Lightening their footfalls, they ascended the steps. As they neared the front door, Randy raised his rifle. They traded glances.
Randy spoke first, his voice just above a whisper. “Wonder if …”
Jessica started to reach for the splintered doorjamb, pulling back her hand just short of it. “Definitely kicked in,” she said, her voice low. With her forefinger, she drew air-circles around the carnage. “See the boot mark?” she asked, though it didn’t require remarkable acumen to ascertain what had gone down here.
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
A nod, sweat diving off the end of his nose. Jess wondered how much perspiration was heat induced and how much was stress and nerves.
Randy tossed his head back toward the car. “Maybe we should hold off, give it a few.”
Nerves, she thought. Definitely nerves.
Curling and re-curling her fingers around the handle of her Sig, she bent her knees slightly, bouncing, preparing and psyching herself as she reached out to twist the doorknob.
“Wait,” Randy whispered. Heavy breaths blew over his beard.
She froze mid-bounce, knees bent, arm outstretched, gun drawn. She twisted her head slowly. What? she mouthed.
He propped the rifle, butt on the porch, between his knees. Then he wiped his palms vigorously on his jeans and shirt, drying them as best he could.
She couldn’t tell if he was stalling or legitimately preparing himself.
“Okay,” he said finally. He lifted the rifle, aimed it at the door, and gave one full nod—up, down, center.
She dipped her chin once, then counted off with her fingers.
One … two … three.
She gave the brass doorknob a quick spin, though the act was pointless. It no longer functioned as originally designed thanks to some vandal’s boot heel. Next, she shoved the door, and it swung only two or three inches before abruptly bumping something beyond the threshold. An unforgiving something. A heavy something. The door shuddered on its hinges
Both of them froze for a moment, glanced at each other. Listened. She gave the door a soft push with her finger, and it responded identically as before, traveling a few inches, stopping, bouncing back. This time, an eerie squeak reminiscent of a haunted house scratched the air.
Whispering, Jessica said, “Something in front of the door.” She pointed for emphasis.
“Back to the car?” Randy asked.
She twisted her lip in thought and consideration. If the door was blocked from the inside, chances were good that whoever had blocked it would still be inside.
“Let’s find another way.”
Relieved, Randy wiped his brow, and they turned from the door.
Chapter 32
David was working as fast as his beat up body would allow. But it wasn’t fast enough for Sammy. Or good enough.
“Deeper,” Sammy said, pointing his pistol toward the hole David thought he’d finished digging. “You ain’t done. Far from it.” He held a bloody towel to what remained of his ear.
Working the shovel was killing David’s fractured wrist even though he’d switched grips to dig left-handed. The awkward approach left him stumbling half the time, his balance thrown off kilter, each leg questioning the other.
Are you staying planted while I stomp the spade, or am I staying planted while you kick the blade? Oh, okay. Got it. Wait, what did we decide again? I thought—whump!
Not that he needed help swaying off balance. Sammy and Gills had done a number on him. In the triple digits, truth be told. He’d never hurt so bad in all his forty-five years. He wanted to crawl into that hole and just … die. He guessed he’d be digging his own next.
Sammy swigged water, then added, “My brother deserves better’n that half-assed, shitty job you got going there, Sally.”
David stopped, propping the shovel for balance. He tried to straighten his frame, but that was simply an impossible feat. When he quit moving, he stiffened, and he’d be stuck like that for days. Or maybe forever. Just like when his mother had told him his face would freeze like that when he contorted it, making himself ugly.
Rather than draw more wrath, he doused his own temper. “How deep?” He guessed he’d dug down at least three feet. Maybe four, but that’d be quite a wishful stretch. It was honestly hard to tell, his depth perception skewed by his closed eye.
“Gills’ll be back with the tape measure in a sec. Till then, keep at it.”
“I need water … Tylenol.” His own voice sounded foreign to his ears, his broken nose and face altering his tone and speech. His split lip still throbbed like crazy. Burned. It hurt to swallow. It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. It hurt to not move. It just … hurt.
Sammy studied him a moment. “Ain’t getting no Tylenol.” He tossed what was left of the water he’d just swigged at David. The SOB didn’t even bother replacing the cap, water sloshing and splashing the parched earth as the bottle bounced along the ground before finally rolling into the hole.
David bit back a rising torrent of rage. Fishing that water bottle out of the hole would expend precious energy and require demanding movement. But he was thirsty, approaching dehydration. And maybe if he played along, they’d bring him some pain killers. Eventually. With everything he had, he said, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
David let the shovel drop, and it clunked to the sunbaked earth with that half-wood/half-metal clunk. Immediately, he regretted it. He could have used it to ease himself to a crouching position. Oh, well. Live and learn. Mustering the will, and driven by the promise of water on his tongue, he eased his throbbing and thrumming body to the ground, and slid into the shallow grave. He planted his good hand on the edge, then hinged his torso. It was a delicate operation, but a successful one. He drank what was left of the warm water, along with the grit and grime, right there down in the newly uncovered earth. He actually expected a blow to the back of his head, ending his misery. But that’d be too much to ask.
Guillermo had taken a break from dispatching ‘dead cannibals.’ That’s what Sammy and Gills called shufflers. The ‘cannibals’ were still a presence at Mitch’s place, though luckily they were not showing themselves in droves as they had done the other night. Just one, maybe two, at a time. Gills would saunter up to them, all nonchalant-like, and ram that massive Bowie blade of his straight into their skulls. Precise, efficient, like he’d been doing it all his life.
A breeze sent from heaven blew through the pasture, and David savored it as it cooled the thick sheet of sweat clinging to his skin. He didn’t want to waste precious water, but he rocked his head back and spilled some from the bottle onto his battered face. It stung, but also felt refreshing in the breeze. A little.
With his one good eye—the one not closed by Guillermo’s hammer fist—he glanced over at the tree he’d cuffed Sammy and Gills to, the pond just beyond. He’d come full circle, back to a place he swore he’d never return to, thought he’d left behind forever. One thing seemed almost certain—this would most likely be the last place he would ever see. His end of days. The two banditos forcing their wicked wills on him had all but made that a matter of fact.
David had let his mind off the hook to wander and wonder while he mindlessly carved Mitch’s grave out of the dried up earth. First, it ran to Natalee and his daughter, Karla. He’d failed both miserably, imagined he’d have to answer for it once he occupied his own hole in the ground. He thought of his cousin, Jessica, and his own cowardice, unable—unwilling—to be straight with her. She’d find out about Mitch, about him from another. Or be left to wonder, just what the hell happened? He considered Bryan and the boy’s future, and how David would not be there for either. His mind was coming up on its own full circle when Sammy barked at him.
“Hey. Shirley. The sheet.” Sammy wagged a finger toward his brother’s body. The bed sheet covering the corpse had shifted in the breeze, revealing the top half of Doc’s handiwork. The same breeze David readily welcomed now gave him
yet another job to do.
From the shallow grave, David lifted his hand halfway, acknowledging he’d heard the slave-driver perched on the tailgate, shouting orders at him.
He actually considered for a moment asking for Sammy’s assistance. He envisioned Sammy teetering on the edge of the grave, his hand extended for David. David would grasp that reluctant helping hand firmly, then yank with all his might, toppling his captor head-first into that fresh grave. One snapped neck later, David would be on his way, escaping around the pond and back into the tree line, and familiar territory.
Of course, Sammy wasn’t about to abandon his post from the guard tower of the tailgate. Wasn’t going to happen. He was enjoying David’s suffering way too much to lend any kind of hand, other than a fist. No, David was on his own with his own wishful thinking.
Leading with his shoulder, he pressed himself onto the edge of the hole, rolling out of it, ending up in a supine position. He lay there a moment, relishing the temporary reprieve. He’d be happy to fall asleep right there, to close his one good eye, and not wake up for days. If ever.
The seconds ticked by, and he did close his eye. He told himself it would be just for a minute. Sammy said nothing, surprisingly. He expected a harsh reprimand for ‘sleeping on the job.’ Maybe another fist flogging. But he chanced it, deemed it a worthwhile risk. He needed to catch his breath, just for a second. If only for a second.
He heard the footsteps approaching. Could feel them through the hard ground as they got closer. He hadn’t heard the thump of Sammy dismounting the tailgate, so he assumed Gills was on his way to ‘encourage’ him to get back to work. Expected a barrage of insults and threats against his already busted body. He kept his eye closed until the last possible second. When Gills was upon him, he opened his eye.
“I’m getting back—”
But it wasn’t Gills. And it wasn’t Sammy. The dead cannibal grabbed at him, working to bend its body so it could reach David. A surprised and shocked breath slipped out of David’s heaving lungs as he instantly kicked and flailed away from the flesh-eating being, suddenly recharged. From the back of the truck, laughter erupted.
Scrambling backward on his back and butt, David groped for the shovel. He had to take his eye off his attacker, but only for the briefest of moments. Finding the shovel, he jabbed the tool-turned-weapon at the oncoming threat, handle-first. The undead creature didn’t have the sense to grab the shovel out of David’s hands, despite David practically handing it to him.
David managed to spin the spade around, the shuffler falling forward just as he did. The handle dug into the dirt as the blade caught the creature under the jaw, ripping open its neck like a PEZ dispenser. A viscous crimson flow gurgled and bubbled from the gash while legs churned uselessly, arms pumped pointlessly. The thing didn’t have the sense to back up, but instead kept pressing forward, driving the shovel deeper into its own body.
Gills’s deep belly laugh mixed with Sammy’s, and the two watched in amusement while David scooted farther away from the nearly decapitated cannibal.
“What do you give him, Gills? A six?”
“Six point five. The extra point five for originality.”
“Still got its head, though. For a total decap, I’d of given him an eight.”
Gills laughed. “Hear that, gringo? If you’d a taken his head off, you’d a got more points.”
David just let his own head fall back to the ground and he lay there, sprawled in the weeds and grass and cow patties. His shoulder felt like he’d hit a cactus during his floundering retreat, but he didn’t care anymore. He just didn’t care.
Sammy said, “You gonna finish the job or you gonna keep it as a pet?”
“Since his fat friend ain’t here, I say we chain him and his new friend there to the tree. Leave him. Like he did us.”
Sammy gave a nod, brows climbing his forehead. “That’s a mighty fine idea, Gills. Mighty fine idea.”
David swore his life just passed before his one good eye. Again.
Chapter 33
Jessica and Randy barely fit together on the small platform that posed as a back porch. She had insisted he join her, so that if they heard or saw anything, they’d hear and see it together. So there they stood, facing the back door of David’s house, shoulder to shoulder. Well, shoulder to temple. Jessica was almost a head shorter than Randy. If he got startled and flung an arm, she’d surely go flying over the railing and into the trash cans.
They looked at one another, eyes tight, straining to hear anything coming from inside the house. Nothing. Not a sound.
Sometimes she thought she heard something, would glance at Randy, who would simply shoot her the same inquisitive look. She was hearing things, alright. In her own head.
With a gentle twist, she tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Tried peeking through the glass, but the stingy darkness wouldn’t give up any clues.
Whispering, she said, “Did David keep a key outside anywhere? Under a doormat or something?”
Randy shrugged, his ham fists still clutching the rifle like it was worth its weight in gold. “I was hanging around with—” He stopped abruptly, like he didn’t want to say Mitch’s name. Knew something about him he couldn’t tell. A manly secret.
“With Mitch?” she said, finishing his statement. “Yeah, I know you were. I was there, remember? Hello, wife here,” and she raised her hand well above her head, and pointed down at herself.
Jess wondered why he seemed suddenly uneasy talking about her husband. She didn’t care, didn’t mind talking about him. She’d always assumed they’d be destined for divorce court, anyway. Didn’t hurt her feelings. Changing bad boys into good ones, she decided, was not her forte. She’d leave that to the other women naïve enough to think that they could. Good luck, more power to ya, see ya wouldn’t wanna be ya, and all that BS.
Pfft.
But one thing was for sure: she was growing impatient. Things had not gone according to plan. And she had kidded herself thinking that they would. She should have known better than to believe that she and Randy would simply pull up to the curb and wait outside while David did whatever David did, then follow him back to the Alamo like nothing happened. But she honestly, for a moment or two or three, believed it would go down like that.
“Move back,” she said.
Randy pressed against the railing.
She huffed. “Off the porch. Please.”
He did as she asked.
Jessica crouched, flipping the mat over. She turned to Randy, who was now standing at the foot of the steps behind her, and shook her head. “Gonna have to find another way in.”
“Maybe we should just wait,” he said, his voice low. “I think someone’s in there. I mean, the front door’s blocked, the back is locked, the windows ain’t broke. All signs point to ‘occupied.’”
She pressed back to her feet and eyed the door while fighting a losing battle with curiosity. Had the front door been simply locked, her nagging interest would probably have remained subdued. But furniture blocking the front door had it piquing like crazy. And that churning curiosity had a hint of dread and fear mixed in right along with it. She blamed women’s intuition for what happened next.
From the bottom of the steps, Randy exclaimed in a frantic and hushed whisper, “Whoa! What are you doing?”
But she didn’t hear him, because the glass shattered just as he said it. She used her pistol to clear out the remaining shards from the pane nearest the knob so that she could reach in and unlock the deadbolt. The door swung in on neglected hinges.
Glancing at Randy, she waved him up the steps. “C’mon.”
He hesitated, then bolted up the stairs.
She guessed that David could have moved the furniture in front of the door. Maybe during one of his visits, he’d stumbled upon the break in, and, unable to lock the front door any longer, used furniture to block it. He could have done this. But she just didn’t think so. Something was … off.
They were in
the kitchen, wood floor creaking beneath them. Especially beneath Randy. She held up her hand, signaling him to stop. They listened. The ticking of a clock from another room was the only sound.
But the smell. She wrinkled her nose, looked at Randy. Stale death hung on unmoving air. It wasn’t overpowering, but it was there.
Gripping her pistol tightly, she crossed the kitchen and moved into the dining room, giving it a quick once over. Beyond the dining room, through two French doors, the living room.
“Oh, shit,” she whispered.
Randy sidled up to her. “What the hell?”
The living room resembled a war zone. She blinked big blinks, clearing her eyes, but the scene did not change. She was right about the furniture blocking the front door—the couch, La-Z-boy, table. The rest of it was unexpected.
The two of them stepped carefully into the room, remembering to look around for anything else alive—or dead—that might surprise them. But her gaze kept getting drawn to the decimated living room.
“You wanna check upstairs?” she asked him. “I’ll see if I can figure out what happened here.”
Randy started to object, then noticed she was already studying the scene. “Okay.”
She nodded, eyes darting around the room.
The first thing that sparked concern was the blood-spattered hardwood floor, near the front doorway. She assumed—prayed—David had dispatched a shuffler there, and nothing more. Part of the pool disappeared beneath the couch, covered, which meant the furniture had been moved after the fact. But there were other signs, odd clues, that disturbed her even more than the scarlet splatter.
Copious duct tape littered the room, some of it in strands on the floor, some still attached to chairs. Some of it bloody …
What was he up to?
One of the dining chairs was smashed to splinters, the tape the only thing holding the parts in a jumbled bunch. An end table, knocked over, broken in two. Lamps, shattered. The flatscreen, face first on the floor. The walls, scuffed, holes in places. Blood smears. Another dining chair on its back. Bloody footprints. That smell of decay on the air.
Dead South Rising (Book 1) Page 32
