Dead South Rising: Book 1 (25 page)

He couldn’t go out like this. Was this Karma’s sick way of jacking with him? The first day he kills an undead, they kill him right back? What about the omens? Finding the pistol—El Jefe? Finding Bryan? Mitch out of the picture? He just knew there was still so much left to do. Jessica and Bryan, they needed him. How would they make it without him?

Fucking check it already, goddamn drama queen.

He just knew what he’d find, and sometimes, he figured, ignorance was bliss.

But not in this case. Not if he could die, and kill. He wouldn’t be
that
guy. No way. If he was going to die, he would do it only once.

Hurry the fuck up, you pussy.

His hand cut through the water to the back of his leg. Still numb, it was hard to tell. Instead, he scratched at where the wound should be, wincing in anticipation of ripping flesh. Fingernails dragged across denim, but didn’t catch. He ran his fingers over the spot again and again, but his pant leg seemed intact.

A second chance?

He tried lifting his leg in the water, drawing it to his chest, then squeezed the tender spot. It hurt terribly, throbbed like mad, but the skin didn’t seem to be broken. Bruised, but not broken. The shuffler had managed to clamp down on him pretty hard, but didn’t get a piece of him.

Thank you, thank you, thank you …

He almost couldn’t believe it, how he had escaped relatively unscathed. He promised, going forward, that once he got back to Jessica and Bryan, he would never leave them again. The world was a different place, with new rules. The survival paradigm had shifted, and he’d learn to shift with it.

With renewed vigor, he started back toward the bank, but stopped. Despite the ringing in his ears, he could hear them. He stilled himself as much as possible in the water, tried to get silent and stay that way. There was groaning. Snarls. Those he expected. But among them, voices. People’s voices. And they were getting closer.

* * *

David flinched, the clap of gunfire breaking through the odd nighttime mix of crickets and groans. He feared he’d been spotted, bobbing there in the pond like some cork on fine filament, the ripples pointing to him like radar. The trees and bushes obscured his view of the field for the most part, but he dared not turn away. Lungs locked, he went rigid, and started to sink. Thankfully, nearer the bank, the pond shallowed, and he pressed himself above the surface using his tiptoes. He managed to move in close enough, his feet on bottom in the mud’s grip, anchoring him.

Thud.

“Nice,” someone said. The voice was raspy and rocky, like it’d been polished with a jackhammer.

Sammy.

David thought he saw a glint of chrome through the foliage.

The same voice. “Hold up. Gotta drain the lizard.”

“Hurry up. No jerking yourself this time, cabrón.”

“Wanna hold it?”

“Picha corta.”

“What’s the matter, Gills? Hurt your back last time?”

A new voice interrupted the locker-room bantering. “With haste, gentlemen.” A voice David did not recognize. Heavy southern drawl, brimming impatience.

Near the bank, small branches cracked, leaves rustled. The clink of a belt buckle being undone.
Zip.
Water hitting water.

“Aaahhhh.”

David held his breath even though his head was above water. A man’s silhouette at the water’s edge about twenty-five feet away held every bit of his attention.

No choice but to stay cool, stay put. He got his answer that he’d come for: Sammy and Gills had made it. He didn’t much care about the third. His conscience clear, priority one was to get back to Jessica and Bryan. He’d leave these idiots to their own devices. They’d probably be dead in a week, either at the hands of the dead, or by each other’s.

Through the incessant ringing in his ears, David heard the distinct sound of metal plunging into flesh and bone. Then a gurgling. The sound of a knife being extracted followed by another
thud.
A blade being wiped clean. Footsteps.

“Anything?” the new voice said.

Silence.

Again, the new voice. “I know there were shots. Had to be this area.”

Gills said, “Probably long gone. That puta that cuffed us, David, El Jefe, whatever. Wouldn’t be him. He ran. No reason to come back.”

“Unless,” the new voice said, “he wanted to finish the job.”

“Wishful thinking, señor. If he wasn’t a pussy, I’d say you’s right. But that gringo got no balls, leaving us like that.” Then, louder, “Cabrón. Put your dick away. Vámonos.”

“Hold your horses, shit.”

It was definitely Sammy and Gills. And they’d made a friend.

A sudden helplessness fell over David. His knife was lost in some shuffler’s skull, useless to him now. His gun lay on the bank, empty and out of reach. He was weaponless, defenseless, save for his one good fist—his left one, the one that wasn’t swollen and throbbing.

Choose your battles.

Rocking on heels, Sammy tossed a look behind him, shouted, “You think those fuckers can swim?”

“Qué?” Gills said.

Sammy raised his arm, pointing to the water. “‘Cuz I can see a few of those assholes bobbing like ducks out there.”

David’s insides ground to a halt and his throat closed. He couldn’t tell if he’d pissed himself or not, the water being so warm around him already. This could be the end. This could be how it all draws to a close. Don’t even bother to take your bow, we’ll just drag you off the fucking stage. That is, if you don’t reanimate and walk off yourself, first.

Unsure if Sammy’s eyes were upon him, David didn’t risk turning to look for others in the pond. To move would be a dead giveaway. A tell. Maybe. But he didn’t want a shuffler swimming up Jaws-style and taking a chunk out of him, either. His nerves were a three-alarm blaze. He prayed Sammy couldn’t smell his percolating fear.

“They a threat?” the third drawled.

Sammy replied, “Could be, down the road. Ought to take ‘em out now, while we can. One less to deal with later.” The silhouette turned to face the field, zipping and buckling. “Ain’t you ever seen those movies, Doc? Always that fucker you let go comes back and bites your ass in the end.” He turned back to the pond, tugging his hand cannon from its holster.

David definitely caught the chrome flash in moonlight this time. And he definitely heard Sammy say,
Doc.
His heart retreated inside him, pushing into his stomach and finally into his legs.

Fish in a fucking barrel.

Sammy raised his arm slowly, taking aim at something off to David’s right. Whatever Sammy was aiming at, it was not within David’s peripheral vision.
 

David heard the click of the hammer being pulled back. He stole a breath, preparing to dunk his head.

“Sammy.” It was the third’s voice. Doc.

That
Doc?

The silhouette turned his head.

Doc again. “Don’t waste ammo. Save ‘em for the bunch behind us. As your art-loving friend so eloquently stated, it’s time to vámonos. Ándale.”

A deep sigh from the man as he uncocked the hammer, letting his arm slowly drop. He mumbled something indiscernible, then raised his arm again. He took aim, then flicked his wrist, mimicking muzzle lift. He pivoted slightly, aimed again.
Pew!
Sammy shifted again, this time, sights on David’s head. He stood there, arm outstretched, then cocked his head.

David stared helplessly down the barrel of death.

Please, please, please, please …

Sammy made a
pew!
noise, then blew across the barrel like some cocky cowboy who’d just gunned down the town sheriff. He dropped his Smith and Wesson 686 into the holster, turned, and trudged out of the bushes and back to the field.

David didn’t mean to, but he simply couldn’t help it. Warmer water emanated from him, and he exhaled hard. His heart had run away, deserting him, hiding on the opposite bank. He was shivering despite the overly tepid water.

So close. So fucking close.

He vowed never to come back. Ever. No force on earth could ever get him back here.

When he’d regained his breath, he listened, straining. The men were moving away, and he could make out only bits and pieces of conversation. Someone, Sammy he thought, insisted there was no one else alive around, questioned that they’d even heard any shots. Gills reminded him he was half deaf after having two guns go off in his ears that day. Sammy jacked with him, mumbling,
huh, what?
over and over, drawing Doc’s ire.

Within moments, David could no longer make out any more conversation. Just the occasional knife-kill and the sound of a body collapsing. He wondered where the men were headed, figured they were far enough away, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the pond just yet.

He chanced a glance around, noticed two shufflers (swimmers?) in the pond with him. But they just floated. One of them was making little to no headway, arms quietly treading beneath the water. It was getting nowhere slowly, ticking in place like the secondhand of a clock with bad batteries. David decided that the two in the waterhole with him were of no significant concern. At least not right away.

He couldn’t help but be upset with himself. He’d truly believed with such auspicious beginnings that the day would be a turning point. He had put Mitch in his place. Killed his first shuffler. Saved Bryan. Averted potential disaster with Sammy and Gills. Escaped in the truck with new family intact. He’d been brave, exuded deftness in execution. But he was quickly falling back into old ways, his old self.

But now was not the time for that. It was done. Natalee was gone. Karla was gone. And now Mitch was gone. His old life was gone. And if he wasn’t careful, his new life would be, too.

He noticed more movement through the brush. Could hear the moans, the ghostly moans. There were more than before, despite the trio of men killing several of them. Something was going on, drawing them, luring them.

Churning through the muck, he made his way to the bank where he’d rolled in. His body was heavy, water-laden. He imagined himself a big prune, hoping that shufflers hated prunes. On hands and knees, he groped for his gun, thankful that Sammy hadn’t decided to take a piss twenty paces west.
 

Rather than inject a waterlogged magazine into El Jefe, he left the sidearm empty, holstering it. His wrist hurt, throbbed. It didn’t feel broken. Fractured, possibly. Sprained, most likely. He babied it as he staggered away from the pond, his right hamstring singing the pain song.

Twisting his torso, he tried to get a glimpse of his leg, wanted to confirm his diagnosis made in the pond. Make sure it wasn’t just wishful thinking. The dark made it hard to see, but his jeans appeared in tact, not frayed or shredded. No broken skin. A big win. Huge.

Glancing around, he located the corpse he shish-kebabbed earlier and retrieved his knife. His stomach turned a little.

The blade felt funny in his non-dominant hand, less powerful. He stabbed at the acrid air, a couple of practice runs in anticipation of the inevitable. His eyes scanned the pasture.

Jesus.

The field jumped with fleas. Lots of them. The toddling cadavers weren’t marching like an army, no formations and no real order to anything. Yet, they were all ambling the same general direction: away from the house, headed west. David wondered how it was possible for so many to simply be wandering the same course. He’d not seen this behavior before. Of course, he was used to seeing only a few at a time.

The front line, or what would pass for the front line, would be on him in a matter of seconds. Forty-five, tops. His weapons gathered, he started his journey back. The trio of the living had moved well off into the distance, perhaps even into the tree line. David decided to take a slightly different way back, but since the highway was south, he doubted he’d run into them.

Grimacing and dripping wet, he limped around the pond, then prepared to head toward the tree line. His leg hurt, and he imagined when he finally got a good look at it, it would be as black and blue as the night sky above.

Just get back. Worry about it later. Won’t matter if you don’t get back.

He launched, pushing through the pain, a semi-gallop of sorts across the stretch of field sandwiched between the water and woods. Being in the open made him feel like a rabbit with a .22 rifle trained on him. He weaved between groping ghouls, grasshoppers jumping out of his way, and almost crashed into the dense wall of timber and bush. He probed the underbrush for the path of least resistance, and finding it, allowed the forest to swallow him whole.

Fighting the forest left David bereft of energy. He hadn’t eaten all day, had barely had anything to drink. The moribund pond experience involving both the dead and the living left him lamenting his decision to go back and release the men. To supposedly do the ‘right thing.’ Lesson learned. No good deed and all that BS. Tough love going forward.

You were right, Randy. Should have left well enough alone. Go ahead, say it. You told me so.

He had pretty much turned off his mired mind as he slashed blindly through branches and bushes, tried not to think. About anything. An ephemeral respite from self-deprecation over bad decisions proved better than none at all, and he gladly took it. Instead, he concentrated on the immediate task, putting one foot in front of the other when possible. One crucial step at a time, all his moxie and focus funneled into the physical challenge before him. Slow and steady, as the old adage goes.

Thankfully, few shufflers could plunge this deep into the stretch of woods, and the ones that managed to do so, David easily avoided. But they were getting harder to detect through sense of smell, David’s olfactory nerves habituating to the telltale stench. And not all of the ghouls moaned and groaned in auditory warning.
 

In the darkness, he bumped into one from behind, the ghastly thing entwined and ensnared in a trap of nature’s own design. Twisting, it snapped at him, gnashing its teeth. All it managed to do was blow a horrible halitosis in David’s face, forcing him to stumble backward in repulsion. Maybe his nose hadn’t quite completely acclimated, after all.