Dead South Rising: Book 1 (21 page)

After firing off another scathing look at Randy, David said, “You and Charlie will be fine, okay, champ?”

“What about you? Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be okay, Bry. We’ll all be okay.”

The boy hesitated a beat, then said, “Okay.”

“Okay.”

They all went quiet, and David could tell Randy was stewing, upset and displeased. But Randy had to understand. If they were going to live in this world where life after death was the new reality, then there’d have to be some sort of civility. David had gotten carried away today, had seriously considered actually killing a man, tied two men to a tree and left them to die.

He knew they had to leave the area, though. No way in hell they could stay. Not only would Mitch, Sammy, and Guillermo be constant and potentially deadly threats—if they were still alive, even—but there was the matter of a madman roaming the woods, calling himself Doc Holliday. Could that be the man he thought he saw on the edge of the road, smoking the cigarette when they left? He couldn’t be one-hundred percent sure, what with the night and all, but it sure looked like a man in a black trench coat and hat, smoking, the burning cherry glowing brighter as the truck rolled by. Probably his eyes playing tricks. But then again, maybe not.

It would take some time to get back. They’d almost made it all the way to town, could already see abandoned vehicles ahead, glass and reflectors visible in the truck’s beams. He hoped he was making the right decision, going back to free those men. His gut was screaming, yelling for him to turn right back around again and head straight into town. And beyond.

He wondered what Mitch would do to him, especially when he discovered his wife gone, his brother and friend bound to a tree. Perhaps he could be reasoned with. Mitch’s ego seemed bruised this morning after their altercation on the road, where David killed his first undead. Who knows what was going on in Mitch’s head, where he’d disappeared to for most of the day. After Doc, maybe? Didn’t matter. He may not even be alive.

The dually ground down the highway, David keeping the beast at a safe speed. Seemed to be more undead shuffling about than normal, not to mention the occasional possum or deer. Better cautious, taking it slower, rather than plowing through whatever may wander out in front of them, risking a wreck. The truck was substantial, no doubt about it. But he’d seen bigger vehicles stopped in their tracks from far less. He’d exercise caution.

And he decided to tell Randy and Jessica the truth about his daily outings these past twenty-two days. Not tonight, of course. Randy was already disconcerted and Jessica was in no condition. Plus, he didn’t want Bryan in on the confession. It could get emotional, probably would, and he had to be strong and calm. The boy looked up to him, more so than his own daughter ever did. But David respected this little person who had stolen his heart in a matter of a day. Bryan had a heart of gold, and David would be his Fort Knox.

* * *

Beads of nervous sweat glistened on Randy’s brow. Or at least David thought he saw sweat. The pickup cab was dark, the lights doused, only the anemic moon teasing them with sight. Given Randy’s proneness to perspiring, especially when unnerved, he guessed his big friend was a tub of sweltering anxiety.

“David, I really wish you wouldn’t do this.”

David was topping off El Jefe’s magazine.

“Are you hearing me? It’s just too dangerous. I wish you would reconsider—”

“Lower your voice.”

Randy glanced toward the backseat. Bryan sat right behind him, so he couldn’t glimpse the boy he was supposedly upsetting. Plus, it was just too dark to see him back there. David had made his point, though.

He brought it down a notch, but Randy persisted. “What if something happens? Let’s find a place close by, hunker down for the night, then come back and check on them in the morning.”

David stopped thumbing rounds into the magazine, focused his gaze toward Randy. “Because, it may be too late by then.”

The big man sighed, muttered under his breath, “Probably already is.”

“Randy,” David said, “I’ll be fine. I’m going in the back way. It’s a short jaunt through the woods there”—he pointed, tapping the window with the magazine—“and I can get relatively close without being spotted. I’ll check things out, then sneak back this way.”

“Sammy and Guillermo were pretty pissed when we left.”

David ignored him, continued explaining his plan. “If they ain’t figured out the cuffs, I’ll clue them in, then I’ll toss in the padlock key for the fencing, high-tail it out of there. By the time they get themselves free, I’ll be long gone, and we’ll be well on our way out of here.”

“You threw the keys on that hog. With those shufflers chowing down, one of them probably swallowed it.”

David pried into his pocket, producing a single padlock key. “Kept one.”

Tired of arguing, Randy raised his hands and said, “Fine. Whatever you say.”

Keeping his voice low, David said, “Just stay with the truck. I’ll leave the keys with you. Y’all should be safe from shufflers in here.” He eased the magazine into the pistol. “But if that Doc fellow comes nosing around, you get the hell out of here, okay? He might be harmless. Just some nutjob running around freaking people out. But I’d rather not chance it.” He jerked his head toward the backseat. “Just keep these two safe, okay? I’ll figure out how to meet back up if you have to take off.”

Randy nodded. He had no more to say.

“Okay then,” David said. “Bry, I’ll be back in a few minutes. I want you to do what Randy says while I’m gone, okay?”

The boy nodded, wan moonlight catching sprigs of hair dancing with every dip of his chin.

“Good boy.”

David pulled in a deep breath, then pushed the door open and slid out of the truck. He shut the door as quietly as he could, shoving his shoulder against the bottom half of the door so it clicked rather than slammed shut. His eyes adjusted quickly, the moon high above now, illuminating the cramped road.
 

Before the outbreak, the two-lane highway was scheduled for widening into a four-lane. The encroaching trees were to be knocked back several yards, opening the roadway, letting it breathe and ultimately making it safer. David was glad it hadn’t happened, despite feeling claustrophobic. A wider road meant a more travelled road. More people. More shufflers.

Ignoring the ambling figure in the distance, he crossed the deep ditch, leaving the truck parked on the side of the road. He should have known the area well, having traversed this stretch of highway day after day over the last month. Should have. If his inner compass was true, Sammy and Gills should be more or less a straight shot through about a mile of woods. He’d come in on the south side, through the tree line, and the pond would be directly ahead. The tree he’d left them cuffed to would be just on the north side of it.

He started up the other side of the ditch, feet slipping, having to use his hands to claw at the wild weeds and grass. When he reached to the top, he brushed his hands together, releasing debris into the breeze.

The bushes and trees appeared as an impenetrable wall, but he pressed into it, thick bush swallowing him with its scratchy maw. It was dark. Scary dark. Like he’d entered some closet from his childhood, the clothes pressing in on him, smothering him. The susurrous canopy above immediately hid the sky, allowing only the occasional stingy glimpse. He glanced behind him, gathering his bearings. At least that’s what he told himself he was doing. It was more like taking that last breath before diving into the deep end, intending to swim the length of the pool on one gulp of air.

Cicadas and crickets sang a calming song of false comfort. David welcomed it, needed it. Was happy to hear it. Along with the light wind rustling above, it made things seem almost normal. Except roaming this stretch of woods at this time of night was far from normal.

His sternum took quite a pounding from his over-anxious heart, felt bruised from the inside, and his ears throbbed with every punch. Willing himself forward, he broke farther into the barrier, eyes closed tight against the branches scraping and groping him from head to toe. He hoped the foliage would open up a bit, otherwise it would be a tedious trek to his destination. Not to mention noisy.

David stopped only ten feet in. A sound to his left. Grunting, huffing. He stood there, listening, trying to match the noise with an owner. It didn’t sound human. But then shufflers didn’t necessarily sound human.

His hand hovered above his belt buckle, equidistant between his gun and his knife. He craved the comfort his pistol provided. Though he wasn’t yet a proficient shooter, he had a knack for it. With some practice, he could be deadly.

More snorting.

A digging sound? Rooting?

Then David realized what he was hearing. The area was a hotbed for hogs. He’d seen the feral critters crossing the road more often as of late. They tended to stay down by the river and only traveled up near the road when the water rose significantly, after a week of non-stop rain, for instance. With the absence of rain, it could very well be something else forcing them to leave the river bottom. He supposed they had every right to be here. This was their house, after all.
 

Still, he erred on the side of caution, and he drew his gun, the heft in his hand a shot of repose. He moved forward, stopping every few feet or so. The sounds to his left stopped only for a moment. He envisioned the beast with its soil-laden snout in the air, sniffing him out. Then the grunting and pawing at the earth commenced. Apparently, this bipedal oddity that didn’t stink of death was of no concern to this animal. David wondered how it would react had he been a shuffler.

Gun tight in his grip, he continued pressing forward, skinny branches clawing and slapping his entire body. He tried not to second guess himself as he was more apt to do these days. He’d done it his entire life—school, career, marriage. Didn’t matter. Funny how the end of the world could put so much into perspective, though. He had to admit, he felt more alive in the world of the dead than he ever did in the world of the living. He prayed for the feelings he’d experienced earlier today to return, the brazen aplomb he’d exuded and wielded. So sure of himself. But the words of a little boy held more power and control over him than he’d ever thought possible. He hoped the kid wouldn’t be his undoing.

Finally, he came to a less dense section of forest, felt like he could breathe again. He’d left the truck’s flashlight behind to avoid the temptation to use it and possibly give away his location. No telling how many Doc Hollidays were roaming these woods. Plus, his eyes were well adjusted now to the inky blackness. Using the light would only serve to handicap his irises, confusing and overworking them unnecessarily.

Then he did something dangerous. He started ruminating on the future and his place in it, with his new family. In a positive light. They could settle down, start a new community with like-minded folks. Maybe seed a new town. Maybe save the human race. Maybe. Just maybe …

Gotta have a plan. A plan of protection and hope. It could work. And it’d be the right thing to do …

The thought excited him, starting over like that. How many people really get to start over, really start over completely? They could have something good, and he could be the one to protect it. Give people hope. And life.

Which is why he was doing what he was doing.

David pressed on, the dense underbrush near impassable in spots, forcing him to wend his way, taking him off his literal straight and narrow. In some areas, he made himself skinny, moving sideways through the thicket. He kept his face protected, remembering a show he’d seen on TV about a careless fellow who ended up losing an eye to an errant branch. The man, lost for days in the wilderness, ended up with a nasty eye infection. Doctors couldn’t save his eye, and he’d barely survived the infection that spread to his brain. One of those one-in-a-million things. He’d be careful. He’d keep his eye, his brain, his life. He wasn’t done with them yet.

His internal clock ticked and tocked, and David started to wonder how long it had been since he’d left the truck. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Twenty-five, maybe? If it weren’t for the tenacious tangle of trees and bushes, he’d make much better time. But as he pushed forward, he realized the safety this wall of vegetation provided. He also began to understand why they’d been so safe at Mitch’s place, why they’d been almost immune to the initial influx of dead roamers. One had to have a working brain to navigate the challenging terrain. He figured that any shufflers that did break through managed to do so on dumb luck.

Despite the soothing sounds of an insect chorus and the smell of sweet honey suckles tickling his nostrils, he could make out the occasional groan and fetor drifting among the pines. He decided to veer slightly off track to avoid coming near the thing. Living flesh, he’d discovered, roused and excited them. Newly killed flesh interested them for a day or so. The more it decayed, though, the less interested these shuffling corpses became in a free meal. It was like they could smell death, too. Knew it was one of them. So, they didn’t bother it, usually left it alone.

Finally, just ahead, he thought he could make out the field. He couldn’t quite tell since he was still several yards away from the edge, but he could feel it, sense it. He slowed, taking special care with each foot placement. This was not the time to get sloppy and careless.

He rather wished that he’d grabbed the two-way radio out of the rental when he’d had the chance. He could update Randy, let him know his progress, his findings. But the units were noisy with beeps and static. Using them would draw unwanted attention for sure. He was not interested in broadcasting his location to every living and dead thing out there. He preferred his invisible man approach.

Brushing back a branch, he looked out on a wide-open pasture washed in dim moonlight. His eyes roved, working to determine his whereabouts, figure out just how far off course he’d wandered.

Out in the open, shadows moved. Shufflers. He was sure of it, could practically taste the rancid stench on the air. He counted six, though they were so far away they seemed to fade in and out. He narrowed his eyes, hoping that doing so would allow his vision to cut through the black. He still counted six, but he just couldn’t be certain.