Dead South Rising: Book 1 (27 page)

Satisfied he was alone, he began the arduous process of exiting the log, his temporary refuge. It was definitely easier getting in than out. He tried going back in the way he came, but the going was tough, and he kept snagging himself, catching splinters. About the only thing good coming out of the struggle was scratching his bites. He craned his neck again, studying the only alternate route.

The hole was slightly smaller. He’d entered through the bottom, near the trunk where it was wider. Though the tree slimmed, it seemed doable. Confident he could squeeze through, he wriggled his way through the decay, the termites, the ants … worms … creepy crawlies.

His heart panicked as the wood hugged him tighter, squeezing him harder with every inch forward. Breathing shallowed, his mind winding into action. A horror movie flickered on the screen inside his skull. He could see it in IMAX: He gets to the end of the log, his head protruding perfectly. Above, a shuffler awaits, bites his face. He screams in terror, half his face gone, an appetizer for the hovering corpse. Then he feels it. Death inviting itself in. He surrenders, becomes one. Craves the taste of the living. But he’s stuck in the wood, trapped forever, unable to satiate his need for flesh. Even in death, he fails.

He shivered a heavy shiver, one that brought dirt and dead wood particles down on him. Then,
crack.

The wood was splitting. He breathed deep, pressing his shoulders and arms against his timber straight jacket. More cracking, snapping. A sliver of light. And another.

He shut his eyes tight against the falling dirt, dust, and wood slivers. They stung, and he couldn’t rub them. He didn’t like the idea of emerging blind from his hiding place, but he had no say in the matter. He’d made it through the darkness of night, he could make it another minute or two without sight.

Wiggling wildly, he pushed. His legs were still trapped and useless, no leverage, but the tree was coming apart from the pressure exerted by his shoulders and chest. He forced himself farther down the tapered end, doing his best to ignore the splinters and ants making the inch by inch trek an incredibly unpleasant one. Then something stung him hard.

“Ow,” he hissed. “Little fucker.”

But he quickly dismissed his anger and annoyance, deciding that a bug’s bite was preferable to that of an infected, rotting corpse.

Then he wondered if ants and wasps and bees stung the dead. Probably not. The idea of running scientific tests on shufflers resurfaced, occupying his mind for a moment, his curiosity turned on.

It happened unexpectedly and quickly. He’d reached a weak spot, a thinner spot eaten away by ravenous termites, and spongy wood splintered apart around him. He puffed his cheeks up with air, closed his eyes tight. He could feel the dirt and dust and muck fall into every crease and crevice on his face and neck. His ears, his nostrils, his mouth. He blew a big breath, launching the grime from his lips, his eyes still shut. But it didn’t do much good. When he ground his teeth, dirt and dust cracked between them like a pepper-mill.

But he was free. Well, his upper body was free. His lower half still resided inside the tree, trapped.

Not for long.

Then he heard it. Thought he heard it. He stilled himself, straining his ears, listening through the chirping birds and oscillating cicada chorus. Through the susurrus sway above. The foreign, manmade noise sounded far away, but it was getting louder.

The Dodge. Randy. Jessica. Bryan.

He was sure of it. The Dodge dually had a distinctive thunder when it rambled down the highway, and David recalled how the beastly machine had growled when Mitch ran away in it.
 

His new family was coming for him. They were coming back, coming back for
him
.

He clawed at the ground, tilling dirt and raking leaves. He launched his hands again, fingers hooking the earth and finding roots. Finally, he gained purchase on something solid, and he dragged himself, twisting and pulling, until finally popping like a human cork out of a wine bottle.
Now
he was truly free.

He stopped to listen, the Dodge grinding closer.

As his soiled fingers tried to clear stinging, watery eyes, a palpitating paranoia rippled through him. The sudden urge to jump up and run through the woods like a crazy person compelled him, and he stood. Well, tried to stand. Stiff, wobbly legs protested, and he stumbled, ended up right back on the ground. Eyelids fluttering again, he scanned the area through blurry daylight. He wished he’d carried some water to flush his face of debris. Eventually, he blinked out most of the foreign matter, and he managed a steady gaze. His eyes burned, itched, but at least he could see. Somewhat.

No shufflers. Thank goodness. He felt like they were all around, thought he could see them. But in a moment of promised rescue, he’d actually forgotten about them just for an instant. The joy and excitement of hearing the truck had made him sloppy, careless, if only for a second.
 

Now, though, relief pushed out paranoia. He would not be someone’s breakfast this morning. The birds and insects continued their jovial song, acting as if the world had never ended. Or maybe they were happy it had.

He pressed to his feet, brushing himself off, sending dirt and leaves and chunks of wood back to the forest floor. Stiff from lack of movement, he willed his joints and muscles to flex, to move.

Come on, come on. Got a ride to catch.

Thankfully, he was only about ten feet or so from the natural boundary separating trees from highway. His joints popped and cracked, awakening. A muscle in his back spasmed, and he almost went down again.

Move, move, move.

Above in the rustling canopy, birds took flight, the approaching diesel scaring them off. But David was anything but scared. Pure joy touched him, and he pushed toward the highway. The decomposing mess trudging the asphalt last night must have moved on, making the road passable again. He wondered just how many stragglers he’d find when he got there.

The relentless Texas sun punched him square in the face when he emerged from the foliage. He shielded his face with one hand while allowing his irises time to adjust. A quick scan east and west revealed a mostly clear road. As he’d suspected, there were a few here and there, but nothing comparable to what he’d witnessed last night. None seemed to pose an immediate threat. That was the most important thing.

Then he spotted it. The Dodge dually, puffing black smoke from two protruding chrome smokestacks that rose from the bed like two glimmering angelic wings. It was coming from the east.

East?

David found it odd that the Dodge would be rolling from that direction, but quickly dismissed the thought.

Why wouldn’t they be? Who knows how many times they’d already passed by this morning, or even last night.

He would just be thankful, and be sure he iterated it.

The truck crawled in full-on search and rescue mode, not risking a missed spotting, wanting to give David the chance to show himself. This made the most sense to David. If the circumstances were reversed, he would do the same. His stomach fluttered in anxiety, ready to get away from here and go anywhere else. He willed the metal beast to go faster.

As the vehicle drew closer, David stepped into the ditch, then crawled his way up the other side, babying his hurt wrist. Now was not the time to let guards down, so he continued pivoting, scanning, watching for shufflers and anything else—or anyone else—that could pose a danger. He’d survived the night, fought to live another day. He didn’t want to die a pointless death, like the decorated soldier who fights valiantly overseas, only to return home and die jaywalking. He wouldn’t be that guy.

Finally, it was time. He smiled, stuck out a thumb.

The dually rolled up just short of him, stopped. The passenger door opened, and a stranger slid out onto the blacktop, a big, ominous looking fellow.

David’s smile curved into a frown as his arm slowly moved to his pistol. He tugged the weapon, started to aim.

The stranger showed his palms. “Whoa, whoa. David?”

Brows creasing, David cocked his head. “Who are you? How did you get this truck?” Despite the stranger’s raised hands, David kept the weapon trained on him.

The big man backed up a step. “Easy. I’m on your side, friend.” He tossed his head at the truck cab. “Randy’s in there. We been looking for you all morning. Up an down this highway. You like a needle in a haystack, I says to him. But Randy, he—”

“Randy’s in there?”

The man stopped, dipped his chin. “Yeah. He’s driving.” He kept his hands high.

David moved toward the hulking stranger. The guy was huge, all muscle. He reminded David of a professional wrestler. The fellow looked almost cartoonish his arms were so big. And his neck. Jesus. He could kill somebody just giving them an overzealous hug. His clothes plastered his frame, body bulging at the seams. At the guy’s side, a double-edged hand axe.

David heard what he thought was Randy’s voice coming from inside the cab.

Raising his chin at the stranger, he said, “Back up a few steps.” He poked the air with his handgun, encouraging the man to obey him.

“Alright, alright.” The man obliged. “No trouble, man. We here for you.”

David peered into the truck through the open passenger door. Randy sat behind the wheel, waving him inside. “Thank god you’re alive. C’mon. Let’s go.” He looked nervous, jittery.

David eyed the stranger, then said, “You okay, Randy? This guy …” He looked at the stranger again. “This guy on the up-and-up?”

A smile cracked Randy’s beard, and he nodded. “Oh, yeah. Lenny’s cool.”

David glanced at Randy again, looking for a tell, a sign that he was being forced to do something against his will.

“It’s all good, man,” Lenny said, arms still up.

“It’d better be,” David said. “I’ll sit in back.”

Lenny shrugged. “Okay. Shotgun, then.” He smiled a smile you couldn’t help but like. “May I?” His eyes darted to his still upraised hands.

David gave a quick nod, then climbed into the backseat.

* * *

The first thing David noticed was who he didn’t see: Jessica and Bryan. And Charlie.

The diesel stuttered forward, Randy’s lack of proficiency in handling the manual transmission on display for all the world to criticize. David let him be.

“Where are Jessica and Bryan?” David asked from the backseat, still clutching El Jefe.

Randy said, “At the Alamo.” There was a nonchalance in his tone, as if David should have already figured it out.

A curious brow climbed David’s forehead. “What? Where?”

Mr. Muscles chimed in. “The Alamo.” Equally nonchalant.

David shook his head as if clearing cobwebs. Had he died last night in the woods? Was he dreaming this, the chrome-winged chariot carrying him on six wheels to … who knew where?
 

He focused on Randy’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Randy tried again. “They’re at the Alamo, in Leeson.”

“Leeson?”

Randy nodded, scratching gears, jerking the truck.

Lenny said, “We got a place, a safe place. Your woman and boy are there. Janitor’s taking good care of ‘em.”

David just wasn’t following. “Janitor? Wait. Back up. Start over.”

Randy and Leonard glanced at each other, nonverbally deciding who should tell the story. And David noticed something else. There seemed to be a connection between the two men, a chemistry, like two long-lost pals who had found one another again after choosing different paths in life. A connection that David and Randy had never quite forged.

In typical verbose fashion, Randy started at the Book of Genesis, with last night: hearing the shots, meeting Leonard and Taneesha, the huge herd of shufflers. He explained how they waited for him as long as they possibly could, until the dead finally swallowed them, and they had no choice but to move on, get out of the way. Find some place safe. Or be dinner.

“So what about Sammy and Guillermo?” Randy asked. “Did you find them? Were they alive? Did Mitch free them?”
 

Impatient and no longer concerned with the two troublemakers, David ignored Randy’s inquiry. “So about this … Alamo?”

Leonard fielded the question. “We got a group, in Leeson. We took your family there last night while we waited for the rattlers to clear out, when we was finally forced off the highway.”

Randy said, “I tried, David. We held out for as long as we could. But there were just too many of them.” He wiped his brow. “So goddamn many of them.”

“He did,” Leonard said, backing up Randy. “He didn’t want to go, but I says to him, you no good dead, son. Get your family safe, then I’ll come back with you, find your friend. We’ll find him, I says.”

“And so you did,” David said. He thought back to last night, the insane amount of cadavers covering the highway. He honestly couldn’t blame Randy for leaving. Hell, he’d instructed him to do just that. And now he was thankful Randy had listened.

Leonard nodded, “Uh-huh. Sure did. I just knew we would.”

Randy found a secluded side road, turned the truck around, and headed back east on 204, toward Leeson.

Randy asked, “Did you see Mitch?”

“So about this safe place,” David said, still dodging Randy. He wasn’t ready to talk about the pond fiasco. Not just yet, and not with this stranger he barely knew. “This … Alamo. Is that figurative or metaphorical or something?”

Leonard laughed, his broad shoulders shaking, then said, “Oh, it’s real. The Alamo’s an assisted living place. Retirement or nursing home. And brand new, just built. Even still got some bulldozers and such parked off in the field. Ain’t had no residents yet, never been used. Was supposed to open this year. August, I think. The city done got it all ready to use, even had food stocked up in the cafeteria. Cokes in the Coke machines. Snickers bars. Real food, too, but who don’t like a Coke and a candy bar, right?” Another hearty chuckle. “All that was left was to fill it with nurses and old folks.”

“A nursing home?” David asked, skeptical. “What makes this place so safe?” He thought back to the rundown convalescent home from his youth, where he’d visit his grandfather, both pitiful affairs.