nose to warn him.

  Something stirred his curiosity, though. For the better part of their stay at the trailer, they had fended off the occasional wandering corpse, two at a time at most. It was nothing like the pack Randy had shown him earlier that day, and nothing like the sprinkling of shufflers now filtering through the field. Noise attracted them, sure. He’d figured out that much. But the population density this far out in the country was thin at best. It was the primary reason he believed they were not bothered much, existed in relative peace. With the exception of Mitch, of course.

  It was on the ground, in the tree’s shadow, as he rounded the pond. Too busy musing, he didn’t even see it. Not that it would have been easy to spot, anyway. The dead fingers wrapped around his ankle like a pair of vice-grips, and he fell forward, that ever-famous rug pulled right out from under him. A searing pain spiraled through his wrist and arm when he hit, and immediately he hoped it was only sprained.

  The dead man latched onto David’s leg with his other hand, pulling himself up David’s body like climbing a rope. Anticipation of a warm meal got it growling and snapping.

  David flailed wildly, desperate to avoid the death sentence a bite would bring about. He twisted his torso, tried to free his knife pinned beneath his hip.

  Running on pure instinct, the monster tried to close its gaping jaws on David’s hamstring, eager for satiation that only fresh flesh could provide. With every snap of its mouth, the thing’s teeth slid harmlessly against David’s jeans. Until his last bite.

  David screamed. A deep, guttural scream. He couldn’t be bit. He just couldn’t be. He’d seen what happens to people, and it couldn’t happen to him. He simply wouldn’t let it. He had people to protect, to care for, to save. How could he do that if he couldn’t save himself?

  He kicked fiercely. Freeing his knife, he flexed his arm best he could given the awkward angle, then let the blade rip through the air. It grazed off the shuffler’s skull, and he nearly stabbed his own leg. He cocked his arm again, then fired. The blade hit its mark, piercing the attacker’s temple. A hiss, just like the one Old Man Bartlett had let loose, leaked from the thing, and David felt its grip dying along with it.

  Finally, the creature’s clutch on him faded to nothing, and David dragged himself away, his breaths shallow and fast. He sat there on the ground, knife gripped tightly, expecting the beast to come at him again. He waited, but the dead being didn’t stir, even though David thought he saw movement. He kept his gaze locked on it for several seconds, letting his breathing, beating heart, and nerves all sync back up.

  It happened so damn fast.

  Learning his lesson quickly, he scanned the area around him, listening. Sniffing the air. There was movement, an ambling figure, but it would take it a minute or so to reach him. But there were others, and they had noticed the struggle on the ground.

  Two of them, to his left, nearly on top of him. His leg throbbed and his right wrist was already swelling. Neither a good sign. But thanks to his body pumping enough epinephrine to fill a keg, he felt no pain in either.

  He held his blade to the sky as the first corpse descended on him, dropping to its knees, jaws unhinged and primed. But it never had a chance. David nailed its mandible shut, pinning the dead soul’s mouth closed with the knife. Head on a stick. But the way the beast stumbled twisted the knife from David’s weakened hand, leaving the implement embedded, the handle hanging like some newfangled goatee.

  David scrambled, heels kicking away the body while sliding on his ass to avoid the shuffler’s friend. It reached for him with talon hands, its torso hinged, swooping down on him.

  There was no time to think, only time to react. Yanking his pistol, he pointed the barrel at the brute above just as their ankles tangled, sending the corpse crashing down on top of him, and they were face to face. David had never smelled anything so foul and wretched as the bilious breath of the dead, and he heaved, the stench a finger down his throat. When he retched, his hand spasmed with the involuntary convulsion, propelling the first shot through the shuffler’s shoulder.

  It seemed indifferent, not aware of any pain, though David could sense diminished motor skills. It didn’t stop, but it slowed.

  He coughed, clearing his throat, spitting residual vomit at the snarling thing, then jabbed his handgun underneath its chin. It kept coming, incessantly snapping its teeth, grinding on him, searching for a handle. David turned his face away, eyes and lips closed tight, and pulled the trigger.

  He couldn’t escape it—the explosion of meat, bone, and blood—and he instantly felt sick again. He managed to avoid saturating his eyes and mouth, but his nose and ears … he felt like he’d just gone swimming in a rotting pool of mud, sticks and grass. But it was everything hitting him: the smell, the texture, the taste. He gagged again.

  What was left of the thing’s head lolled on David’s face and its body went limp. David frantically shoved the corpse off of him, then rolled onto his side, still gagging, coughing, spitting. His ears stung, the gunshot still ringing fresh, the only thing that was fresh.

  An obscene vileness that he couldn’t wipe clean covered him. He felt stained, tattooed by death. It would be with him forever.

  He didn’t know how much attention he’d drawn, how many more there were. The grainy grit blinded him, dripped from his face. He tried opening his eyes, tried crying to clear his vision. Funny how the tears never came when he wanted them to.

  Get to the pond.

  He was close. He could get there, rid himself of the gnarly nastiness, and get the hell out of there. Willing his body to action, he dragged himself along the ground, El Jefe still clutched, ready for the next attacker.

  It came much sooner than he’d anticipated. He sensed it, the ambling figure to his right, but he couldn’t see it, his eyes clogged with gunk. And he heard it only because it was so close. Still on his belly, he pointed his pistol in the direction of the growling, blasted off a few rounds, praying he’d at least slow the thing down. He thought he heard at least one bullet hit its mark, and he tried to wipe his lids clean so he could confirm his hope. Squinting through a bleary haze, the monster’s head eclipsed the moon. David took full advantage, firing off rounds into the black hole in the middle of the glowing halo.

  The moon appeared again, freed, David having hit his mark. He let his head and hand drop back to the ground while he pulled in deep breaths. Thrumming fast and hard, his heart was a vibrator on cocaine. He was trembling, but numb. He glanced around, best he could, and listened. There were more of them.

  Move, move, move!

  So shaken, so nerve-racked, he barely felt the ground, barely knew up from down. He was seconds from
the finish line, and he had to summon every bit of will left inside him to get to the water’s edge.

  Pushing to his elbows, he ground his way forward, dragging himself over the earth even though his legs still worked. He felt dried out, withered, despite dripping sweat and blood. Ahead, only a few feet away, water rippled from a feeding fish.

  His hand found sanctuary first, and he instantly splashed his face over and over, clearing the crud. It was wonderful and refreshing in a way he’d never experienced before. He forced himself to stop long enough to listen, to peer behind him, but the threats were not immediate. He had time, precious seconds were his alone.

  The cleaner his face got, the cleaner his hands and arms got, the more he desired a thorough, full-body cleansing. Just as much for his physical self as his mental self.

  Surely they wouldn’t wander into the water.

  Before he rolled into the pond, he had the presence of mind to release the gun, leaving it on the bank. He’d make this quick. No time for a Calgon moment. He had only a minute or two, then the next batch would be on him.

  The water was warm, but felt like another world. A pleasant world. One free of hate and bullets and gnashing teeth. He floated farther out, dipping his head under, scrubbing furiously at the filth, then resurfaced. Once his face was clear and he could see again, he scanned the bank, the trees, what he could see of the field. Shadows moved, but none were close. He’d earned a reprieve, and he would take it.

  But his throbbing hamstring started to awaken, and his spirits nose-dived. His adrenaline tank full, he’d already forgotten about the bite and his twisted wrist. Both were tender. One would most likely heal on its own. The other …

  He couldn’t stand it any longer, had to know if it was worth fighting for his life any longer. If the bite was as bad as it felt, he may as well call it a day. And a life.

  Thank you for playing, contestant. You made it to day number twenty-two of the zombie apocalypse before being voted off the island of the living. It was wonderful having you, and we hope you’ll enjoy your stay in the land of the dead. Watch out for those humans! They’re tasty, but feisty!

  He couldn’t go out like this. Was this Karma’s sick way of jacking with him? The first day he kills an undead, they kill him right back? What about the omens? Finding the pistol—El Jefe? Finding Bryan? Mitch out of the picture? He just knew there was still so much left to do. Jessica and Bryan, they needed him. How would they make it without him?

  Fucking check it already, goddamn drama queen.

  He just knew what he’d find, and sometimes, he figured, ignorance was bliss.

  But not in this case. Not if he could die, and kill. He wouldn’t be that guy. No way. If he was going to die, he would do it only once.

  Hurry the fuck up, you pussy.

  His hand cut through the water to the back of his leg. Still numb, it was hard to tell. Instead, he scratched at where the wound should be, wincing in anticipation of ripping flesh. Fingernails dragged across denim, but didn’t catch. He ran his fingers over the spot again and again, but his pant leg seemed intact.

  A second chance?

  He tried lifting his leg in the water, drawing it to his chest, then squeezed the tender spot. It hurt terribly, throbbed like mad, but the skin didn’t seem to be broken. Bruised, but not broken. The shuffler had managed to clamp down on him pretty hard, but didn’t get a piece of him.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you …

  He almost couldn’t believe it, how he had escaped relatively unscathed. He promised, going forward, that once he got back to Jessica and Bryan, he would never leave them again. The world was a different place, with new rules. The survival paradigm had shifted, and he’d learn to shift with it.

  With renewed vigor, he started back toward the bank, but stopped. Despite the ringing in his ears, he could hear them. He stilled himself as much as possible in the water, tried to get silent and stay that way. There was groaning. Snarls. Those he expected. But among them, voices. People’s voices. And they were getting closer.

  * * *

  David flinched, the clap of gunfire breaking through the odd nighttime mix of crickets and groans. He feared he’d been spotted, bobbing there in the pond like some cork on fine filament, the ripples pointing to him like radar. The trees and bushes obscured his view of the field for the most part, but he dared not turn away. Lungs locked, he went rigid, and started to sink. Thankfully, nearer the bank, the pond shallowed, and he pressed himself above the surface using his tiptoes. He managed to move in close enough, his feet on bottom in the mud’s grip, anchoring him.

  Thud.

  “Nice,” someone said. The voice was raspy and rocky, like it’d been polished with a jackhammer.

  Sammy.

  David thought he saw a glint of chrome through the foliage.

  The same voice. “Hold up. Gotta drain the lizard.”

  “Hurry up. No jerking yourself this time, cabrón.”

  “Wanna hold it?”

  “Picha corta.”

  “What’s the matter, Gills? Hurt your back last time?”

  A new voice interrupted the locker-room bantering. “With haste, gentlemen.” A voice David did not recognize. Heavy southern drawl, brimming impatience.

  Near the bank, small branches cracked, leaves rustled. The clink of a belt buckle being undone. Zip. Water hitting water.

  “Aaahhhh.”

  David held his breath even though his head was above water. A man’s silhouette at the water’s edge about twenty-five feet away held every bit of his attention.

  No choice but to stay cool, stay put. He got his answer that he’d come for: Sammy and Gills had made it. He didn’t much care about the third. His conscience clear, priority one was to get back to Jessica and Bryan. He’d leave these idiots to their own devices. They’d probably be dead in a week, either at the hands of the dead, or by each other’s.

  Through the incessant ringing in his ears, David heard the distinct sound of metal plunging into flesh and bone. Then a gurgling. The sound of a knife being extracted followed by another thud. A blade being wiped clean. Footsteps.

  “Anything?” the new voice said.

  Silence.

  Again, the new voice. “I know there were shots. Had to be this area.”

  Gills said, “Probably long gone. That puta that cuffed us, David, El Jefe, whatever. Wouldn’t be him. He ran. No reason to come back.”

  “Unless,” the new voice said, “he wanted to finish the job.”

  “Wishful thinking, señor. If he wasn’t a pussy, I’d say you’s right. But that gringo got no balls, leaving us like that.” Then, louder, “Cabrón. Put your dick away. Vámonos.”

  “Hold your horses, shit.”

  It was definitely Sammy and Gills. And they’d made a friend.

  A sudden helplessness fell over David. His knife was lost in some shuffler’s skull, useless to him now. His gun lay on the bank, empty and out of reach. He was weaponless, defenseless, save for his one good fist—his left one, the one that wasn’t swollen and throbbing.

  Choose your battles.

  Rocking on heels, Sammy tossed a look behind him, shouted, “You think those fuckers can swim?”

  “Qué?” Gills said.

  Sammy raised his arm, pointing to the water. “‘Cuz I can see a few of those assholes bobbing like ducks out there.”

  David’s insides ground to a halt and his throat closed. He couldn’t tell if he’d pissed himself or not, the water being so warm around him already. This could be the end. This could be how it all draws to a close. Don’t even bother to take your bow, we’ll just drag you off the fucking stage. That is, if you don’t reanimate and walk off yourself, first.

  Unsure if Sammy’s eyes were upon him, David didn’t risk turning to look for others in the pond. To move would be a dead giveaway. A tell. Maybe. But he didn’t want a shuffler swimming up Jaws-style and taking a chunk out of him, either. His nerves were a three-alarm blaze. He prayed Sammy couldn’t s
mell his percolating fear.

  “They a threat?” the third drawled.

  Sammy replied, “Could be, down the road. Ought to take ‘em out now, while we can. One less to deal with later.” The silhouette turned to face the field, zipping and buckling. “Ain’t you ever seen those movies, Doc? Always that fucker you let go comes back and bites your ass in the end.” He turned back to the pond, tugging his hand cannon from its holster.

  David definitely caught the chrome flash in moonlight this time. And he definitely heard Sammy say, Doc. His heart retreated inside him, pushing into his stomach and finally into his legs.

  Fish in a fucking barrel.

  Sammy raised his arm slowly, taking aim at something off to David’s right. Whatever Sammy was aiming at, it was not within David’s peripheral vision.

  David heard the click of the hammer being pulled back. He stole a breath, preparing to dunk his head.

  “Sammy.” It was the third’s voice. Doc.

  That Doc?

  The silhouette turned his head.

  Doc again. “Don’t waste ammo. Save ‘em for the bunch behind us. As your art-loving friend so eloquently stated, it’s time to vámonos. Ándale.”

  A deep sigh from the man as he uncocked the hammer, letting his arm slowly drop. He mumbled something indiscernible, then raised his arm again. He took aim, then flicked his wrist, mimicking muzzle lift. He pivoted slightly, aimed again. Pew! Sammy shifted again, this time, sights on David’s head. He stood there, arm outstretched, then cocked his head.

  David stared helplessly down the barrel of death.

  Please, please, please, please …

  Sammy made a pew! noise, then blew across the barrel like some cocky cowboy who’d just gunned down the town sheriff. He dropped his Smith and Wesson 686 into the holster, turned, and trudged out of the bushes and back to the field.

  David didn’t mean to, but he simply couldn’t help it. Warmer water emanated from him, and he exhaled hard. His heart had run away, deserting him, hiding on the opposite bank. He was shivering despite the overly tepid water.

  So close. So fucking close.