Dead South Rising (Book 1)

by Sean Robert Lang

  David nodded. Just as he turned to follow Lenny, the door opened and Jessica appeared.

  “David?” she said.

  He stopped, boots scuffing the shiny floor. “Jess.” He felt weak, like he wanted to faint.

  His heart strangled his throat. Her color had come back, and she looked healthy again.

  Before he could say another word, compliment her or tell her how happy he was that she was okay, she launched forward, throwing her arms around him. “Oh thank god,” she said, burying her face into his chest.

  He exhaled through clenched teeth.

  “I’m sorry. You hurt?”

  He shook his head. “No, just sore.” He quickly added, “I’m okay, though. Nothing to worry about.” The corner of his mouth turned to the ceiling.

  “Thank god. I was so worried about you.”

  She hugged him again, with a softer touch this time.

  He hugged her back, pulling her in close, his chin on her crown. She smelled great, fresh. Like vanilla and baby shampoo. She pressed in closer, and his own aching body screamed at him, suddenly self-conscious. Seeing her, inhaling her clean aroma, holding her—all revealed and magnified just how beat up, messed up, and foul-smelling he was. He quickly shoved her away.

  Jessica turned her eyes to his, confusion shimmering in them.

  He continued to hold her by her arms, his thumbs stroking her soft skin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean … I’m just …” He let go of her arms, and held his hands out to his sides. “I’m a mess,” he said through an uneasy smile.

  I’m a mess, Jessica. Inside and out. Emotionally, physically. And I need a good scrubbing. Tons of guilt to wash away … Oh, and by the way, Mitch? Yeah, funny thing. He’s sort of … dead.

  She smiled back, gave an understanding nod. “It’s okay.”

  David jabbed a thumb toward the hall, but his eyes darted all over the place. “I’m gonna … get cleaned up. Visit with you later?”

  Jessica smiled, her lips tight. “Yeah, sure. Sounds wonderful.”

  He still had to deliver the news that she was now a widow. Not that she’d be that upset about it, probably. But even though she’d planned on leaving Mitch, it was something altogether different telling her that she’d never, ever see him again. That he was dead. Whoever had done him in had done a thorough job. Mitch wouldn’t be shuffling around with the other roamers.

  “Okay, great.” David said. “I’ll talk with you a little later.”

  * * *

  David couldn’t sleep. He lay there on his back, his good hand tucked behind his head while he stared at the ceiling. His sprained/fractured hand was wrapped and resting on his chest. It was late afternoon, heat-of-the-day sun streaking through the window blinds, slanting thin orange bars across his cot. But the sun wasn’t the reason sleep eluded him. He had yet to tell Jessica about her newly dead husband, critical courage and the right words escaping him and robbing him of much needed slumber. And peace of mind.

  There was a light knock at the partially open door. David rocked onto his elbows and cleared his throat. “Come in,” he said, his voice a crisp, snappy echo in the tiny room.

  Randy appeared in the doorway. “Hey there, El Jefe.” He smiled.

  David smiled back. “Hey there, big guy.” He waved him in with a stiff wrist. “Have a seat,” David said, then pressed to a sitting position, his back leaning against the white cinderblock wall.

  Randy pushed the door shut behind him, his smile fading and sinking into his beard, and David guessed a serious conversation was on the agenda.

  Not as serious as mine.

  David actually didn’t mind, welcomed it. Anything to get his mind off those swirling, sleep-stealing thoughts of how to break the bad news.

  Before the big man sat, he asked, almost in afterthought, “Can I get you anything? More pain pills? Water? Beer? Shot of whiskey? DQ Hungerbuster burger?”

  David shook his head, smiling. “As tempting as it is to say, ‘all of the above,’ I’m good for now, thanks.”

  A nod, and Randy sat, the chair creaking in strained complaint.

  Before Randy could say anything else, David said, “I never thanked you proper, Randy. For coming back to get me.”

  Randy waved him off, a blushing aw, shucks countenance shining scarlet through his beard. “The thought never crossed my mind not to.”

  The corner of David’s mouth lifted a little. “Well … I just wanted you to know how much it means to me. Thank you.”

  Randy’s gaze fell to the floor, the man unused to such heartfelt praise and appreciation.

  “So what’s on your mind, Randy? I assume you’re not just making the rounds.”

  Randy stroked his freshly trimmed beard. Having had the chance to clean himself up, he no longer reeked of sweat and death and fear. Instead, a pleasant generic soap smell bumped up against that of rubbing alcohol in the small space. He paused for a moment, seemed to think hard about what he wanted to say. Finally, “I figured you avoided my questions in the truck because you didn’t want to talk about it in front of Lenny.”

  “Yeah,” David simply said. He could tell curiosity was eating the big man from inside out.

  “So what happened? Were they still there? Did they figure out how to escape?”

  David decided to use the conversation as a practice run for telling Jessica about Mitch. His recipe for repentance would include a display of feigned remorse with a sprinkling of sadness, and a dash of distress, which was difficult given he didn’t really miss the guy. Or care that he was dead. “They escaped.”

  “Escaped? Did you see them?”

  David slowly dipped his chin. Yes. Saw one, heard the others.

  Randy’s voice lower, “Did they see you?”

  David shook his head no just as slowly. Yes, though they didn’t know it. But you don’t need to know that.

  Randy considered this for a moment. “Mitch turn them loose, you think?”

  “Might have. Probably.” Now’s as good a time as any. He dropped his gaze to the gleaming floor, then looked Randy straight in the eye. Take one. And—action. Clap: “Randy, I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mitch didn’t make it.”

  “Didn’t make it? You mean … Mitch is … dead?”

  “Sshhh. Keep your voice down,” David said, jerking his head at the wall. “I haven’t told Jess yet.”

  Randy covered his beard where his mouth would be. Just above a whisper, he reiterated, “Mitch didn’t make it? Was it shufflers?” He seemed to narrow his eyes at David, or maybe it was in David’s head. “Or …?”

  You? Is that what you wanted to say, Randy? Do you think I killed that good-for-nothing piece of shit?

  David pulled in a deep breath, then blew it out. He craved a cigarette. And a glass of scotch. He convinced himself that he was being paranoid for no reason. Randy was most likely referring to Sammy and Gills. But he’d seen David and Mitch interact. He knew David’s less-than-flattering feelings toward Mitch, and vice-versa.

  David said, “Not sure what happened exactly, but it didn’t look like shufflers.”

  He went on to explain how he found Mitch, face-up in the field, being careful not to be overly descriptive, but giving enough information for Randy to get a clear-ish picture. Maybe piece together in his own mind what had happened—and that Mitch was already dead when David got there.

  “Jesus,” was all Randy said.

  “I’m no forensics expert,” David said after he’d given time for the news to settle, “but it looked like the two shots were at close range. He never turned into … a shuffler. The bullet wounds killed him. Bled out.”

  David couldn’t gauge how upset Randy was since the bushy whiskers and thick glasses obscured the majority of his face. But the slight tremor in his voice clued David in.

  “So it wasn’t the rattlers that got him.”

  David cocked a brow, then understood. Randy was using Lenny’s lingo to identify shufflers. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Right. Unless shufflers
have learned how to use guns, someone alive killed Mitch.”

  Randy let the revelation soak in another moment. “So what now?”

  David shrugged. “I see no reason to go back there, especially since Sammy and Guillermo could have laid claim to Mitch’s place. That is unless those two got caught up in that herd. But we knew that place wouldn’t be safe much longer.”

  This time, it was Randy’s turn to nod.

  The men sat in silence for a few moments before Randy broke it. “When do you plan to tell her?”

  Another deep sigh. “Tonight I guess … maybe tomorrow.” He rubbed his neck. “I don’t know for sure. I do know she’ll be anxious to find out what happened.”

  “Do you want me to tell her?”

  David answered with a snappy, No. “I’ll do it. I found him, I’ll tell her. Besides, she might have questions. Since I was there, actually saw …”

  And I need to tell her myself. Clear my conscience.

  Randy accepted this, seemed relieved he wouldn’t have to be the one to relay the bad news.

  David elected to keep the pond incident to himself. The part about Doc, too. No point in fueling Randy’s worries. The man was a worrier. A ‘worry wart,’ as David’s grandmother used to say. Plus, he had no plans to go back to Mitch’s place.

  David was done talking about Mitch, his brother Sammy, and Gills. “So what are your impressions of this—”

  Another knock at the door interrupted David’s question, and they glanced at each other. “Yes?” David said. He prayed it wasn’t Jessica, wanted to break the news to her in private.

  The door swung in on well-oiled hinges. “Hey, man,” Lenny said, his hulking frame eclipsing the hall behind him. “How you feeling?”

  David nodded, smiled. “Better, thanks.” He almost made a joke, but decided it would be in bad taste given the state of the world. Instead, he just added, “Much better, thanks. The shower did wonders and the pain pills are a godsend.”

  “Good, man, good.” Lenny tossed a look behind him as someone walked by, then said, “Think you’d feel up to meeting with the Janitor in a bit?”

  “I suppose so,” David said, cradling his wrist. “When would he like to talk?”

  “‘Bout thirty minutes. He’s been out, handling some business, but he should be back right quick. That’s why he ain’t come by already and seen you.”

  “Sure. That sounds good, Leonard.”

  Lenny rocked his big bald head forward with a smile, then said to Randy, “How you hanging, big man?”

  This time, David could make out the grin cracking Randy’s whiskers, despite the news of his former best friend’s demise. “Doing ok, brother.”

  David guessed that Randy would be just fine without Mitch. He could see, in just a short amount of time, that these two were getting on quite well. A burgeoning bromance in bloom. And it was a good thing.

  Lenny said, “Alright, brother.” He held out a hammer fist, bumping it with Randy’s. “Stay cool, brother. Talk to ya in a bit.”

  “Right on,” Randy said.

  Leonard closed the door behind him as he left.

  David sighed again and said, “Well, guess I’ll get ready to meet with this Janitor fellow.”

  “Strange title, huh?”

  “Yeah. What does Leonard say about the guy?”

  Randy pressed to his feet, and the chair seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, as though it’d been holding its breath, biding its time. “He didn’t say a whole lot, but what little he’s said has been nothing but good. Said he really wanted us to meet the Janitor for ourselves, form our own opinion, which is respectable.”

  Another nod, and David stood as well. “It is. I appreciate folks who let me make my own decision when it comes to someone’s character.” He patted Randy on the shoulder as he turned to the door. “Leonard’s good people.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  Randy left the room, and the door closed smoothly and soundlessly behind him. And David sat while his mind swirled a hurricane named Guilt.

  * * *

  It was more like twenty minutes instead of thirty. If the Janitor was one thing, he was punctual. Exceedingly so.

  In some ways, he was exactly what David had envisioned. Physically, at least. Hell, the man was a living caricature of himself and his namesake.

  The man’s a living, breathing … mop.

  The Janitor was an old man, tall, lanky. A thick floppy tangle of gray and silver bedecked his crown, framing his face to his shoulders, while a push-broom mustache of similar shades protruded beneath his beak nose. His contrasting bushy, Sharpie-black eyebrows looked like expensive furs above his squinty eyes. But those eyes were wise with years.

  He even donned a droopy jumpsuit, dark blue, zippered front. But David could just as easily imagine him in a cowboy hat and spurs, six-shooters on his hips, and blazing trails in the old west. Maybe thwarting a train robbery or two. The man teemed with wisdom, goodness, and purity. Like some southern Jesus. And David was concerned that Jesus the Janitor would see right through him.

  They shook hands. Grips were firm, but not overly so. One pump, from the elbow. David imagined just sitting down and studying the old man’s hands would be like reading a book, bound in leather, about his life.

  The Janitor spoke first. “Gabriel Jones. But most everyone here just calls me ‘Janitor.’”

  “David Morris. Just David.”

  “Alright, Dave.” The old man looked David up and down with one eye squinted, his head at a slight twist.

  “So, is the janitor moniker legit?”

  The Janitor nodded, “Mmm, hmm.” His voice was deep and rich, strong in spite of his age. “But, I wasn’t always a custodian in the sweeping and mopping sense.” He motioned David through the door marked ‘Administrator.’

  David entered the office, the Janitor following behind. The door closed on its own.

  Brushing the room with an upturned palm, the old man smiled and said, “Anywhere you’d like, Dave.”

  “Thank you,” David said, choosing one of two chairs directly in front of a large resplendent oak desk.

  The Janitor sat beside him, in the opposite chair. David’s brow lifted slightly.

  “I’m not one for formalities,” the Janitor said, responding to David’s expression. “I’m no administrator or executive or president. None of that nonsense.” Leather creaked beneath him as he sunk into the expensive horseshoe chair, crossing his legs, his arms riding atop the curving wood. His pose reminded David of the Memorex commercial where the man gets blown back in his chair by incredible sound.

  “My place ain’t behind that desk,” he added, lifting a lazy finger toward the oak monster.

  He paused a beat, then continued, “Been there, done that, as they say. Whoever the hell ‘they’ are … or were. Spent most my adult life slugging it out in that screwed up corporate rat race, helping everyone else around me get richer. Financially, anyway. Oh, I did okay. Low six figures. But I woke up one day tired of chapped lips from all the ass-kissing, and said, ‘to hell with it.’” He flipped his hand at nothing.

  David shifted in his seat, leather squeaked. Then, he felt the air conditioning kick on, that lovely luxury quickly becoming a thing of the past.

  “Left it all behind about eleven years ago. You’ve heard or read about those folks who ‘leave it all behind’ for something more enriching, less stressful, I’m sure.”

  David dipped his chin in understanding.

  “Who would have thought,” the Janitor continued, “that I would have found such soul-fulfilling satisfaction sweeping halls and mopping up piss.” He chuckled. “The real satisfaction came unexpectedly in guiding old souls home. They trusted me, came to me with tough feelings, tough decisions. Ironically, that was my favorite part of the job.”

  “Why didn’t you just become a grief counselor?”

  “Grief counselor? Bunch a goddamn jaded worthless so-and-so’s. The ones around here were, anyways.” He waved his h
and. “Old folks could see right through them.” He tapped the corner of his eye. “Especially the young ones. Went straight from diapers—beginning of their own lives—to trying to tell those on their deathbeds what they ought to be feeling and thinking at the end of theirs. Goddamn shame.” He rubbed his leathery chin. “No, residents may be old, but they were smart, the ones that still had their wits about them. I’d earned a sort of cult trust in my position as a custodian at the old facility. I was there everyday, and they didn’t need an appointment to talk to me. I was able to forge genuine, trusting relationships that way.”

  David sat quietly, unmoving, nodding when appropriate.

  “I mean, look at me. I’m an old fogey myself, not some kid with barely any life experience. I could relate. Plus, I didn’t want guilt by association. Anyways, it didn’t really matter where they found solace, just as long as they found it.” The Janitor paused, then chuckled. “But you’re not here to listen to me moan about what grinds my gears.”

  “I’ve got nowhere in particular to be.”

  Another chuckle. “Well I’ll spare you and get to it.” His cadence and features stayed the same. “Leonard tells me you and your group were run off by a … herd.”

  David nodded. “Yes, that’s right.” He hoped he wouldn’t have to go into much detail about their stay at Mitch’s. A fresh start appealed to him. The fresher, the better.

  “So you’ve got no place of residence?”

  “We haven’t had the opportunity to scout out new places yet.”

  The Janitor dipped his chin at David’s wrapped hand. “Looks like you need some time to heal up. And the lady …”

  “Jessica.”

  “Right. Jessica. She’s on an IV.”

  “Yes. Antibiotics. But not for … you know. Anyway, Randy’s our resident nurse. Been taking good care of her.”

  The old man propped his chin in the ‘U’ of his hand. “Could use one of those around here. Our acting nurse, Taneesha, doesn’t really have experience. Was a CNA for a time years ago. She does okay. Luz Gonzalez is our doc. Stuck around, like me. Randy an RN?”

  David was embarrassed to admit he wasn’t sure.

  “I’ll talk to him,” the Janitor said, dismissing the topic. “Tell you what,” he said, standing. “We’ve still got a bit of daylight, and it should be cooling down some. Walk with me. Give you the grand tour.”