Dead South Rising: Book 1 (11 page)

“He asked me what my name was.”

David ran his fingers through his sopping hair. “Did you tell him?”

Bryan nodded, sprigs of hair bouncing. “He thought I was Jimmy, but I told him we were just borrowing Jimmy’s truck, that we’d give it back when we were done with it.”

Something twisted in David’s gut, a new nausea replacing the old.

“Was the man’s name Mitch?”

Bryan furrowed his brow, turned his eyes to the sky, like he was thinking really hard, then shook his head. “No.”

Now David’s insides were twisting, squeezing him from the inside out. He reached out, resting a hand on Bryan’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. “Bryan, what did this man look like?”

The boy thought hard again, wanting to be sure and get every detail right. “He had a hat.”

“Like a cap? A baseball cap?”

“No, like my grandpa wears sometimes.”

David arched his brow.

Bryan said, “Like a cowboy.”

Nodding, David said, “What else?”

His finger to his chin, Bryan said, “And he had a … a … what do you call it? Like the devil has …”

David’s eyes widened, fear flashing in them. “Horns? He had horns, Bryan? A tail?”

He shook his head frantically. “No, no, no. Not horns.” He pointed at his upper lip and chin.

“A goatee? Like a pointy mustache?”

The guess was met with exuberant nodding.

David did not like the picture Bryan was painting. “Is that all, Bryan?”

His finger still at his chin, he scrunched his lip, tapping into his short-term memory banks. Eyes alight, he pointed at David’s waist. “And he had a gun on his belt, just like you.”

David’s heart punched through his chest. Bryan was not describing Mitch at all. Nor was he describing a shuffler. Not unless shufflers had learned to talk, or maybe some of them could, and they just hadn’t run across any of them yet. David’s mind was spinning on overdrive, a virtual blender turning his thoughts into a discombobulated smoothie he didn’t care to taste.

“Two of them.”

“What?” David said, trying to put himself back into the conversation.

“He had two of them.” He pointed at David’s hip. “Like a cowboy.” He put his hands at his sides, pretended like he was drawing two pistols in a gunfight. “I thought he might be a policeman, just like I thought you were a policeman. But he said he wasn’t a policeman, either.”

David’s breaths were shaky, shallow; he fought to maintain his composure.

“And he had a radio like a policeman, but he said he wasn’t.”

“Bryan, did he tell you his name? Who he was? What he wanted?”

“He said he was a doctor … um …” He scrunched his face in hard thought. “A doctor on holidays.”

David gave him a quizzical look. “A doctor on holidays? That works on holidays?”

Bryan thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. He said his name was Doctor Holiday.”

“Doc Holliday?”

His eyes lit up, and he nodded enthusiastically.

A rush of fear ran through David. Some nutjob was running around in the back country, pretending to be some famous long-dead dentist-turned-gambler-turned-outlaw. Some asshole who thought it was funny to mess with little kids, make them believe he was something he most certainly wasn’t.

Or the good doctor rose from his grave to join the rest of the undead. Welcome back, Doc. Wyatt’s over at the saloon, playin’ a hand as we speak. Wanna join in? I’ve got a pocket full of chips and my homeboys do, too.

“He talked funny.”

David pulled himself from his musing. “What was that, Bry?”

“Doc. He talked funny.”

The urge to leave the area struck David with such force that a shudder coursed through every bit of his being, and he jumped in his seat like he’d been shot by the long-gone cowboy. He typically didn’t scare easily, not since he’d grown up enough to realize that the monsters under his bed weren’t real. But he’d been more scared in the last twenty-one days than in his entire life, squared. He thought as time went on, he’d become less frightened, more numb. It was only partly true.

Deliberately, David asked, “Bryan, which way did the man go?”

The pad of Bryan’s forefinger came to rest on the passenger window, pointing to where David had entered the woods.

Another shiver racked David.
 

The right thing to do, at least in his mind, was to hunt down this Doc Holliday impersonator. Corner him. Figure out his game. An avalanche of questions buried his mind.

Who is this guy? Really? What is he doing? Did he take Mitch? Did he kill Mitch? Does he know Mitch? Does Mitch know him? Has he killed anyone? Anyone living, that is? Why is he pretending to be Doc Holliday? What’s this fool’s real name? Where did he go? Why did he leave? Is he watching them right now?

Too many questions. Zero answers. He wanted to find Mitch, but he would not risk Bryan. And wasn’t David going to kill Mitch, anyway? He knew they needed to leave the area, find a new place to live. The farmhouse seemed a viable option, a tantalizing possibility. But now David didn’t think so. Not with Doctor Dipshit running rampant. He wasn’t sure where they would go, but he was sure about one thing. They would leave. Tonight.

* * *

Bryan cringed, his nose scrunching, lids pinched tight.

David glanced at him, one corner of his mouth climbing. Seems Bry disliked the branches raking the sides of the truck as much as he did.

“Like nails on a chalkboard, huh, Bry?”

The boy looked up at him curiously, though the contorted expressions continued with every squealing scratch.

David, realizing Bryan was too young to understand the old adage, started to explain, then thought better of it. Besides, it would give them something to talk about later while they were busy getting the hell out of Dodge. Then David realized he would have to explain that saying to Bryan, too.

Later. We’ll have Maxims 101 later.
 

They continued to bounce along the dusty driveway leading to Mitch’s trailer. Months ago, torrents of rain had scooped out sections of earth, carrying rock, dirt, and anything else not tough enough to withstand the erosive flow. But not a drop had fallen since, leaving two long cracked unhealed scars as an ever-lasting reminder. Mitch had talked about borrowing a Bobcat to perform reconstructive surgery to smooth out the gashes. Functional
and
beautiful. But that’s all Mitch ever did—talk.

As they approached the trailer, David’s eyes narrowed, his gut overflowing with dread. He slammed the brakes, and a cloud kicked up by locked tires wrapped the dually. He leaned forward on the steering wheel, staring at the porch. A man in a cowboy hat rose to his feet.

“Son of a bitch.”

Bryan lifted his chin, trying to see over the dashboard, see what would make David talk like his grandpa.

“Bryan, stay in the truck. Do not get out. Do you understand?” he said, unholstering his newly acquired pistol.

The boy was still struggling to see, but David’s tone made Bryan stop and look at him, instead.

“
Do you understand
?” David said, much more forcefully.

The tone scared Bryan, and he nodded snappy nods that bobbed the little sprig of a cowlick on the back of his head. Concern danced with fear in his eyes, and he held Charlie tighter. The puppy whined.

“Good. I’ll be back for you. Just sit tight.”

He dropped the windows a bit before he killed the engine, then opened the door, never taking his eyes off the man in the cowboy hat. He gave the boy one final glance before sliding off the seat and out of the truck. He slammed the door and locked it.

He knew his handgun was loaded, had checked it a few times while in the woods. Still, it was an untested weapon. He hoped it wasn’t just for show.

David strode on fortitude and frazzled nerves, making sure the former was on display for all to see. He would keep his wits about him, tried not to think the worst about Jessica and Randy. Had to. He’d left this morning with every intention of killing a man. And now, it seemed like he just might get that chance.

“Well howdy,” said the man wearing the cowboy hat. His hands dangled at his sides, and David noted the hand cannon holstered on the stranger’s right thigh.

David acknowledged him with only a silent glower.
 

A burly fellow also stood on the porch, his thick arms laced over his chest. David noticed he also had a gun belt, but saw no guns, no holsters. But he did see a rather large knife on the Mexican’s hip.

As he approached the porch, he replayed the description Bryan had given as best he could remember. Cowboy hat, check. Scraggly goatee, check. Two guns on his hip, well … not quite, but two out of three worked for him. He raised his pistol.

The sighted man quickly showed his palms. “Whoa! Hang on there, Tex!” Terror streaked across his face.

The stout Latino near him stiffened, uncrossed his arms, splayed hands starting to reach behind him for two guns David could not see.

“Don’t,” David said, his placid tone belying his own distress. He quickly trained the gun back on its original target.

Jessica burst through the door. “
David
!”

A wave of relief crashed through his core, and David let the barrel dip, but only slightly.

She pressed past the two strangers on the porch, bounded down the steps, and ran to David.

“Jess.” Pistol still in his grasp, he wrapped her up with one arm, his gaze never leaving the porch.

“Oh, god, David.” Her shoulders racked against him as she sobbed something about thinking he was dead or some nonsense, but he couldn’t be sure.

Later. Right now, business.

“Get behind the truck,” he commanded, sweeping her behind him.

Still in attack/protect mode, he churned forward, Jess clawing at him from behind. Desperate sounds spilled from her lips, but he did not hear her, his mind racing down a single, impetuous track. His features were hard, tense, the barrel back on target.

The man in his sights said, “Easy, now—”

The
click
of David cocking back the hammer cracked the air.

He swore both men flinched.

The man in the hat said, “I’m telling you—”

“And I’m telling
you
,” David countered.

The heavily tattooed man chimed in. “Drop it, pendejo, before I—”

“
All of you stop it!
” Jess screamed through a sob.
 

She yanked on David’s arm, unsteadying his aim, and he slowly brought down his weapon.
 

“Don’t,” she said in a near whisper.

David glared at the men on the porch as Jessica pulled closer, her arms wrapped around him.

After a sarcastic sigh of relief, the man in the cowboy hat glanced over at his buddy, and David thought he saw the ghost of a smile.

The screen door creaked open, and Randy stepped out.

The cowboy pointed at David’s hand and said, “You gonna put away that pea shooter and act like a sane person?”

David’s teeth clenched behind closed lips as Jessica trembled against him. She was okay. Frighted and upset, but okay. Randy seemed unharmed, too.
 

Finally, he uncocked his gun, whispered to Jessica, “I’ve got to be sure Bryan’s okay,” and he started pulling away.

She looked up at him, nonplussed. “Bryan? Where … where’s Mitch, David? Where is Mitch?” she asked, hysterics winding up again. “The man on the radio—”

He eyed the two strangers before holstering his pistol. He grabbed her shoulder and squeezed. “Jess …” He looked toward the truck, the boy obscured by the harsh reflection thrown by afternoon sun on the windshield. “Stay here. I’ve got to be sure about this.”

“But—”

“Ain’t got all day,” the man on the porch said.

Ignoring everyone, David trotted to the truck and opened the passenger door. Bryan sat quietly, Charlie in his lap, asleep.

David looked up at him with a slight smile. “You doing alright, Bry?”
 

The boy nodded. His forehead glistened with sweat.

David glanced at the porch. “Can you see the men on the porch?”

Bryan lifted his chin, craning his neck to see over the dashboard, then shook his head. “No. The sun is making pictures all over the window.”

Nodding, David said, “Okay. That’s okay.” He put a hand on the boy’s knee. “I’m going to talk to these men. Make sure they are good guys, okay?”

Bryan looked at him, nodded.

“You’ve done great so far, Bry. Just hang tight a little bit longer. I know it’s hot in here. You’ve been tough. Just hang tight a few more minutes. Okay?”

He nodded again.

“Okay,” David said.

He shut the door and started toward the porch. He simply could not risk the boy’s safety until he had a handle on the situation.

Jessica stood where he’d left her, eyes hollow and deep from sickness and sobbing. She looked like she would pass out at any minute. He’d try to make this quick.

As David crossed the yard, countless thoughts raced around his buzzing skull, like stunt motorcycles in a metal sphere, no two thoughts ever colliding, just dangerously zipping past one another.

His first order of business was to figure out Doc: who he was, why he was here. David didn’t view their temporary stand down as a truce, just a pause in the action. He was prepared to kill Doc. And his sidekick. Two men. Factor in Old Man Bartlett, and he’d have three kills in one day. It was turning out to be some day.

He let his left hand fall to the butt of the gun, resting it there as he strolled toward the porch. Jessica fell in beside him, badgering him about Mitch and trying to explain something else. He tuned her out, his only focus right now wore a cowboy hat and was headed his way.

The man met him in the weed-strangled yard, Randy and the other man not far behind.

“Hell of a way to introduce yourself.” The man’s lumber-mill voice sounded torn and shredded.

“So you get a kick out of scaring little kids? Slinking around the woods, pretending to be someone you ain’t?”

The cowboy traded glances with his sidekick. “Scaring little kids?” He glanced behind him, thumb at Randy like a hitchhiker. “Oh, you mean Sally back there?” He chuckled.