Dead South Rising: Book 1 (7 page)

“Hello? Cat got your tongue?” Sammy said, his voice drifting over the stillness.

Jessica thought she heard a chuckle.

The impatient voice knocked on her ears again. “We just want to talk to Mitch for a sec.” A man started to rise slowly out of the grass, his hands high. “Y’all ain’t gonna shoot us now, are ya? You wouldn’t shoot at blood, would ya?” Sammy, or the man claiming to be Sammy, looked beside him, nodding, encouraging someone else to stand with him. Another set of hands pressed skyward, a man inching up and out of the grass. “We just wanna talk. No trouble.”

The two men stood fully upright, their palms pressed to the cloudless sky. Neither made a move.

Randy swam in sweat while he fought an undertow of self-doubt, not knowing what to do, not wanting to make a mistake. A costly mistake. A mistake that could get them killed. Circumstances changed people, made them untrustworthy. Dangerous. Circumstances like the end of the world. Randy’s heart lodged in his throat, choking him.

Jessica made the next decision. “Walk to the edge of the yard.”

The two men looked at each other, then started walking, relaxing their arms.

“Keep your hands up,” Jessica commanded.

They immediately grabbed for the sun. “Easy. Like I said, we just want to talk.”

Randy’s fingers curled over and over on the rifle, praying he wouldn’t have to use it.

The two newcomers stopped short of the yard, just as Jessica instructed.
 

The one claiming to be Sammy stared at them from under his straw-colored cowboy hat. “Can we put our hands down now? Please?”

Jessica nodded, then said, “Yeah, but first, throw your weapons this way.”

Sammy’s shoulders slumped. “Lady, we ain’t here to—”

“Do you want to talk or not?”

He blew a long, exasperated breath. He dipped his chin at his partner, giving him the okay, then unbuckled his own gun belt, tossing the rig in front of him. His buddy did the same, and they raised their hands again.
 

Sammy’s friend said, “You don’t have to be pointing that thing at us, pendejo.”

“You don’t worry about him,” Jessica said. “Now, what do you want to talk about?”

“May we?” he asked.

Jessica nodded, and they dropped their arms.

Sammy swiveled his head, looking around, then trained his gaze on Jessica. He smiled a wide smile, teeth looking like a picket fence with slats randomly kicked out. His voice sounded like he’d chewed and swallowed the missing boards. “Like I said, just want to talk to my brother, Mitch.”

Randy and Jessica glimpsed each other, then focused again on the strangers in the yard. Jessica shook her head hesitantly. “Um … No. Mitch ain’t here.”

Sammy lifted his hands out to his sides as though he were conjuring a spirit before letting them drop again. “Well … Where is he?”

“Gone on a run,” Jess said, carefully observing the man claiming to be blood-related to her soon-to-be ex.

“A run?” He chuckled.
 
“And just what the hell’s a
run
?”

“Supplies,” Randy said.

Sammy cocked his granite chin toward the man with the rifle. “I don’t believe we’ve met, slim.”

Boards creaked beneath Randy as he shifted his feet, his beard obscuring his twisted lips. “Randy.”

The man with the hat wagged a finger, a wider smile crossing his face. “Ah, yeah. You’re Randy. Mitch’s old army BFF.” He crossed his arms and rolled up on the balls of his feet. “Ain’t you two just the cutest couple.”

“He’s married to me, dick.” Jessica said, tapping into her family’s famous temper.
 

Sammy’s brows jumped. “Oh? You don’t say? So you would be the missus?” He made a guttural noise and nudged his buddy. “Mmm, mmm. You are one fine piece of ass, missy.” His friend smiled and nodded in agreement.

She swallowed hard, crossing her arms tight over her chest, and slid closer to Randy. She immediately regretted poking this uncaged animal. If he was anything remotely like his brother, they were in for a tense and volatile morning. She now wished very badly for Mitch to show up, despite wanting him gone only moments before.

“She got quite a mouth on her, too,” said Sammy’s friend. His dark eyes told on his darker thoughts.

Sammy slapped a hand to his chest. “How rude of me. I didn’t introduce you all.” He planted a palm on his friend’s shoulder. “This here’s Guillermo Torres. Goes by ‘Gills.’”

Guillermo brushed a thumb on either cheek, pointing out three distinct scars on each, the stripes evoking faded warpaint. A smug smile spread beneath his fu-manchu as he crossed his tattoo-wrapped pythons across his thick chest.

“Guillermo led a boys club of sorts down in Rio Bravo. Admission to his little brotherhood required a tiny test of toughness.” Sammy drew his finger across his cheek, as though he were slicing it with a knife. “If you could stick your tongue through, you’d cut deep enough, and you could call yourself a Piranha.” He laughed, and shook his head. “Crazy Mexican, this one is.”

Jessica thought better of a verbal ambush, and instead simply said, “Interesting story, but you two are a long ways from Rio Bravo.”

His hands out to his sides again, he twisted his neck, letting his jaw return like a typewriter carriage. “Like I said, here to see Mitch.” Something deep emerged in his tone. “Not to say I’m not enjoying conversing with you fine people, but when’s he gonna get his ass back here?”

“Any minute,” she said, and hoped.

Sammy nodded, tugged off his hat, then squinted at the sun. “Sure could use a drink.” He fanned himself, turned to Guillermo. “Gills? You thirsty, amigo?”
 

Gills nodded, his slicked-back pony tail sliding up and down his leather-clad back. His words rose out of his gravel quarry throat. “Sí. Muy thirsty,” he said, eyes not letting go of Jessica. Another smug smile crawled out from under his inky mustache.

Sammy replaced his cowboy hat, clapped his hands, rubbed them together. “So whatcha got? Cold beer? Tequila?” His eyes darted to Randy. “Some fruity umbrella drink?”

Gills chuckled.

Jessica hesitated, then said, “I’ll get you some water.”

“Can we at least come in? It’s got to be a hundred and ten out here.”

“You two stay put.” She patted Randy on the shoulder as she turned and whispered, “Watch ‘em. Don’t let them on the porch. My Sig’s inside.”
 

“Got it.” Randy tightened his grip on the rifle, aiming from his hip near the two strangers.

Jessica disappeared into the trailer, doing her best to disguise the pain in her back.

Sammy rocked on his boot-clad heels, arms crossed over his stained wife-beater shirt. “So … Brandy, was it?” He and Gills laughed softly, two schoolyard bullies picking on the fat kid.

Randy ignored them, stayed quiet. His lids fluttered, trying to clear the salty tide rolling into his eyes. He kept a blurry watch on the two strangers, the rifle slick in his grip. How he hoped no one made a move, including himself.

David and Mitch leaned against the Dodge dually parked in the middle of the quilt-patched road. A few yards away, tangled and tugging against his barbed wire snare, an undead Tim Bartlett rasped at the rubberneckers, sensing a meal. He had yet to feast on flesh, to taste it, if the dead could indeed taste. The buffet just out of reach teased him with the chance to find out.

David let the pads of his fingers run up and down the knife’s cord-wrapped handle while the weapon resided peacefully in its sheath. He’d drawn the cheap weapon several times, the black symmetrical blade inconspicuous, never glinting or giving away his location. Or intent.

“We gonna do this or what?” Mitch asked, a sour impatience floating his tone, his face pallid.

David glanced at him. “Need a drink?”

“Ha fucking ha.”

“I’m being serious. As heavily as you’ve been hitting the bottle lately, I’m surprised you’re not puking your guts out all over the road right now.”

Mitch hinged, hands on his thighs. “I’m about to if we don’t get this show on the road. Let’s fucking get this over with, alright?”

David swallowed a golfball, anticipating the inevitable. If he’d been completely honest, he would have admitted to wanting to retch, too. The thought of plunging the blade into Old Man Bartlett turned his insides, and he considered letting the old man be.

Just then, Mitch dry heaved.

“He doesn’t smell very good, does he?” David said.

Mitch simply shook his head, breathing deep. He spat a stubborn string of saliva. “Ain’t the smell.”

David enjoyed seeing Mitch suffer, the control Karma had over him.

Mitch rolled his wrist, hand fanned, urging David to get on with it.

After a heavy breath, David yanked the blade from its sheath. He started toward the growling ghoul, knife twisting in the sunlight without a twinkle, the dull matte blade honing in on its victim.

This is merciful. What I’m about to do, I’d want someone to do for me.

He crossed the shallow ditch, stopping just out of reach of the decaying and the dead. Their eyes met, David’s glimmering with true life, Bartlett’s glazed and hazy. The stench, though pungent, wasn’t as bad up close as David thought it should be. He had no way of knowing how long ago the farmer had died, but his skin seemed to be dying slowly, as if delayed or prolonged.

Preserved?

“In the head,” Mitch said.

David jumped, startled.

Mitch said again, “In the head. Stab him in the head.”

Turning his own head to volley Mitch’s stare, he asked, “The head? Why not the heart?”

“He ain’t a fucking vampire.” Then under his breath, he muttered something about sparkles and stakes
.
He coughed, heaved again.

With clenched teeth, David turned back to Tim Bartlett, gripping the knife so hard his hand was numbing. He stood there for what seemed like forever, second thoughts ricocheting through his mind.

Mitch came up behind him, his hand landing on David’s shoulder. “Damn pussy. Here, I’ll fucking do—”

David rolled his shoulder fiercely and spun. He grabbed Mitch’s collar, throwing a forearm into his throat, and pushed until the man’s back slammed into the dually. Mitch twisted his head, expecting a punch. David held his grip, and hissed through still-clenched teeth, “If you
ever
fucking touch me again, I will gut you and feed you to those things. Got it?”

Lids fluttering, forearm in his throat, Mitch could only manage a barely perceptible nod and mouth,
yeah.

Antagonistic bursts of green streaked from David’s eyes as he leaned all his weight against Mitch, the man’s wan complexion draining even more.

Finally, David let go, and Mitch slid to the street in a heap. Coughing, he rubbed his neck, not daring to look at the living who just attacked him, seemingly unprovoked.

White-knuckling the knife, David strode on heavy aplomb to the corpse heaving on the fence and thrust the dark blade into the being’s temple. Like a slashed tire, a dying hiss signaled the end.

The creature writhed, grasping at nothing, the hazy light left in his eyes dimming away. Lodged in the barbed wire, he never fell to the ground, but hung there, like some pirate flag, warning others of another undead crew to stay away. A simple caution—a second death awaits those who dare enter.

David didn’t move, the bloody blade glistening at his side. Though stealing weighty breaths, he still felt light-headed. As he stood there, he replayed what he’d just done, again and again. A scary realization surged, one he couldn’t fully grasp. His mind was emptying, as though a tsunami were about to strike, pulling the ocean away from the shore. If hope still existed, he needed to head for higher ground now, before it was too late.

But he relished seeing the seabed and its secrets for the first time, what was hiding under there all along, just below the waves of his conscience. The old world—the living world—could never satiate this sudden unsavory rush. Time stood still with him now as he watched Tim Bartlett hang lifeless and unmoving on that fence. He would savor his first, and he had Mitch to thank.

Thank you, Mitch.

* * *

Twelve minutes. Mitch had been gone twelve minutes, if the clock in Jimmy and Angela’s truck was telling the truth. Twelve minutes ago, Mitch fired up the Franken-Hog and scooted his cowardly ass back to the house, his corkscrew tail tucked tightly between his legs.

David’s hands rested comfortably in his lap while his unwavering stare pierced the windshield, landing nowhere in particular. Putting Mitch to rout felt good. Putting Old Man Bartlett to rest felt better.

And so he sat, reliving and relishing his induction into the now. His own personal exoneration, an acceptance of himself in this disconcerting new reality. He’d been running on emotional empty for the last twenty-one days and then some, ever since he had found that note on the kitchen table. It may as well have been twenty-one
years
ago. He would eventually come clean with Jessica and Randy. Tell them the truth about his wife. But not today. Today, he would celebrate the now and the future, not the past.

Another five minutes slipped by, a hint of breeze brushing the left side of his face. It brought with it the subtle stink of death and sweet honeysuckle. The unlikely aromatic concoction nudged him, encouraging him to emerge from his twisted trance.

His face fell to meet his palms and he rubbed vigorously, as though he were half-way through a mindless graveyard shift at the office. He blinked wide, big blinks.

Time to get moving, gotta get back.

He started to reach for the ignition, but instead reached for the glovebox. There was no reason for this subconscious change of course. It was as though his hand knew something he didn’t, off on its own divining rod detour of discovery. When he fingered the latch, the door did not drop as his mind had predicted. A locked glove compartment. This intrigued him. Greatly.

David ripped the key from the ignition. He leaned sideways, jabbing, toothy metal finding its mark, the click and pop of an insignificant lock. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he didn’t expect much.