Dead South Rising: Book 1 (37 page)

But they might be across the street, at the Reynolds’
 
place. That’s where the truck’s parked.

He swiveled his head again, glimpsing the Reynolds’ door. He couldn’t tell for sure, but it appeared as it always had—locked and secured. Intact. Unmolested.
 

He yanked the handle, freeing the dually’s door, and swung it open. It ricocheted on well-lubed hinges, tried to close back on him. Chomp his leg. He stopped it with his boot, then kicked it, catching it and propping it before it could rush at him again. He slid off the seat and to the sidewalk, gun in a death-grip. Then listened and looked.

Three of them. In his yard, next to the house, along the sides. Active shufflers. Never a good sign. They normally acted this way when tempted by fresh meat, the promise of a warm meal. Judging their interest in his house, lunch awaited them inside. Perhaps the home invaders were still busy in there, making David’s things theirs.

He could barely wait to get inside, to punish and discipline those who would rather take what belonged to him.

Natalee.
 

Without thinking, he slammed the truck door shut, the metallic
clap
echoing up and down the mostly deserted street. But he immediately dismissed his worry, because it simply didn’t matter. The cowards combing his home had surely heard the diesel dragon he’d ridden in on, raucously puffing its black sooty fire as it approached.
 

His feet moved, pushing him up the familiar walk that he’d treaded an uncountable number of times over the last fifteen years. His boots, they had minds of their own. He was just along for the ride.

David did draw immediate attention of the unwanted variety, though. The shufflers orbiting the house were now more interested in the meal walking toward them and abandoned their initial interest.

The dead ambled his way, and he reluctantly holstered his pistol. No sense making any more noise or wasting valuable ammo. Instead, he unsheathed the knife that he’d originally thought he would kill himself with weeks ago.

It was scary just how far he’d come in only a couple of days. Two days ago, he couldn’t bring himself to kill something that no longer lived. If that was even possible, to re-kill. These realizations traversed his thoughts as he mindlessly buried the blade deep into the first shuffler’s temple with a well-aimed thrust. He tugged it out with a twist as the bag of bones fell to the ground, its head hitting the cement walk with a sickening
thump.

For variety, and for the first time, David stabbed the next corpse straight through the eye socket. The path of least resistance. He had to admit, it
was
easier than chancing a glancing blow off the skull. He’d remember this approach. Maybe a few more times and he’d assimilate to the gore.

No, really. It tastes fine. It’s a
texture
thing.

The third beast approaching wasn’t as fast as the other two, not that they were fast, per se. It was probably David’s impatience. He strode up to the thing, muttering,
I ain’t got all fucking day
, then brought the blade up above his head, sacrifice-style.
 

The stupid thing looked up, tilting its head back to follow the arc of the black matte blade, and in a rushing blur, David stabbed it straight in the eye. Bone crunched he launched the knife so hard. The breathless and now sightless being spilled backward into the dry yard, arms and legs a wiry sprawl, a gurgling death hiss blowing and bubbling over its rotten lips. David’s stomach did a bit of bubbling up of its own, and he swallowed to stifle the wrong-way flow.

But it wasn’t bad, the gross-out factor. That instant heartburn he felt. His anger, his fired-up rage helped numb him somewhat, a psychological Pepto Bismol that kept his insides together. Calm. Or at least calm-
ish
.

Two days. Just two days to get to this point. The revelation terrified him. What would he be like in two more? In two weeks? Two months? Years? Would this plague turn everyone into insensitive killers, remorseless and without guilt? He honestly believed that had he felt like this the morning he went after Mitch, he would have killed the man.

Wiping his bloody knife on his thigh, he started up the steps to the porch. The door had definitely been kicked in. Not only was the jamb a splintery mess, but he could make out the boot heel that caused the carnage. The cracked wood, the black smudge.

He reached for the doorknob, but stopped. He stood there for several moments, ruminating on what he was about to do. In his mind, he assumed he’d take out the vandals just as handily as he’d dispatched the dead shufflers now sprawled out in the yard and on the walk. The looters would be a minor inconvenience, a hiccup in his plans. The opening act, the warmup band. They would play an insignificant role. They would be nothing.

And that’s when nothing became a very big something.

A perfect storm. That was the only thing David could liken it to, what he’d just walked into. He was that tiny ship on that monstrous satanic wave, about to be engulfed and swallowed by hell incarnate.
 

He’d always envisioned Karma as being one of the good guys, the head justice on the judicial panel of the universe, flowing robes and all. He’d seen it time and time and time again. He’d even commented on it more than once to his wife.

See that, Nat? That’s Karma in action. Thank God for Karma. Everyone gets theirs. Everything comes around. What goes around, comes around. Bless you, Karma.

Either Karma had the day off, or everything he’d ever believed about it was wrong. Or he was on the right side of it, after all. In the span of milliseconds, he questioned his own morality, his own place in it all.
 

Am I a good guy or a bad guy? I always thought I was the good guy. Maybe not. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I had it wrong this whole time.

Perhaps Karma
was
administering justice.

And he blamed himself. For the predicament he now found himself in. For the predicament Natalee now found herself in. For his daughter Karla’s accident. And he discovered there was a touch of truth to the axiom that your life passes before your eyes when you die, because he believed he was doing just that. If these guys had their way, anyway.

He honestly never had a chance. As soon as he stepped across that threshold … Three against one? He was no kung fu master. No boxer. Or street fighter. Or marksman. He wasn’t a cop or a soldier. Mercenary. No formal training in the art of self-defense.
 

These men—two of them for sure—had run with some pretty rough gangs around Rio Bravo. A former cubicle farmer wouldn’t stand a chance against those odds. Lenny might—
might—
have had a chance against this group. David was lucky he’d gotten the drop on them two days ago. Damn lucky. You can’t count on luck, though. She’s a fickle bitch. And apparently, so is Karma.

David was shaking his head, trying to clear the stars exploding across his vision when someone grabbed his collar, hauling him back onto his boots. Someone tugged his pistol off his hip.

“Goddamnit,” someone drawled through a heavy southern accent from across the room. “Did you not listen to instruction?”

“Sorry, Doc.” It was Sammy. The apology sounded insincere. “Couldn’t take a chance with this one. He’s slippery.” To Gills, “Pat him down.”

Guillermo obeyed, frisking David. He yanked out the smeared letter Natalee had written, along with the business card Gabriel had given David, glanced at them indifferently, then tossed them to the floor.

David could already feel his lip swelling to twice its size, pounding, could taste the metallic blood filling his mouth. He spit. Then spit again, thick blood and saliva sticking to his chin. His jaw felt out of alignment, and the punch had reignited that whiplash lava flow from two days ago.

“Watch it now, El Jefe. Gonna get gringo blood on Gills’ boots. Gills don’t like gringo blood on his boots. Them’s expensive alligators, huh, Gills?” Definitely Sammy’s voice.

A crippling pain shot through David’s mid-section as Gills planted one of his alligators square in his stomach. David felt as though his intestines had wrapped around his spine, knotting themselves, and he was back to his knees, breathless. He swallowed blood, and coughed, gagging, unable to suck air.

“That’s what my gators is for, cabrón,” said Guillermo. He took David’s Walther P38 from Sammy, tucking it into his own waistband. Thumb to his own chest, he added, “
I’m
El Jefe now, motherfucker.”

“That’ll do, gentlemen. Enough,” the man from across the room commanded.

David was now on all fours. His knife had been knocked to the floor when he’d pushed through the door, and Sammy or Gills had kicked it across the room.
 

A stringy blob of blood hung from his plump lip, stingy, not letting go. He was already wheezing, trying to catch tiny gulps of air as his diaphragm retreated. He couldn’t imagine this ending well. Not at all.

He tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come, were hitched in his throat. Hell, they’d never even made it that far. Gills’ kick had his diaphragm spasming and unsure. All off kilter. Instead, he simply tried to cough some more. Unsuccessfully. It was more of an empty retch that didn’t know which way to go.

“This is not how this was supposed to happen,” the man Sammy had called Doc—

that Doc?

—said, perturbed.

Doc was standing beside David’s undead wife, who was duct taped to a kitchen chair, cowboy pistol pressed to her temple. Bound and gagged. It was this nightmarish sight that had caught David’s attention first, what had thrown him completely off guard. Distracted him. Had set his rage gauge spiking to eleven. Had taken his breath before Gills’s alligator boot ever did. And the horrific vision had blinded him, made him unaware of Sammy and Gills staking out either side of the front door.

That nightmare vision had been his downfall. And now possibly his death.

White-knuckling the Ruger at his side, Doc strode on heavy boots and heavier aggravation to the spectacle unfolding at the front door of the Morris residence. Lifting his arm, aiming the steel straight at Sammy, he said, “You try my patience, gentlemen—”

A flash of chrome. Gills ripping his Colt 1911 from dusty leather. In barely a second, the barrel pressed to Doc’s cheek.

Sammy simply smiled, eyes slipping from Gills to Doc. A light chuckle, then, “Sorry, Doc. I really am. But if you so much as twitch that crooked nose of yours, Gills’ll blow your goddamned head off. Comprende?” A contorted grin crossed his lips. “C’mon now, let’s see those hands.”

Sparks of rage streaked from eyes hidden beneath Doc’s wide brimmed hat as he eased his grip on his precious pistol.

“Now hand it over, nice and easy,” Sammy commanded.

Doc complied, an indignant frown etching itself under his thin mustache.

Sammy took the gun, turning it on its owner. “That’s a good doctor.” He nodded to the holster housing the other pistol. “Gills?”

Gills tugged Doc’s other Ruger Vaquero from its place on his hip.

“You boys are summoning a death wish I aim to grant,” Doc said.

“His knife, Gills.”

Guillermo tucked away the wheel gun, reached into Doc’s boot, retrieving a smaller knife hidden there as Doc calmly looked from Gills to Sammy.

“I saved you gentlemen. The manners you’re exhibiting do not scream, ‘thank you for saving our miserable lives.’”

“You hear that, Gills? The good doctor thinks we ain’t gracious. I’m offended.”

“Me, too.”

“Sit,” Sammy said, the .357 single-action shooter still aimed at Doc. “Over there, in one of the dining chairs.”

Doc did so without argument, but not without aggravation.

To Gills, Sammy said, “Would you like to do the honors, mi amigo?” and nodded at the duct tape.

Without a word, Guillermo stowed away his own weapon along with Doc’s commandeered knife and commenced to taping Doc to the chair, just as they’d done to Natalee.

“You needed us,” Sammy said, tapping the barrel on his own chest, “to ID this asshole. Well, there he is. That’s him. Contract over. Now
we’ve
got business with him.”

“You gentlemen are truly committing an egregious error, one I’m afraid will cost you dearly.”

“Well we don’t plan to be around long enough to find out, do we, Gills?”

Guillermo shook his head.

David finally sipped some air, his lungs and diaphragm syncing back up again. He brought his forearm across his mouth, wiping away the stubborn strings of blood. He rested back on his heels, hands on his thighs.

Sammy started toward Doc, revolver back on the man. “You see, Doc, it’s like I told you out in the pasture that night.
I
was supposed to be the one to do it.
I
was supposed to be the one to pull the trigger.
I
was supposed to be the one who killed Mitch. But you know what? I wasn’t the one. And you know what else? I wasn’t going to. You know why?”

Silence.

“I said, you know why?”

A sigh, then, “Do, pray tell. Why?”

“Because Mitch would have given up where he hid the goods. He’d a done it without a fight. ‘Cuz Mitch was just a scared little boy. He didn’t want to die, and I’d a let him off with a warning. But you had to go and kill him. You had to go … and kill my brother.”

Doc raised his arm and a finger halfway, Gills having already wrapped his upper arms in duct tape, immobilizing him. “Step-brother.”

Sammy crinkled his nose and forehead, “Whatever. Point is, you murdered my brother.” He brought his arm up, thumbed back the hammer.

“And now you’re gonna kill me. Eye for an eye and such.”

Sammy wagged a finger, “No. No that’s where you’re wrong.
We
ain’t gonna kill ya. Gonna call it even though. You see, we saw him first.” He nodded at David. “He’s ours. We got plans for him. Oh boy, do we have plans.” Through a chuckle, he smiled his wide, teeth-missing grin.

And David’s hopes sank even further. These men planned to kill him. He knew this. Karma was on their side today, and Karma had banged the gavel. Sentenced him to death. No last meal. No last words. Straight to death.