Dead South Rising: Book 1 (19 page)

“—and I’d be remiss if I didn’t follow through on that obligation.”

Staring down at Mitch, Tom brushed his coat back, drew his pistol. Aiming at Mitch’s head, he cocked the hammer. “Can’t make a liar out of me, now can we? Being a man of my word and all.” He tucked the cigarette between the cracked lips of a sinister smile.

He didn’t even blink at the gun’s blast.

It didn’t go exactly as Tom had planned. Far from it, actually. He stood there, his gaze locked on the man he’d just killed.

Damnit.

With his forefinger and thumb, he smoothed his mustache, Bertha dangling in his limp grip at his side. So many things he forgot to say and do. He didn’t get the name of Mitch’s wife. He didn’t get to kill her in front of him. Then kill her again. He didn’t get to kill Mitch twice. He’d been careless, in a hurry. Shot him in the head. No way to come back again after that.

Shit fire.

He didn’t ask about the cowboy cadillac that ran down his beloved Kate, or get all dramatic about how she had died a shitty death on Mitch’s shitty driveway on this shitty night. Didn’t ask who else may be involved, who else he needed to go after. Who was driving …

Might have just blown it, Doc. Way to go, pardner.

He cursed himself, pissed at his own ineptitude.

The hand groping Tom’s shoulder may as well have been pushing the plunger on a dynamite detonator box. He rolled his arm forcefully as he spun, knocking the unwelcome appendage off of him before lifting his boot and planting it right in the biter’s stomach. A good shove with his heel, and the undead being stumbled backwards, hinged at the torso, arms straight out in front of him. Tom lifted his eight-shooter and fired a round through the top of the corpse’s skull before the being could even straighten back up. The biter fell forward, dead again for the second time in its miserable existence.

“I will not have you paw at me, thank you very much.”

Visions of Kate reignited the ‘fury-cane’ that now swirled within him, ravaging his mind and body. The mix of sheer hate and anger coupled with the utter sadness of love lost blurred his sight and thought. Lips quivering, he wiped his eyes, then aimed his pistol at the lifeless biter and needlessly shot it again. And again. And again. Then he shot it again.

The hammer clicked impotently, having exhausted all eight rounds in Bertha. He immediately pulled the six-shooter, Bessie, from his left hip, emptying all six rounds into the dead being.

Tom dropped to his knees, both guns drawn and now useless, laying across his thighs. He was a slumping multitude of emotion, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, but feeling everything. A minute or two rolled by. He had to get a hold of himself. Danger lurked, and there was work to do. Kate would disapprove of this mini-breakdown.

Stay tough, my Doc. Stay tough for me.

I will. For you.

He willed himself back to his feet. Then remembered: he had an audience. A live one.

Tom gathered his wits about him, wiping away any straggling tears, composing himself. He’d question these two tied to the tree, and if they didn’t cooperate, then they’d suffer the same fate as Mr. Mitch Marcus Thompson over there.

After a deep breath (although not necessarily refreshing one) he strolled over to the men bound to the tree. He holstered one of his pistols, keeping the other palmed. Flipping the loading gate, he began ejecting spent casings one at a time while eyeballing the curious scene.

He’d not had the chance to survey in detail what he suspected was Mitch’s doing. He had to admit, it was quite the clever set up, though he wondered what these two had done to draw Mitch’s ire.

“You fucking killed my brother.” The man’s voice shook.

Tom stopped ejecting brass from Bertha long enough to twist his torso and look back at Mitch’s body. Facing the man again, he jerked his head at the body behind him. “Poor Mitch there?”

This time, it was the gravelly voiced Mexican with his slicked-back inky hair pulled into a ponytail. “You gonna kill us, too, you sick fuck?”
 

These two. Quite feisty given their current circumstances, Tom thought.

He ejected the last of the brass and plucked eight shiny new bullets from his belt. “I’ll kindly ask that you not address me with such a vulgar moniker. It’s quite distasteful and not entirely accurate. Besides, it’d behoove you to be polite, seeing as your current predicament precludes you from living much longer without my assistance.” He started pushing ammo into his pistol, his eyes glancing up after each round inserted. Sounding chipper and lighthearted, he asked, “So, pray tell, what brings you two out here on such a glorious evening? One of you sleep with Mrs. Mitch? Both of you perhaps?”

The redneck fellow answered. “He didn’t chain us up out here, dick. Some other assholes did.”

Tom snapped the loading gate shut, spun the cylinder, then holstered the pistol. He went to work reloading the six-shooter next. “Oh? And here I thought I’d wandered into something truly decadent and tabloid-worthy.”

“Fuck off.”

“Now, now. I’ve already covered verbal etiquette, gentlemen. Let’s not be ugly.”

“If you’re going to kill us, gringo, just go ahead and—”

The Latino’s friend interrupted, saying, “Now, hang on, Gills.” Narrowing his eyes at Tom, “What’s your name, fella?”

Tom tipped his hat to the men. “Thomas Theodore Mackey, though I go by Doc Holliday these days.”

“Uh-huh. Right. Doc.” He shook his head with a slight, disbelieving chuckle. “Anyway, Mr. Doc Holliday here seems like a reasonable fellow, right, Gills?”

Gills said nothing.

“Right, Gills?”

A heavy sigh. “Sure, Sammy. Sure he is.”

Sammy continued. “How ‘bout you, uh, get this fence off us, these cuffs, too, and we’ll hook you up with something real nice. What do you say, huh?”

Tom finished plunging the last of the bullets into his gun. “I would advise against it at this juncture, Sammy.”

Sammy chuckled. “And why is that, Doc?”

“Because of him.” Tom dipped his chin at a biter just as it grabbed at Sammy’s back, its fingers clawing at the chain-link fence surrounding him. Sammy let out a surprised scream, hugged the tree harder.

“Get it off me! Get it off me!”

Tom spun the cylinder in Bessie before re-holstering the piece. He crossed his arms and said calmly during the commotion, “Now, I am inclined to help you two—”

More screams, some from Gills this time.

“—but I have a few questions for you first.”

Sammy let out a scream that belied his gender.

“Sammy? Sammy!” Tom waved and snapped his fingers. “Listen to me, Sammy. Eyes over here, on me. Focus.”

Sammy dug his boots into the tree, fruitlessly trying to climb as the biter groped harmlessly at him through the wire fence that had been wrapped twice around the two men.

“For Chrissake,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. He pulled his pistol as he walked up to the biter, raised it to the beast’s temple, and squeezed the trigger. The blast pounded its skull into a fine mist of blood and bone, with a few steaming chunks thrown in for good measure.

Sammy closed his eyes hard against the spray, even though his back was to the calamity. He shivered, covered in the grotesque aftermath. He turned his head slowly to glimpse the damage. The biter did not fall to the ground, its fingers stuck in the fence like hooks. It hung there like some repulsive decoration.

Shaking his head, Sammy said rather loudly, “Goddamnit. That’s the second time today someone’s shot a gun in my ear. Can’t hear a fucking goddamn thing.”

“Then I’ll commence our earlier conversation with your friend, Gills. And you’re welcome,” Tom said. He walked around the tree, stopping beside Gills. “May I call you Gills? Or do you prefer another name?”

Silence.

Tom huffed and spun, his coat flaring, the gun in his hand slapping his thigh. “Gentlemen, you try my extremely limited patience. Without your cooperation, I cannot help you, and death is certain. Cooperate, and you have at least a fifty/fifty chance. Being a betting man myself, I’d select option two.”

Silence. No eye contact.

“Suit yourself gentlemen. I wish I could say that it’s been a pleasure.” He started walking away.

A frustrated grunt, then, “Guillermo.”

Tom stopped, his back still to Guillermo, and smiled like the devil. He turned around, and approached him again.

“Pleasure, Guillermo.” Glimpsing the man’s heavily tattooed arms, he added, “Art lover, I see.”

Gills glared at him. “You gonna fuck with us all night or get us off this motherfucking tree?”

“Well, you see, that all depends.”

“On what?”

“One moment, Guillermo.” Tom cocked back the hammer on his Ruger.

Guillermo’s eyes widened.

Lifting his arm and aiming into the field beyond Guillermo, Tom fired another shot, bringing down a woman biter. He exhaled heavily, a frown touching his lips for only a moment.

Eyeing the gun in his hand, he said, “These things are quite noisy, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gills just nodded, his face a perennial frown.

Tom slid the piece back into its leather home and touched his finger to his chin. “Obviously, we’re going to have to move things along here. Seems with all the ruckus tonight, we’ve inadvertently sounded the dinner bell.”

“So what do you want, vato?”

“Information, first and foremost.”

“Then what?”

“Depends on what information I acquire from you fine gentlemen.”

Guillermo narrowed his eyes at Tom. “You gonna give us a fighting chance or shoot us in the backs?”

“Guillermo,” Tom said, hurt in his tone. He splayed his fingers on his own chest. “Why do you gentlemen insist on stepping on my already bruised feelings?” He took a step back. “Okay, enough of the friendly talk. Here’s the deal, gentlemen. We’re going to play a quick round of twenty questions. You answer honestly, thoroughly, you just might come out on the right side of that fifty/fifty I just spoke of. Now, shall we?”

Gills stared, mouth in a tight frown, fists balled and useless against the tree.

Tom leaned around the tree. “You with us, Sammy? Ready to play?”

Sammy had his forehead pressed against the tree, his eyes closed. “Let’s just get this over with already.”
 

“I will waste as little of your time as possible, as I would expect you to not waste mine.” He stepped back again so that he could address both men, rested his palms on his pistols. “Do either of you own or drive a dually diesel pickup? One of prodigious stature?”

“That puto that chained us to this fucking tree does.”

“I see. And what is said puto’s name that placed you in your current predicament?”

Sammy spoke up. “Asshole named David Morris.”

“David Morris, you say.” The name resonated with Tom.

David Morris. David Morris. Where did … yes! The car from this morning. The rental papers. David’s name was all over them. The lady on the two-way radio today, Mitch’s wife. She knew him, seemed very concerned for him …

“And just who is this David Morris?”

Sammy said, “You know my brother you just killed for no fucking reason? Mitch? His wife’s cousin. Fucker pulled a gun on me and Gills twice today. Him and his fat-ass friend. Cuffed us together against this tree and wrapped a goddamn fence around our asses.”

“The fence was a nice touch. Spared you death by doing so, I’d venture to say,” Tom said. “Delightful cuffs, by the way.”

Sammy huffed.

“I digress. My apologies”

“Anyway,” Sammy said, “Fuckers didn’t stop there. Kicked a dead pig out of the back of that truck of theirs, attracting the dead cannibals over here. Then threw the handcuff keys on it.”

 
“How quaint. And where is this David and obese friend now?”

Gills said, “Fuck if we know. We were too busy trying not to get eaten alive out here.”

“Mitch was knocking the cannibals back, trying to save our asses, when we heard the truck take off,” said Sammy. “Next thing we know, you show up and start killing folks. Live ones.” He glared straight at Tom. “And I think we’re as good as dead when this little question and answer session is over.”

Tom ignored the comment. “You say a friend helped him. What’s his name?”

“Yeah. Randall or Randy or something like that.”

“Mitch’s wife. What is her name?”

Sammy rolled his forehead against the tree, tired of answering questions. “Look, Doc, we know you’re just going to kill us.”

“Her name. Please.”

A heavy sigh. “Jessica.”

“Jessica …?”

“Thompson. Jessica Thompson, Jessica Thompson, Jessica Thompson.”

“Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been most helpful.”

Tom thumbed the hammer on his revolver, the
click
a dreaded death sentence on the still air, and eyes went wide.

“No! Wait! Doc! Look, we can work something out here—”

Tom walked up to the tree, pressed the barrel through the chain-link, and fired.

The handcuff chain shattered in a shower of sparks.

He walked around to the other side of the tree. “Move your hand, Sammy. A little this way.” He nudged the man’s trembling hand out of the way with the barrel, and fired another round, separating the cuffs.

The former prisoners hesitated before breathing sighs of relief.

Sammy spoke first, “So … so you’re going to let us go?”

Tom smiled. “Of course not, Sammy. I need you and Guillermo to identify Mr. David Morris, Randall, and the newly widowed Mrs. Jessica Thompson. I already know Bryan’s name. And what he looks like.”

Another disquieting grin split his lips.

Tom leaned his shoulder against the tree that Sammy and Gills had called home for a few terror-filled hours and watched the two men dig through the pile of putrid flesh. The occasional dry heave and cough interrupted grunts of disgust and profanity-laced muttering. He pulled in another drag off his favorite vice, holding it, relishing it, before exhaling deeply.

He raised a limp forefinger and drawled, “Perhaps you should check over there.”