Dead South Rising: Book 1 (18 page)

He played the light over the ruts again, a pang of remorse kicking him, punishing him for standing on the side of the highway, smoking a lousy cigarette instead of saving his beloved.

If only you’d known, Tom.

You’re so fucking smart. Why didn’t you tell me?

I tried to. You wouldn’t listen.

Bullshit.

Your loss.

Low fucking blow, asshole.

He started up the driveway, a man on a devil’s errand. He’d play it cool once he found them. Don his new persona. He’d take what he needed, then he’d gun them down, being sure to fire plenty of shots so that biters from miles around would come for the feast. He’d seen it before, biters munching on the recently deceased. He was about to open a fucking fast food joint on their asses.

The walk up the drive was a blur. He barely remembered it, being so engrossed in how he planned to handle the murderous bastards that had killed his wife. He hoped they had wives, hoped they were there, because he would kill them first, make the men feel what he felt. And when the wives reanimated—and they would—he would kill them again, in front of their husbands. Those men would suffer what no one had to suffer before: dying twice, then twice again.

The driveway finally ended, opening up to a spacious yard and field. He extinguished his light, allowed his eyes a moment to adjust, then quickly surveyed the lay of the land. To his left, in the distance, a tree line. Closer, a shed. To his right, the ghost of a trailer house, eerily glowing in the pallid moonlight. In front of him and beyond, open pasture. He walked into the yard, the sun-fried grass and weeds crunching beneath his cowhide boots.
 

The house was dark and quiet. At least from the outside. He approached the porch, but didn’t climb the steps; instead he stood extremely still, listening. It seemed too early to retire for the night, but he didn’t know these people’s habits, no idea who they were or what they were about.

Death. That’s what these people are about.

He opted not to risk the noise of creaking porch boards and minced to the edge of the trailer. He pressed to his tip-toes, trying to manage a gander into the window. Nothing but inky darkness.

Smoothing his mustache, he looked around. He considered that maybe they’d all left, noticing no vehicles other than a motorcycle parked near the house. He held his hand near the V-twin. The engine had cooled, but still radiated warmth. Had probably been parked for near an hour.

Studying it more closely, he put two and two together, recognizing it to be the one he’d seen by the abandoned car earlier that morning. The one that had shown up not long before that Dodge dually. The little kid. Bryan.

The truck that killed my wife. Jimmy loves Angela forever.
That
truck.

That man on the motorcycle had seen him poking around the disabled auto, had braked hard on that bike, turned and came after him. He had managed to evade the motorcycle man, escaping into the woods. But the rider had slipped, fallen, lost his wallet. The wallet that now resided in his trench coat.

He snatched the wallet from his inside coat pocket, peered at the Texas license hiding behind the clear plastic holder.

Mitch Marcus Thompson.

That was his name. Mitch Thompson. Of course. The lady on the CB radio had said his name, too. He wasn’t absolutely sure of the address, being in the country, but it was close. Tom didn’t live far from here, so it was close. He felt sure he had the right guy, the right place.

His head swiveled again. Brushing his coat back, he palmed one of his Ruger Vaquero .357s, slid it out of the holster. His prized possessions that he carried everywhere now. One with a six-shot cylinder, the other with eight to keep enemies who could count to twelve off guard. Two aces in the hole, as it were. Two identical gun belts overlapped his waist, a leather ‘X,’ the pistols low on his thighs. As he rose, leather creaked.

He gagged, the unkind breeze delivering a putrid package he wished he could have refused. Judging by the strength of the stench, he guessed a pile of dead biters must be nearby.

Killers. Just how many had they killed?

He started back toward the house, but abruptly stopped. Voices. He heard voices, but not from inside the house. They carried, sharing space with the acrid air. Drifting from across the way. The pasture.

His heel sure, he pivoted, grinding earth beneath his boot, his coat flaring. He set his feet in motion, autopilot taking over, like some supernatural force had jumped into the pilot’s seat. He wondered if this was what selling one’s soul felt like.

Striding on boots brimming with fortitude, he aimed for the source of the sound. There would be no escaping. Kate’s death would be avenged starting tonight, right now. Someone would die.

Arguing. Three men, he guessed. Maybe more.

Thirteen. Thirteen shots.

It wouldn’t take that many. He didn’t bother topping off the cylinder.

He tugged his other pistol as he power-walked through grass burrs and cacti, unfazed. A sinister calm descended on him, his emotional breakdown long gone. He suspected once he was finished, the tears would topple him from his newfound aplomb, rendering him a blubbering widow. He would recover, though. But right now, he would avail himself of the cover of night. Instant gratification awaited, only seconds away now.

As he approached, he scanned the area for biters. Squinting, he thought he spotted one ambling about, but it was hard to tell. Too far away. He wouldn’t worry about it. By the time he was done with what he planned to do, it wouldn’t matter. And the biter would be thanking him for a warm meal.

An island of trees rose before him, most likely shrouding a stock pond. A virtual oasis and smorgasbord of amenities in these times—shelter, water, food, a place to cool down. These people were lucky, but didn’t deserve this.

Slowing his gait, he brought himself lower on bended knees, his coat dragging the ground behind him. He gripped his guns tightly, anxious to put them to work, to grease the killing machine he was about to become. How he hoped he’d find this Mitch, that he had something to do with Kate’s death, that Tom would be justified in killing him. Mitch was to blame, Tom reasoned. It was
Mitch’s
driveway that Kate had died on, after all. Justification served. Time to execute.

He was almost in a full crouch now, not wanting to catch buckshot for being mistaken for a biter. He would not go out like that, could not go out like that. He owed a huge debt to his wife, and he was going to spend the rest of his long life making deposits into the love bank, even if she could never make a withdrawal.

It was Mitch. Just ahead. He was sure of it. But it was a strange scene. He blinked his eyes, ensuring that he was actually witnessing this odd spectacle. Something he’d never witnessed before.
 

The man (whom he recognized as Mitch) stood near one of the trees, a pump shotgun resting behind his neck and across his shoulders, his arms over the barrel like he’d been put in the pillory.

But it was the tree that grabbed his attention. There were two men facing each other, looked like they were both hugging the same tree from either side, but holding hands while doing it. They seemed … stuck, ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ style. Or like some hippie protest thing, love all things green, trees have feelings, too, type bullshit.
 

And that wasn’t even the strangest part. Tom couldn’t tell for sure, but it appeared as though a section of chain-link fence had been wrapped around them—a chain-link tortilla stuffed with two killers and a tree. A sadistic burrito. He couldn’t be sure from the insufficient light and the distance whether the fence was keeping the two men bound to the tree, or if they were handcuffed together or maybe tied. Just what the hell was this Mitch’s game? Why would he do this to these men?

Not far from the curious display, a pile of what appeared to be biters, like they’d been feeding on something. Maybe caught an animal. Thankfully, he was upwind, spared the retch-inducing aroma of rot.

Tom smiled. This was going to be easier—much easier—than he originally imagined. Perhaps his new spiritual loyalties were already paying off. Eyes toward the moon, he cursed the invisible man in the sky, then dropped them to the ground and below.

Thank you.
 

The two tree-hugging men were still arguing when Tom quietly approached, surprisingly unnoticed.

* * *

It wasn’t in Tom’s nature to simply walk up to a man, press the barrel of his eight-shooter to the back his cranium, and make a canoe out of his head. His heart may wish it, crave it even, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that, no matter how madly the hurricane of fury—this ‘fury-cane’—raged inside him. No, he would do right by her, his Kate. There would be honor in his style of vengeance. And he would savor it.

But by the same token, he wouldn’t be vacuous about it. He’d seen enough TV and movies in his thirty-seven years to know that toying with the enemy for too long gave them a fighting chance. An advantage, even. Couldn’t have that. Ultimately, it was about spiritual restitution.

He’d been rehearsing while traversing the pasture, how it would go down. Every detail. It would be grand. Award worthy.

Oh well, best laid plans and all that bullshit.

“Mitch?” Tom asked mid-stride, guns gripped hard at his sides.

Startled, Mitch spun on his heel as the bullet hit his right shoulder, spraying a mist of pulverized flesh and blood. He screamed, gravity delivering the next blow.

Tom strode briskly to the fallen man’s side, kicking away the shotgun his victim could no longer grasp. No chances tonight.

The two men cuffed to the tree immediately fell silent, eyes wide and glimmering in the wan light. Tom swore he could smell fresh piss on the air, mingling with powder and burned flesh. At least it smelled better than death.

Mitch writhed, howling in pain, his good hand pressing the wound. “Oh god! Fuck!” His face was contorted, teeth clenched to the point of breaking.

Tom turned to the two cuffed and hugging the tree, wrapped nice and tight in chain-link fence. He smiled, pinching the brim of his hat, and gave a nod, drawling, “Evening, gentlemen.” He glanced at Mitch, then added, “I’ll be with you two momentarily.” He wagged a scolding pistol barrel their direction. “Now don’t you two go running off.”
 
Then another smile, barely discernible beneath the wide brim that obscured his face and features.

The downed man twisted and turned on the ground like a snake disturbed. He was still very vocal, though he’d turned the volume down a notch.

Tom holstered his pistols.

Twelve. Six in Bessie and six in Bertha.

He reached inside his coat, retrieving a pack of Camels, then tapped it against his palm. He shook the box until a cigarette popped up through the tear in the foil, taking it in his teeth, then fished a match from between the cellophane and cardboard. He flicked the match head with his thumbnail, then lit the cigarette dangling from his lips. After puffing the tobacco to life, he waved out the match, flinging it to the ground.

Kneeling, Tom held the pack to Mitch. “Smoke?”

Mitch growled, “You fucking shot me! What the fuck?”

“So that’s a ‘no’ then?”

“Fuck you, asshole! Shit!”

Tom stood, tucking the pack back into his coat. “Suit yourself. Just trying to be neighborly.”

“Neighborly?” Mitch chirped. “Why’d you fucking shoot me? I’m not one of
those
things! Jesus fucking Christ, man!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, indeed.” Tom pulled in a hearty drag, relishing the warm hit on his lungs. After another moment, he exhaled just as deeply. He plucked the cigarette from his lips, pinching it, and held it in front of him as though he were seriously pondering the vice. “It’s funny, you know? Can’t even quit when the world ends.” He took another drag, then rocked his head back, blowing the smoke to the sky. How he missed clouds. And his wife.

“You married, Mitch?” His drawl was as thick as the terror in Mitch’s heart.

“The fuck that have to do with anything?” Then, to no one in particular, “God this fucking hurts so bad.”

“It’d behoove you to curb your caterwauling, sir. Attracts all sorts of unsavory types, especially of the biting variety.” The cherry burned brightly as Tom sucked more fire out of the bad habit gracing his lips. “But I digress. In answer to your original inquiry, in a word: everything.”

Tom paced slowly around Mitch as he spoke. “So, before you bleed out, I’d appreciate an answer to my own inquest. Are you married?”

Mitch acquiesced, nodding with brisk snaps. The color was already fading from his face.

“Do you love her, Mitch?”

He nodded, though unconvincingly.

“That’s nice, Mitch. Really nice. Love is a wonderful thing, wouldn’t you concur?”

A barely perceptible nod.

“I’m married myself. Well,
was
. Up until about fifteen minutes ago. Kate was her name. Most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on.” Shaking his head, Tom smiled. “Of course, all husbands think that of their wives, right, Mitch?” He crouched, slapping Mitch’s leg with the back of his hand.

Mitch groaned loudly again, and Tom could swear he heard the man’s teeth grinding.
 

Rising, Tom had to step around an ever-expanding pool of blood. He’d need to speed things along. “Where is she, Mitch? Your wife?”

Mitch shook his head.

Glancing around, Tom asked, “She’s not here? In the trailer, perhaps?”

Another head shake.

“How unfortunate.” He stopped pacing around the fallen man. “She should really be here for this. I am a man of my word, after all.”

Mitch was breathing deeply, and he’d stopped writhing long enough to shoot the stranger the best ‘go to hell’ look he could muster under the circumstances. He seemed ready to pass out soon, though.

“You see, Mitch, today I informed someone, your wife most likely, that you were dead—”

“Fuck you … asshole,” Mitch said, his voice breathy. His breathing was becoming labored, wheezy.