Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (34 page)

Contract dispute. Not that they’d work anyway…

Perhaps he could make a break for the hallway doors, scream up and down the halls. But he guessed Doc would gun him down or knock him out before he could even cross the warehouse, let alone warn anyone. Though the gunshot would surely wake some folks up…

Instead, he played the puppet, moved toward the dock door, the heat on his heels. Waiting for him next to the exit, alight in the blooming inferno, was Doc. The man’s devilish features were even more pronounced in the fire’s radiance.

The two men pressed through the doorway and onto the loading dock, the door slamming shut behind them. The sky was wide open, the stars bright, the moon brighter. But the incredible stench of over two-hundred mashed up, decaying corpses raped his sinuses and clawed his throat. Shuffling shadows hinted at more trouble to contend with.

Doc shoved him toward the steps, still barking orders. “Grab that can.”

David swiped another gas can off the dock, then descended the steps and awaited further instruction while anxiously scanning the back lot and the field. Just beyond, more swaying shadows. Shufflers were on the move.

The jab of the pistol came next, and they started toward the Dodge dually.
 

“I told you, it takes diesel fuel,” David said, attempting to keep his voice low as not to draw attention from the ambling cadavers.

“Open it,” Doc ordered, ignoring him.

David stood there for a moment, trying to predict Doc’s next move, deciding the fuel was for another vehicle. One in another location.

“I said open it.”

Through a heavy exhale, David opened the rear passenger door, started to set the can on the floorboard.

“Uh-uh. Driver door, too.”

David arched a brow.

“You know what to do.”

Narrowing his eyes, David studied him a moment. “The truck? You’re gonna torch the truck?”

Doc nodded once—down, up, center.

“But why the—”

“Do not play coy with me. You know goddamned well why.”

A new bravery bubbled up inside David. “She was dead, Doc. When I hit her.
Accidentally
hit her. She was already dead.”

Of course, David didn’t know that for sure. But why the hell would Mrs. Holliday be wandering down a remote country driveway in the middle of the night? Sleepwalking? He didn’t think so.

“I could have helped her,” Doc explained, “but you took that chance away from me. And her.”

Swallowing hard, David said, “I thought the same thing, too. About Natalee. My wife. But I ignored the truth. Lied to myself. Thought I could… thought I could win her back, somehow.”

Thought I could
bring
her back. To life.

Then, David added, “I know how you feel.”

Doc actually let the pistol drop to his side. “How dare you. How fucking
dare
you say that to me. You
do not
know how
I
feel. You cannot possibly know how
I
feel.” His lungs forced out angry breaths, and his eyes still had the flames from the warehouse in them. He shook his head with a quick snap, lowered his voice. “The time for talk is over.”

“Okay… just… let me get—”

“No.”

“But Natalee’s… in there. I mean, her hand… heart… they’re in there.”

A villainous smile tugged Doc’s lips. “And they’ll stay there. That truck is going up in flames, David. It’s going straight to hell with you.”

A tear. A fucking tear slipped from David’s eye and tripped in the frayed stitches lacing his cheek. “Goddamnit, man.” Ignoring the pain shrieking between his shoulder blades, he splashed gas into the truck cab as more tears joined the first. He stepped away, gas can gripped hard at his side.

“Toss it in,” Doc said, his tone flat.

David slung the half-full container into the cab.

From his coat, Doc retrieved another match, flicked it with his thumbnail. The match flared.

After swiping another tear from his cheek, David folded his arms, stepped back. He heard something crash inside the warehouse, and glanced at the dock. Smoke was escaping in sheets from the door frame. And outside, the smell of smoke was already heavy on the air, chasing away the stink of death.
 

Flames erupted inside the Dodge dually, and David held up his hand, shielding his face from the sudden heat and brilliance of the blaze.

And in that moment, he’d never felt more helpless in his entire life.
 
He’d managed to save no one, not even himself.

“Why won’t it break?” Jessica’s raspy voice was frantic, eyes wild, fingers raking her hair.

“Storm windows,” Randy said, picking up the rolling stool for the fifth time. He cocked it, preparing to hurl it at the glass again. “Move back. I don’t want you to get cut if it shatters this time.”

“Why storm windows? There ain’t been a drop of rain in over two months.” Of course she knew better. East Texas’ notorious reputation for severe weather was widely recognized.

“Jess…” His head dropped, then a heavy sigh. “Tornado Alley. Ring a bell?”

“You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

“Jessica, I’m not. Look, I’m trying here.”

“Try harder.” She chewed at her thumbnail as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “The smell’s getting stronger. Oh god, Randy. Why ain’t the fire alarm going off? Or the sprinklers?”

“Probably not”—he heaved the stool at the window—“wired up or whatever. The place wasn’t quite finished, remember?” The small metal seat clanged to the floor. “Damnit.” He ran his forearm across his glistening forehead.

“Shit,” she muttered. Her eyes flicked to the ceiling. “I’d rather get shot than die in a fire.”

Randy scooped up the stool again. “Make some noise. Yell, beat the door, whatever you gotta do.”

“I can’t yell, Randy,” she said, pointing at her throat.

“Then you beat the door and I’ll yell. We can’t be the only ones who smell the smoke.”

“Maybe they don’t know we’re in here. Or maybe Doc—”

“Don’t think like that.”

After a deep breath, Jessica faced the door, then started kicking it, her tennis shoes making barely a sound.

He aimed at the window again, then turned and glanced at Jessica. “Find something to beat the door with.”

“I’m trying, Randy.”
 

Jessica was clearly in full-on freak-out mode, very unusual for her. Normally, she was the calm and collected one, and Randy the panicky one.

Instead of tossing the metal stool at the window again, Randy joined her by the door, and smashed at the wood repeatedly with it while yelling. The door was too thick to break down, but he managed to make an awful lot of noise.

“I’ve got this,” Jess said, endeavoring to quiet down her roaring fear. “Keep at the window.”

Randy returned to his previous task, prepared to launch the stool.

“Beat at it,” Jess said.

“What?”

“Like you just did with the door. Don’t throw it. Use it like a battering ram.”

Randy nodded, acknowledging he understood, then repeatedly walloped the window.

Battering ram… Battering ram… Something we can both…

“The bed frame,” she said. “Randy, the bed frame.”

But he didn’t hear her, the constant metal against glass trumping her feeble voice.

She grabbed a pillow, threw it at him.

“A pillow? Really, Jess? That’s not gonna—”

Jessica stabbed a finger at the bed. “What about using the bed frame? It’s heavier, and we could both put our weight into it.”

Above them, wisps of smoke scratched at the tiles. He studied the bed, followed by tight nods. “Could work.”

He dropped the stool, then yanked the mattress and box spring from the bed. He frowned.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s bolted together.”

“What about this part?”

He wiggled the footboard, and they heard a cracking.

“Keep doing that.”

He kept at it, frenetically moving the metal and wood piece back and forth. More cracking, steel squealing, until finally, the footboard popped off the frame, tumbled to the floor.

“Help me,” he said.

Her eyes darted to the ceiling again. “We gotta hurry, Randy.”
 

He glanced up, noticed the cloud above them gathering like thunderheads. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Together, they slid the weighty piece over to the window.

Randy glimpsed her, said, “On three. One, two, three.”

They hoisted, Jessica struggling to lift her side. It slipped from her sweaty grip and back to the floor. “Shit.”

“C’mon,” Randy said. “We can do this. We’ve got to.”

“Right.”

Again, they lifted. She could tell he was fighting serious pain in his left arm, where he’d been shot several days before. She guessed the adrenaline coursing through him was masking the hurt.

“On two this time,” he said.

They charged the window. The distinct snap of glass whipped the air as they recoiled, a single line streaking through the window.

“Again,” he said.

They rammed the glass again, and it webbed instantly.

“Randy! It’s working!”

He nodded tightly, sweat practically spraying from his whiskers. “Again.”

Her confidence soared.

Again, they thrust the footboard into the storm window, and this time, the corner of their makeshift battering ram pierced the barrier, the tinkle of glass rewarding their efforts.

“We’re through!”

“Two more times oughta do it,” Randy said. “Put everything you’ve got into it.”

He was right on the money. Two more times, and they were through, more shards sprinkling the sill and floor.

“C’mon, Randy.”

He was breathing hard. “Jess, you know I can’t fit through there.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to.”

He coughed, the smoke now bearing down on them.

“Randy, I—”

“Go,” he said. “I’ll beat at the door. Maybe Lenny or the Janitor will hear. You’ve got to figure out a way to get to Bryan and get him out.”

She could only stare, the salty surge behind her eyes threatening her vision and composure. If only tears could put out the fire. Already, the room was growing hazy. Blurry.

Randy grabbed the stool and cleared the window frame of flinders so Jessica would not cut herself on the way out. Afterward, he placed the stool beneath the window. Patting the seat, he said, “Now go.”

“Randy.” Her voice quivered.

“Go.”
 

She squeezed her eyes tight, pushing back the emotional flood.

“Now,” he said, placing his hand on her back.

She stepped up onto the stool as he held it steady for her. She started to climb through, then stopped.
 

“Jessica… why are you stopping?” he asked, a new shake in his own voice. “This ain’t up for debate.”

“Randy, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, and you will.”

“No, I can’t”

She stepped down off the stool, dipped her chin toward the gaping hole. Then swiped away a tear.

Randy looked out the window. Just outside, the hungry dead eagerly waited, perhaps drawn by the banging. A sigh of defeat left his lungs as Jessica erupted into tears.
 

They embraced, sinking to the floor as smoke and sobs engulfed the room.

David would probably have just stood there and let the explosion kill him had Doc not dragged him away. The blast reduced the pickup truck to a blazing carcass. He didn’t care so much about the truck. He was sure that Jimmy and Angela would have been much more upset about it, though.
 

No, he cared more about his own wife’s remains that he’d stowed inside the cab for safe keeping. His original plan to reunite her dismembered parts with the rest of her had literally gone up in flames. If it were possible for Doc to instill any more hatred and sadness in David, he’d just succeeded.

From the ground several yards away and still shaken by the punch of the shock wave, the two men gazed at the roaring blaze. David’s ears rang madly, his body throbbed, his head pounded. He’d absorbed so much physical abuse over the last week that he just didn’t know how much more he could possibly endure.
 

Doc smiled smugly, obviously pleased that he’d pierced David’s weak emotional armor with yet another sentimental spear. He pressed to his feet, brushed himself off. Looking around, he said, “Now, where are my guns? You said they were outside.”

Still on the concrete, David glanced up at Doc, his own numb smile emerging.

Unamused, Doc said, “I will not ask you again,” and aimed the purloined pistol at David.

David’s smile grew wider, until finally a light laugh pressed through his lips. Staring at the burning truck, he lifted his arm, pointed. His head swiveled again, his gaze locking with Doc’s.
 

He wasn’t in the know, didn’t grasp the full significance of what he’d just told Doc without a word. There may as well have been pieces of Doc’s wife in there right along with David’s. If only David had known. He could have reveled in the revelation.

“You had better be wrong about that.”

David shook his head.

“You’re a liar.”

“Go see for yourself.”

David wasn’t sure what Doc mumbled under his breath, but he thought he heard
Bessie and Bertha
. Whatever that meant.

“Do you realize what you’ve just done?” A new anger seethed in his tone, his words forced through grinding teeth.

Pressing to his feet with a pained grunt, David shook his head again.

Something was happening inside David, his emotional tank empty, the needle on ‘E.’
 
He just couldn’t feel anymore. Didn’t care anymore. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t know, didn’t care. He just knew he didn’t give a fuck anymore. He couldn’t do it all. He couldn’t save his wife, or Jessica, or Randy. Bryan. Sure, he wanted to, but a man has to eventually accept his limitations. He could only do so much. Gauging the amount of smoke now billowing from the building, he guessed they were already dead, anyway.

Doc lifted his arm, aiming David’s own weapon at him, and said, “I am going to shoot you right where—”