Dead South Rising (Book 1)

by Sean Robert Lang

  He vowed never to come back. Ever. No force on earth could ever get him back here.

  When he’d regained his breath, he listened, straining. The men were moving away, and he could make out only bits and pieces of conversation. Someone, Sammy he thought, insisted there was no one else alive around, questioned that they’d even heard any shots. Gills reminded him he was half deaf after having two guns go off in his ears that day. Sammy jacked with him, mumbling, huh, what? over and over, drawing Doc’s ire.

  Within moments, David could no longer make out any more conversation. Just the occasional knife-kill and the sound of a body collapsing. He wondered where the men were headed, figured they were far enough away, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the pond just yet.

  He chanced a glance around, noticed two shufflers (swimmers?) in the pond with him. But they just floated. One of them was making little to no headway, arms quietly treading beneath the water. It was getting nowhere slowly, ticking in place like the secondhand of a clock with bad batteries. David decided that the two in the waterhole with him were of no significant concern. At least not right away.

  He couldn’t help but be upset with himself. He’d truly believed with such auspicious beginnings that the day would be a turning point. He had put Mitch in his place. Killed his first shuffler. Saved Bryan. Averted potential disaster with Sammy and Gills. Escaped in the truck with new family intact. He’d been brave, exuded deftness in execution. But he was quickly falling back into old ways, his old self.

  But now was not the time for that. It was done. Natalee was gone. Karla was gone. And now Mitch was gone. His old life was gone. And if he wasn’t careful, his new life would be, too.

  He noticed more movement through the brush. Could hear the moans, the ghostly moans. There were more than before, despite the trio of men killing several of them. Something was going on, drawing them, luring them.

  Churning through the muck, he made his way to the bank where he’d rolled in. His body was heavy, water-laden. He imagined himself a big prune, hoping that shufflers hated prunes. On hands and knees, he groped for his gun, thankful that Sammy hadn’t decided to take a piss twenty paces west.

  Rather than inject a waterlogged magazine into El Jefe, he left the sidearm empty, holstering it. His wrist hurt, throbbed. It didn’t feel broken. Fractured, possibly. Sprained, most likely. He babied it as he staggered away from the pond, his right hamstring singing the pain song.

  Twisting his torso, he tried to get a glimpse of his leg, wanted to confirm his diagnosis made in the pond. Make sure it wasn’t just wishful thinking. The dark made it hard to see, but his jeans appeared in tact, not frayed or shredded. No broken skin. A big win. Huge.

  Glancing around, he located the corpse he shish-kebabbed earlier and retrieved his knife. His stomach turned a little.

  The blade felt funny in his non-dominant hand, less powerful. He stabbed at the acrid air, a couple of practice runs in anticipation of the inevitable. His eyes scanned the pasture.

  Jesus.

  The field jumped with fleas. Lots of them. The toddling cadavers weren’t marching like an army, no formations and no real order to anything. Yet, they were all ambling the same general direction: away from the house, headed west. David wondered how it was possible for so many to simply be wandering the same course. He’d not seen this behavior before. Of course, he was used to seeing only a few at a time.

  The front line, or what would pass for the front line, would be on him in a matter of seconds. Forty-five, tops. His weapons gathered, he started his journey back. The trio of the living had moved well off into the distance, perhaps even into the tree line. David decided to take a slightly different way back, but since the highway was south, he doubted he’d run into them.

  Grimacing and dripping wet, he limped around the pond, then prepared to head toward the tree line. His leg hurt, and he imagined when he finally got a good look at it, it would be as black and blue as the night sky above.

  Just get back. Worry about it later. Won’t matter if you don’t get back.

  He launched, pushing through the pain, a semi-gallop of sorts across the stretch of field sandwiched between the water and woods. Being in the open made him feel like a rabbit with a .22 rifle trained on him. He weaved between groping ghouls, grasshoppers jumping out of his way, and almost crashed into the dense wall of timber and bush. He probed the underbrush for the path of least resistance, and finding it, allowed the forest to swallow him whole.

  Chapter 20

  Fighting the forest left David bereft of energy. He hadn’t eaten all day, had barely had anything to drink. The moribund pond experience involving both the dead and the living left him lamenting his decision to go back and release the men. To supposedly do the ‘right thing.’ Lesson learned. No good deed and all that BS. Tough love going forward.

  You were right, Randy. Should have left well enough alone. Go ahead, say it. You told me so.

  He had pretty much turned off his mired mind as he slashed blindly through branches and bushes, tried not to think. About anything. An ephemeral respite from self-deprecation over bad decisions proved better than none at all, and he gladly took it. Instead, he concentrated on the immediate task, putting one foot in front of the other when possible. One crucial step at a time, all his moxie and focus funneled into the physical challenge before him. Slow and steady, as the old adage goes.

  Thankfully, few shufflers could plunge this deep into the stretch of woods, and the ones that managed to do so, David easily avoided. But they were getting harder to detect through sense of smell, David’s olfactory nerves habituating to the telltale stench. And not all of the ghouls moaned and groaned in auditory warning.

  In the darkness, he bumped into one from behind, the ghastly thing entwined and ensnared in a trap of nature’s own design. Twisting, it snapped at him, gnashing its teeth. All it managed to do was blow a horrible halitosis in David’s face, forcing him to stumble backward in repulsion. Maybe his nose hadn’t quite completely acclimated, after all.

  After fighting back an uprising of nausea, David circumvented the beast, choosing a wide arc around it. In the near pitch black, he couldn’t tell just how ensnared the thing was, and opted for a safer, less direct route. But he found himself disoriented, even confused at times. Was he still heading south? Had he veered west? North? Circles, perhaps? His typically reliable innate sense of direction proved traitorous, and tonight, he just couldn’t be sure. He blamed it on fatigue and sheer exhaustion, his mind and body pleading to shut down for the night. For days.

  Gotta press on.

  He certainly couldn’t stop. Stopping simply wasn’t an option.

  Not in the cards. Not if you want to live.

  He wanted to get to the truck an hour ago, was done playing survivor man in the hostile wilderness. He craved the comfort the dually pickup provided: cushioned seats, air conditioning, mobility, the company of Jess, Bry, Randy. Sanctuary for mind and body.

  He found himself missing them, even the big guy who often second-guessed him. Randy couldn’t help it. It was his nature. An affable fellow, he could still yank a man’s chain, make him crazy. Make a fellow want to punch his lights out. Sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes.

  David’s body seemed to vibrate. His chest, his arms, his head. It was like he’d walked up on a beehive rife with activity, but still calm, the swarm not yet pissed off. The hair on his arms stood tall at attention.

  Finally, he pushed through the final wall of the woods, back at the highway. What greeted him beyond the prison of bark and leaves and thorns made him want to turn right back around and break his vow to never go back to the pond.

  They were everywhere. Simply … everywhere.

  He couldn’t even see the road. They spilled into the ditches. Bumped against the tree line. Fell over one another. Some crawling, dragging themselves. A slow-motion moshpit.

  How can this be?

  He took a step back into the underbrush, shufflers bumping
the edges of the forest like the balls on a billiards table. He was immediately thankful for the dense foliage, as it offered some semblance of protection. A cushion. But the sheer numbers just didn’t make sense. Not at all. It was like every dead resident of the nearby town had all at once decided to go for a moonlit stroll down highway 204. A molasses river of dead flesh and bone, oozing, swallowing anything unlucky enough to be in the way.

  David glanced down the highway, searching for the Dodge, knowing he wasn’t going to find it. He’d told Randy if things got hairy to get moving, worry about meeting up later. Now he wished he’d been more specific, chosen a rendezvous spot nearby. Communicated that direction. He’d failed again.

  He wasn’t even sure how far off track he’d wandered. Randy and company could be a mile down the road either direction.

  Blowing an exasperated breath, he stepped back another couple of feet to avoid the dead woman brushing against the edge of his hiding place. Any optimism still treading water slipped beneath waves of pessimism, drowning without a life preserver in sight. He just watched, the surreal death march swelling by, lit only by the star-studded ribbon of sky above. For the first time since the whole ordeal started twenty-two days ago, he truly didn’t know what to do. Was … scared.

  The overwhelming sight played a melancholy tune on his fragile state. Had he come this far just to fail? To lose everything, including himself?

  David popped the snap on one of the magazine pouches on his belt. He pulled a mag, slinging out water, then unholstered his P38 pistol. He stabbed at the butt of the gun until the cartridge finally slid inside, clicking into place. A shuffler clutched at him, but he stepped back, easily avoiding its hungry grasp like he’d been doing it all his life. He thought seriously, very seriously, about what to do next.

  The smooth barrel tasted metallic in his mouth, despite the glossy black paint job. The barrel’s lip pressed painfully against his hard pallet. His hand shook.

  And there he stood. The insect-like thrum in discordant harmony with the ringing that raged in his ears. Teeth chattering against ill-intentioned metal. A river of hopelessness flowing before him, defying nature’s design and the universe’s logic. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for all this. His finger put pressure on the trigger.

  Selfish bastard.

  And so he commenced fighting with himself. Why he should. Why he shouldn’t. Whether he’d have the balls to do it. Or whether he didn’t. His conscience played the little kid card, Bryan. The Devil’s advocate played another hand, the one that said Bryan barely knew David, and David, Bryan. The one that said Bryan was safe with Jessica and Randy. That they’d all be fine without David. They didn’t need him. Nor he them.

  Of course, he’d never been a good liar. Pretty horrible, actually. That didn’t stop him from practicing, though. A lot. Especially to himself. But the demoralizing depression that had suddenly descended upon him laughed hysterically in his face. Dared him. Called him names.

  Pussy. What are you waiting for? You gonna do it or stand there and cry? Boo-fucking-hoo. The world’s gone to shit and oh, woe is me, I’m so alone and this is so hard and I can’t do this and dead people who bite scare me and why don’t you just hurry up and get it the fuck over with. Come on. Goddamn pansy-ass. Today, Nancy. Now.

  David bit down on the metal he’d hoisted to his mouth, finger hard on the trigger, eyes squeezed tight. Except he knew he wasn’t going to off himself. He’d never even chambered a round. Never cocked the damn thing. Never intended to go through with it. Now he did feel like a Nancy.

  For some stupid reason, he believed—really, truly in his heart believed—he was supposed to live, to stay alive. To be here. Now. Not as some roaming dead thing, trying to chomp on folks to stay animatedly dead, but live. He wanted to overcome. Build anew.

  His second wind blew in like a Texas tornado, revitalizing him. Sure, he was hungry. Sure, he was thirsty. And he wanted to plop into bed and sleep for days. But he would do all of that after he found his friends and family.

  While not the consummate outdoorsman, he’d seen enough survival TV to know that Randy and company would most likely come back to the spot where they’d dropped him off. At least start there, anyway. If they came back.

  Stay still. Be a target. Be found. Randy’s a smart guy. He’ll know.

  It would be best to stay put. Besides, with the corpse parade blocking his progress, he didn’t have many other options. Going back to the trailer didn’t make much sense. What if Sammy, Gills—and Doc—decided to return after their midnight stroll? He guessed he could go back and take the Franken-Harley, but he wouldn’t get far. He surmised that the runoff from the river of cadavers had overflowed down Mitch’s driveway; hence the smattering of corpses wandering the pasture in a westerly direction. Besides, he’d draw unwanted attention on the motorcycle.

  David made his decision. He’d stay put. And he felt good about it.

  More shufflers bumped against the bank of their choking river, and David pushed farther back into the dense underbrush.

  This can’t go on forever.

  He continued watching, waiting for the caboose of this death train. His eyes flicked upward, checking out the trees. Maybe he could get off the ground until this passes. Perhaps even grab a few winks of sleep, recharge a bit. Heaven knew he could use it. Flexing his right hand, he winced, pulling in a breath through clenched teeth. Climbing may be out of the question. A fall could spell serious disaster, and not just from the shufflers. What if bone broke skin? What about infection? Bleeding out? Passing out from pain or blood loss? Scaling a tree would be too chancy. Alright then, Plan B.

  What Plan B? There was no Plan A.

  The darkness shrouding him just inside the forest was playing the role of both friend and foe. Shufflers seemed just as active at night as during the day, so David couldn’t be sure about their vision. Did their eyesight turn cat-like, making it easier to see in the dark? Did they rely on smell? Maybe they could taste life on the air itself. He didn’t know. Probably no one knew.

  He made a mark on his mental to-do list: Capture shufflers. Run tests.

  His place in the world was coming into focus again, and a renewed vitality and vigor pulsed through him. Not only would he start a community, get humanity back on track, but they’d be on the cutting edge of figuring this shit out.

  Almost a month ago, when the shit hit the proverbial fan, self-appointed experts provided the public with as much ‘information’ as they could at the time. Much of it was no surprise. Intuitive, actually.

  In the beginning, there were those who simply saw the dead as ‘sick,’ just awaiting a pill to cure the illness and return the being to its former glory. Sure, okay. Then there was the possessed camp. Exorcisms, they preached, were the only way to undo the devil’s work. Right, whatever. Then came the realists, those who took off their blinders and saw everything for what it really was—biting corpses that fed on flesh. Seeing was believing. He wouldn’t have bought it himself had he not witnessed it firsthand early on.

  A hand reached through skinny branches, grabbing his gun. Startled, David jerked the pistol, the momentum throwing his balance, and he fell over a log behind him. He saw stars, his ass hitting hard, injured hamstring raking the bark. He ended up on his back, his legs over the fallen tree.

  “Ow.”

  Reflexively, he had tried to break his fall using his injured hand, his good hand clutching the accosted pistol. A mistake, of course. More lava flowed through his wrist, his arm. Fingers tingled. He seriously entertained the realization that if he hadn’t fractured it before, it probably was now.

  Damnit.

  Definitely no climbing now. He was a grounded bird with a bum wing. The ambling corpses began to notice commotion by the trees, and more of them pressed against his temporary sanctuary of underbrush. He’d better find a place to hide until morning, and do it quickly.

  He rolled onto his side, then slowly pressed to his knees, forearms on the log like he was at the local wa
tering hole about to order a drink and spill his troubles to the bartender. Catching his breath and willing the pain away, he plunked the butt of the Walther on the fallen tree as he started to lift his body onto wobbly legs. But the sound stopped him. The gun had hit with a resonate thunk, as though the wood had been hollowed out, no longer solid.

  Could it be?

  He wished he could see more clearly in the dark. Wished that his mind wasn’t filling in the inky gaps with what should be there, wanting to see what was there. He dropped the butt of the pistol onto the trunk again, and the same drum-like thunk met his ears.

  Maybe, just maybe.

  If he couldn’t go up, then he’d go down. Not exactly what he’d had in mind, but he’d still end up in a tree. Scooting on his knees, he felt his way to the base of the log, ignoring the throbbing in his wrist, his pulsating hamstring. If it was as hollow as it sounded, he may have just found refuge for the night. It might be a tight squeeze, may be a bit claustrophobic, but it could work. For just one night, it could work. He’d make it work.

  Of course, like his movie hero who loved chasing after ancient artifacts and whipping bad guys with, well, a whip, he detested snakes. Loathed the creatures. Probably even more so than the roaming cadavers clogging the highway. He prayed to the faceless god he didn’t believe in, asked that he would not find any serpents inside the bark he was about to call home for the night.

  * * *

  David’s lids fluttered, as if applauding the happy summer choir of chirping birds and singing cicadas. The slight rustling of leaves punctuated the relaxing tune. He rolled his eyes upward, craning his neck in cramped quarters to catch shadows dancing just outside the log’s jagged circular maw. It was morning, or so he gathered. Day twenty-three. Inside the tree’s belly, inside the forest, sunlight fought for presence. A light at the end of the tunnel. David welcomed it, despite the searing heat it would eventually bring.

  He’d actually slept, for the most part, waking every hour or so, checking himself, just to be sure. He didn’t want to wake up dead. There was enough of that wandering around already.