Fingers tapping her chin, she shook her head. “No, they don’t know for sure.”
“So then, what are you proposing we do?”
Still tapping at her chin, Jessica started laying out the only plausible plan she could see having a slightly better outcome than the storied snowball’s chance in hell.
Chapter 37
As David sat on the steps leading up to Mitch’s porch, praying harder than he’d ever prayed before, he heard exactly what he’d prayed he wouldn’t hear—the humming engine of a compact car wending up the cruel driveway. Toward him. Toward suffering. Toward the inevitable slaughter.
Thanks for fucking nothing. Amen.
David was done praying. Done with it. Over it. That meant depending on himself. For once. Maybe that’s what the guy upstairs had been trying to tell him all along.
Get your shit together, man. I can help, but I can’t do everything for you.
The little metallic blue car—at least it looked metallic blue in the glow of twilight—emerged from the dense cave of brush and trees, slowing to a crawl as it ticked up to the trailer.
On the porch, Sammy’s body was hinged as he leaned comfortably on crossed forearms against the railing. He took a small step back, dipping his head, and launched a wad of chewing tobacco into the sun-fried flower garden below. Truth be told, that slimy brown wad of goo was probably the only moisture the flowerbed had seen in weeks.
“Well, looky here. Right on time,” Sammy said, a chew-stained grin chiseling his chin as he straightened. He brushed the back of his forearm across his lips. “I didn’t think they’d show. Guess that means you get to live a few minutes longer, El Jefe.” He punctuated his observation with a chuckle, then adjusted his hat, being careful of his recently chewed on and shot up ears.
David didn’t even bother glancing up at Sam from his seat on the front steps. Doing so would just fan his flaming anger. The sight of Sammy repulsed him, enraged him. He wanted so badly to punch the cocky redneck in the throat. Repeatedly.
Instead, he strained his one good eye, the one not swollen shut, and searched the windows for occupants. He couldn’t see into the car, the sky’s gleam painting the glass in purple opaque hues, obscuring the bodies inside. And despite his exponential aggravation, he shuddered, nervous and scared for Jessica and for how this horrible day would finally finish. No happy endings in sight.
“Move it,” Sammy said, towering above David.
With an audible, pain-filled grunt, David slid to the side, clearing the steps for Sammy to descend. He toyed with tripping him, reaching out and grabbing one of his blood-spattered boots, and sending him chin-first into the sticker burrs and rock. But he didn’t, thought better of it. Actually considered the consequences, for once. He’d only succeed in pissing off the asshole Neanderthal, making things that much harder on Jessica and himself. He’d save his strength for when it counted.
Sammy clomped down the steps and into the sorry excuse of a yard. He greeted the vehicle with his revolver drawn. The car stopped just short of him, bumper hugging his shins.
David almost expected Jessica to plow over Sammy, wished she would. He could see it play out in his head, the perfect scenario. Sammy creamed by the car. Gills would come running and Jess would stop him cold with a bullet to the face. Game over. Fuck you for playing.
But this wasn’t a TV show, and it wasn’t a movie. Such an endeavor carried too much risk, and Jess didn’t know what she was getting into, what awaited her, exactly. For all she knew, they had David strung up to a keg of dynamite and hanging from a tree. One wrong move and kaboom. While she shared many of her cousin’s traits, she was more the cautious sort. Much more so than David.
“C’mon out, now,” Sammy said. He waved his hand cannon at the idling vehicle.
Gun it, David quietly urged. Gun the gas, run over his ass. Do it. Do it. DO IT.
But no such thing happened. The whirring engine stopped, the driver having twisted the key. Silence now, save for the nocturnal insects and Sammy’s creaking boots as he shifted warily, anticipating trouble. The clicking back of the .357’s hammer jolted David, stepped on his frayed nerves.
The driver side door opened, and Jessica stepped from the car.
David’s heart clawed its way up into his throat, cutting off breath and voice. He reached up, clutched the railing, and pulled himself to a standing position. It hurt, standing up, and the time sitting on the steps had allowed his body to stiffen, a pre-rigor mortis state of sorts. A preview to non-movement, how it’d feel once he was dead. If the dead could feel.
The sight of her lit his soul with a hopeful flame. But he wished she hadn’t come. He would preferred to have sacrificed himself for her. Even if he couldn’t save his estranged wife, Natalee, he could have saved Jessica, redeemed himself that way. She still had a chance, a future—albeit a grim future in a world of walking cadavers, but a future nonetheless. She risked that future coming here to save him. He had a hard time believing he was worth it.
“Hands,” Sammy said. “Let’s seem ‘em, sweet cheeks.” He cut his eyes to David, having heard the wood railing creak when David pulled himself up. “You, sit back down.”
But David ignored him, fearful for Jessica. He’d probably take a bullet before he’d ever come close to tackling the thug, but he wanted to be ready to launch himself across the yard if the situation called for it. Sammy must have realized David was no great threat, because when David disobeyed, Sammy didn’t bother scolding him.
Her face stern and lips pressed so tight she appeared almost to have none, Jessica raised her hands as instructed, tossing a glance David’s direction.
“David,” she said, slight relief in her voice. Her face brightened the tiniest bit, then darkened again upon seeing his injuries. “Are you alright?”
Before David could respond, Sammy said, “You hush, now. Ain’t gave you permission to talk to Mr. Liar Pants over there.” His head swayed from side to side, scanning the glass as he tried getting a better view into the vehicle. “Where’s Fatty McFats?”
“It’s just me.”
Sammy shot her a disbelieving glance. “I don’t think so, sweet tits. You all by your lonesome? Out here? Alone? In this world?” He laughed. “Uh-uh. Now … where’s he at …?”
“I told you, he ain’t with me.” A pissed-off impatience seeped into her controlled tone.
Gills appeared seemingly out of nowhere, sliding up behind the automobile, his knife at the ready. “Ain’t in there.”
Sammy looked perplexed. “Ain’t in there? You sure he ain’t in that little clown car somehwere’s? You check the glovebox, Gills?” His disturbing chuckle cascaded over his tobacco tinged lips.
Gills simply said again, “Ain’t in there, Sam.”
Sammy still didn’t seem convinced. As he approached the passenger side of the car, he barked out another instruction. “Check her.” He pointed the barrel of his gun at Jess. “And don’t you move a muscle, little lady.” Then he winked at her.
A rare smile from Guillermo. He eased up behind her and started to frisk her for weapons. Startled, she yelped, spun, and slapped him across his scarred cheek. The resounding clap echoed across the yard. Gills barely jumped.
“Watch it,” she snapped. “Touch me there again and—”
“Easy, girl,” Sammy said. “Can’t have you packing.” He nodded at Gills to continue, then uncocked his handgun.
Gills obliged. He clearly loved this part of the job.
“Aa-aa. Keep ‘em raised,” Sammy said when Jessica started to bring her hands down.
Gills stepped back, a tiny pistol and a knife in his hands. Flashing them at Sammy, he said, “Just these.”
“Good, that’s real good.” He waved the barrel at her again. “Pop the trunk, sweet tits.”
Jessica huffed. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“There’s no way he’d fit in there.” Crossing her arms, she added, “So there’s no reason to open it
.”
Sammy eyed her, doubt all over his face. “Then you won’t mind us taking a look-see.”
“Ain’t nothing to see,” she said.
With furrowed brow, Sammy glanced at Guillermo and said, “Sweet tits here seems awful sure we ain’t gonna find nothing in the trunk, don’t she?”
“Adamant, cabrón. She’s adamant we won’t.”
“Right,” Sammy said, scratching his chin with the Smith and Wesson’s front sight. “She’s adamant.” He walked around to the back of the car, sidled up to Gills. “Well I’m adamant, too.”
Still next to the driver-side door, Jessica turned to face the men mingling behind the trunk. “I’m telling you. He ain’t in there.”
“Then pop it like it’s hot, sweet tits.”
She curled her mouth toward the ground. Her arms tightened across her chest. “No.”
Sammy’s brows climbed his forehead. “No? No? You hear that, Gills? Sweet tits here just told me she ain’t gonna pop it like it’s hot.”
Gills clucked his tongue as he shook his head ever-so-slightly.
“Last chance,” Sam said. “Either you pop it, or we do.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Are we now?”
Sammy shifted on his boots. “Keys,” he said flatly. He held his hand to her, fingers splayed like he was ready to catch a fastball. “Toss ‘em here.”
Jess slowly shook her head, her frown digging deeper.
“You know what, Guillermo? Let’s make this interesting.”
Jess watched, her eyes nervous. David eased himself down the steps, using the rail like a cane to prop himself at the bottom.
Sammy pointed his handgun at the trunk, then thumbed back the hammer. “Now, either you open it, or I use my handy-dandy can opener here. So what’s it gonna be?”
David couldn’t tell if genuine fear was crossing Jessica’s face or if she was faking it. Either way, he was convinced.
“I’m gonna count to three,” Sammy said.
“That’s two higher than I thought you could,” Jess said.
A scowl pinched Sam’s face, and he drummed the trunk lid with the butt of his gun. “You in there, fat stuff? Huh? ‘Cuz if you ain’t coming out, we’re coming in.”
Jess said, “I told you he’s not—”
Sam stepped back. And fired. Bang. “One.” Bang. “Two.” Bang. “Three.”
Jessica’s jaw unhinged, arms dropping to her sides.
David started toward the car, a guttural no! spilling over his lips.
Sammy smiled, shrugged, glanced at Jessica. “What? I counted to three, just like I said I would.”
She started toward them. “You bastard.”
Sammy twisted his torso toward the trailer, Mr. Smith and Wesson finding a new target. “Aaa. Slow your roll there, Tex.”
David stopped.
Palm upturned, Sam rolled his free hand at the trunk. Eyes glued to David, he said, “Gills, would you do the honors?”
Gills hooked the bottom of the lid, lifted, and it floated up.
“Well?” Sam asked.
“Nada.”
Sam chanced a peek.
Nothing. The trunk was empty.
Jessica could see it on their faces. “I told you.”
Sammy’s lips curled in, obviously pissed that he’d just wasted three precious bullets. “Nobody likes a liar, sweet tits.”
She huffed. “I didn’t lie to you. I told you he wasn’t back there. You were too pig-headed to listen.”
And that’s when David saw it. He wasn’t sure if Sammy or Gills noticed, but he did. Jessica’s little tell. Had he stayed on the porch, he wouldn’t have seen it. But he’d moved closer. And even though Sammy had halted him, he’d gotten close enough to see Jessica’s face, even in the wan light of late evening. Her mouth had done that little thing. Growing up with her, he’d seen it time and time again. When she knew something no one else did. She was up to something. Had a plan. The whole trunk thing, he suspected, was just a diversion. Sleight of hand. And these two idiots had no clue, fell right into it. David didn’t know what the plan was, but now he knew there was one.
* * *
Jess hoped their little feint had done its job of allowing Randy to get into position. While Sammy and Gills were busy jacking with the trunk, Randy was getting set. Or at least was supposed to be. The plan was a long ways from foolproof. Dangerous. Not likely to even work. But it was all they had. They’d make it work. Because it had to.
She dared not look to verify Randy had made it, didn’t want to give anything away. Zero reaction from the oblivious duo of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb suggested that they hadn’t noticed anything or anyone out of the ordinary. Sammy still didn’t seem convinced, though, that she was by herself. He suspected (and rightfully so) that she wasn’t alone. She just had to keep her cool a little while longer.
“Where is he?” Sammy said, scanning the yard. That famous frown had returned, and he stomped up to her. “I said where is he? Where’s Sally?”
She cringed, tensing, as though she expected a pistol-whipping.
He wagged the gun’s barrel in her face, and raised his voice. “I said where is he? You can’t tell me you came out here alone. That’d be suicide.”
Jess summoned her own mocking frown. “I told you, I’m by myself. Go ahead, pop the hood and look under there. Maybe he’s hiding in the crankcase. Or the radiator. Oh, I know, maybe he’s in the wiper fluid reservoir. So go ahead, pop it. Or shoot it. I don’t give a shit. Maybe he’s wrapped around the transmission. You could check there, too, you—”
“Shut it, sweet tits. I’ve had about enough of your sass.” He had the gun almost up her nose now. Turning to Guillermo, he said, “The driveway, Gills. Check the driveway.” Turning back to Jessica, he said through clenched teeth, “I bet she let him out just before she drove into the yard.” He studied her eyes hard, hoping he’d hit a nerve, hoping he’d guessed right. But her gorgeous greens didn’t say a word, glowed silent.
Gills promptly obeyed, sheathing his knife and pulling one of his pistols before disappearing into the maw of the drive.
Sighing, Jess said, “You’re wasting your time.”
“Yeah, well that drive’s a tunnel, and if he’s in there, Gills’ll find him.”
“Whatever.” She crossed her arms again and started to walk away.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where the hell you think you’re going?”
She motioned to David. “Checking on him.”
“Nuh-uh, you ain’t going nowhere.” Motioning with the pistol, he said, “You just sit your pretty little ass on the hood, there, missy. I’ll tell you when you can talk to El Jefe.” He spit chaw at her feet. When she didn’t comply immediately, he ordered her again. “I said, sit.”
She glowered at him, muttering, but finally acquiesced, never uncrossing her arms.
“What’d you say?” he said.
“I said, asshole.”
One corner of his mouth turned toward the first star of the night. “That’s what I thought.” Then the other corner joined the first. “Now, when Gills gets back, you and Mr. Hits-Like-a-Girl over there can do whatever it is cousins do these days. Till then, stay right where you are.”
Across the yard in the shed’s shadow, two ambling figures loomed.
Sammy tightened his grip on the gun. “Gills?” he called. “That you?”
Jess turned her head, glancing back toward the field that passed for a yard. It was growing darker, more difficult to see.
Sammy raised his revolver, started toward the figures. “Gills?” Lowering his voice, he said to Jessica, “Stay.”
“I’m not a dog.”
He shot her a look with cold eyes. “I didn’t call you a bitch … yet.”
“Fuck off,” she muttered.
“Later, sweet tits. Later.”
He took several paces toward the ambling figures, his gun sighted squarely on the larger of the two. “Hey, piggy,” he called. �
��Stop right there.”
The figures did not stop.
“I said stop.”
Still, they approached.
“I warned you,” Sammy said, then fired off a round.
Jessica flinched, her hands slapping her ears.
The larger of the figures slowed, the bullet smashing its shoulder with a spray, but only for a second. It straightened, back on course.
“Goddamned cannibals,” Sammy said. He took aim, this time at the head, and fired another round. Half the corpse’s skull exploded into chunky wet bits, and it folded in heavy fashion. Sammy laughed.
Five.
Jessica counted five rounds expended. But it was a risky bet. She wasn’t a handgun expert, had gleaned the majority of her knowledge from her late husband, who had been a gun fanatic. Though she couldn’t be one-hundred percent sure, she thought Sammy was using a Smith and Wesson 686. Typically a six-shot revolver. But she didn’t know if it was the ‘plus’ model, capable of chambering seven rounds. He’d used five of six. Or five of seven. A risky bet. Very risky.
She watched as Sammy pulled the hammer back, taking aim at the cadaver’s buddy, who was still on the move, sensing supper. She covered her ears in anticipation of the shot.
Sammy closed one eye, squinted the other, sighting the pistol with outstretched arms. He grinned, waiting for the monster to close in. “Here, canny, canny, canny.”
Fire it. Fire that sixth shot.
But then Sammy did something out of character. He eased his grip, shoulders relaxing, dropping the barrel, and opened his eyes.
Jessica watched, wondering. She glanced over to the perambulating beast and noticed it had veered another direction, toward the side of the shed. Where Randy should be.
Shit.
The beast had spotted Randy. She knew it. There was no other explanation. She hadn’t actually seen Randy slip behind the shed, didn’t want to give anything away by looking. Hadn’t wanted to chance a glance, expose Randy’s position, and blow the ambush. But now that shuffler was headed to the shed, undoubtedly hungry. Randy would make a fine meal. An all-you-can-eat buffet.
Don’t shoot, Randy. Dear god, don’t you shoot it. Don’t panic. Stay calm. Just stay—
Dead South Rising (Book 1) Page 35
