Dead South Rising: Book 1 (32 page)

The Janitor said, “You sure about this?” again referring to David’s injured wrist. Or possibly something else.

“I’ll be alright.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get you suited up.”

A questioning look drifted onto David’s face.

“Cab’s got a canopy, but it’s not enclosed. Gonna need something to protect you.”

“What do you propose?”

“Meet me inside.”

An entire town away from the Alamo, a trio of men were busy making plans of their own. But theirs didn’t involve clever ways of killing the already dead. Vengeance and reckoning dominated thought and action, retribution against a mutual
living
enemy. And while all three wanted it, one was certainly destined to achieve it.

Tom Mackey reached inside his trench coat and tugged out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it, his eyes darting over the document until he found what he was looking for.

“621 West Warner Drive.” He glanced up, double-checking the numbers tacked to one of the white porch columns lining the front of the wood-framed house. “How quaint.”

The home evinced the Morris family’s successful ascension to the upper middle-class, and Tom felt a twinge of jealousy prick his gut.

That killer didn’t deserve this.

The neighborhood was a nice one, in a good part of town. A time-honored community, full of mature pecan trees, happy squirrels, and chirping birds. Tom imagined when people spoke of the American dream, this was the kind of home they were most often referring to.
 

The house was of the southern-style, wood-framed variety, and it exuded content happiness. The grandpa/grandma-friendly front porch spanned the entire front of the two-story home, and a single set of dormer windows rose from the center of the steeply sloped roof, adding to the elegant charm. Short bushes surrounded the white exterior, but never encroached or intruded, tastefully enhancing the home. The ornate wooden porch railing added an exquisite, vintage touch. He had to admit, the place still looked well kept, even in these days of death and neglect.

“Think he’s in there?” Sammy said, arms crossed, leaning against the ’87 Chevy pickup parked against the curb, just slightly down and across the street from the Morris residence.

Gills picked at his thumbnail with the huge Bowie knife he kept strapped to his thigh, saying nothing.

Tom re-folded the rental car agreement he’d found in the abandoned auto on Highway 204, then tucked it away again into his coat. Swiveling his head, he said, “Only one way to know, gentlemen,” and he started across the street toward the concrete walk leading to the front door.

Farther down West Warner Drive, five biters ambled about, and Sammy eyed them warily while reaching for his gun, anticipating a loud, lead-filled extermination.

“Let them be,” Tom said.

Sammy’s frown dug deep into his granite jaw as he ran the pad of his thumb beneath his lip. “Wouldn’t take but a second—”

“I said let them be.”

Sammy’s trademark chuckle spilled through his tight lips, masking his frustration. He held his palms to Tom. “Alright, alright. You’re the boss. Hoss.”

As they stepped onto the sidewalk, Gills chimed, “I’m ready to take a piece of this puto home as a souvenir.”

Tom stopped abruptly, the two men on his heels almost crashing into him. He spun, coat flaring, and faced his followers. His address was deliberate, his voice low. “Understand this, gentlemen.
They
are
mine
. I allowed you to live for one reason only—to identify the killers of my beloved. Once identified, our verbal contract is thereby terminated. Am I clear, gentlemen? Need I simplify? Write it out in crayon, perhaps?”

Sammy and Gills stood, lungs pumping heavy breaths through flared nostrils. They glowered at the man they would have killed without a second thought in ‘the good ‘ole days.’ But they’d made an agreement in hopes of obtaining a bit of eye-for-an-eye action themselves. They’d stick with Doc long enough for that. Afterwards … who knew.

And while they loathed to admit it, the man who stood before them and referred to himself as Doc Holliday had saved their miserable hides. They owed him quite a debt of gratitude, in all fairness. Still, it didn’t give Doc carte blanche to be a dick about it.
 

“Am I
clear
, gentlemen?”

 
The two banditos responded with barely perceptible nods.

Frown flipping, Tom said, “Very well, then. Shall we?” He motioned toward the building, his arm extended and palm upturned. He pivoted back toward the house, launching into full stride.

After giving each other dirty looks intended for Tom, Sammy and Gills fell in behind him. Upon reaching the front steps, they lightened their footfalls, wary of drawing attention from either the living or the dead. Especially the living.

Once on the porch, Tom dropped his hands to his revolvers and approached the front door. He stopped, then stood silent, listening for sounds from within the house. Flanking his sides, Sammy and Gills followed suit, becoming statues.

Sammy spoke. “Can’t hear a god—”

“Sshhh!” Tom held up a hand.

Fifteen seconds ticked by. Then thirty. Forty-five.

Gills said, “I don’t hear nothing.”

Tom turned, pointed at Gills. Whispering, he said, “You, check back.” Then to Sammy, “You, stay.”

“Yessuh, massuh,” Sammy said, disrespectful sarcasm oozing from his tone.

When this is over,
Tom thought,
you die first.

Gills simply nodded and walked carefully away, taking his perpetual frown with him. The drying and dying grass had no choice but to crunch underfoot. He rounded the corner of the porch, then disappeared around the side of the house.

Sammy touched his fingers to the bandage, which was doing a poor job of adhering to his half-blown-off ear. “Son of a bitch won’t stop bleeding.” He huffed, then added, “Probably ‘cuz I’m sweating to death out here. Gonna get infected. How do you wear that goddamn leather coat in this heat, Doc?”

Tom ignored him and put a single forefinger to his lips.

“Fine,” Sammy said, waving him off. Muttering more to himself, he said, “Still can’t hear a goddamn thing, ears ringing like fucking crazy. Swear I’m gonna cut off El Jefe’s ears myself and then his …”

Tom tuned him out, tired of the whiner’s constant bellyaching. If it weren’t for needing to positively ID Mr. David Morris and his friends, he would have left Sammy and Guillermo cuffed to that tree.

Scratch that. I would have gunned them down, right there where they kissed the bark. Just for being there. Just … like … Mitch. Bang and bang. Over and out.

Tom’s other voice joined the already crowded conversation in his head.

Now Doc. That’s not very gentlemanly of you.

I never claimed to be a gentleman.

Sure you did. You proudly proclaimed as much on your first date with Kate. Don’t you remember? At the O.K. Corral reenactment?

Ah, yes. Of course. Our first date. I knew that night we’d later marry.

Didn’t know that ten years later you’d find her run over in a driveway, did you?

That’s unfair and cruel.

No, Doc. That’s life. And death. Nothing’s changed.

I could have saved her.

Then why didn’t you?

A sound. From inside. Something knocked over? He tensed, froze. Even Stammering Sammy heard it, despite his newly acquired auditory handicap.

Sammy started, “Did you hear—”

Again, Tom shushed him. Footsteps. From inside.

Sammy ripped his 686 from its holster, backpedaling a couple of steps.

The doorknob jiggled. Then, the sound of a fist on wood.

Tom elected to step back as well.

It’s just Guillermo. He found a way in, and now he’s letting us inside.

The brass doorknob jiggled again. More pounding.

Then, from around the other side of the house, Gills appeared, Colt 1911s gleaming in both hands. He said in a brusque whisper, “Someone inside.” He wagged one of the pistols toward the back of the house.

Tom and Sammy traded glances, then stared at the doorknob dancing about.

* * *

Tom drew his pistols, trained them on the door, then thumbed the hammers back. Sammy aimed his weapon at the same spot, breathing heavy, labored breaths.

Glancing down the street, Sammy said, “Looks like we’re drawing some unwanted fans. Should’ve let me take ‘em out when I had the chance.”

Ignoring Sammy, Tom gestured to Guillermo to join them on the porch. They would go in guns blazing if need be.

But to be sure Tom would get the kill shot, he decided he would be the one to kick in the door. Whoever was behind it would suffer his wrath. And Sammy and Guillermo could enjoy the sloppy seconds.

When Gills made it onto the porch, Tommy cued them both, mouthing:
one, two, three—

Tom drew his leg up, and kicked as hard as he could. The stubborn door almost gave way. He cocked his leg a second time, his heel tingling and vibrating from the first impact, and launched it again. This time, success.

Wood shattered and splintered from the jamb, and the door swung forcefully in, knocking down whoever had been pounding on it. Tom immediately moved forward, Sammy and Gills right on his coattail.

Inside the small foyer, a person was facedown, sprawled and twisting on the floor.

Sammy stuck his revolver through the doorway, prepared to pepper the flailing stranger with .357 rounds.

“No!” Tom shouted, forcefully elbowing Sammy’s arm away from the intended target. “Wait.”

“Kill that gringo!” Gills said, trying to edge through the doorway.

“I said
wait
. Nobody shoot.” Tom watched the writhing body on the floor. He didn’t know yet what David looked like, but he knew this was not David.

“What the …” Gills started.

“It’s a goddamn dead cannibal,” Sammy said with a chuckle.

Tom looked on the poor creature. Sammy was right. Whoever this was, they were no longer a part of the living world.

“Wonder who this bitch was,” Sammy said, gun clutched at his side.

The men moved into the room, carefully stepping around the gnashing woman while avoiding her groping hands, throwing quick glances around to be sure there were no others.

Tom nodded toward the stairs. “Check upstairs, Guillermo.”

Gills followed the order without complaint.

To Sammy, “Sweep the downstairs. Remember, I want live prisoners.” Then, very succinctly, “Do not kill anyone.”

Sammy answered with only a dip of his chin, then brought his weapon up, aiming it in corners and in doorways.

Tom stayed near the front door, watching the undead woman squirm and twist on the floor. She attempted to stand, but couldn’t seem to gain purchase on the slippery hardwood floor. He holstered his six-shooter (Bessie), keeping the eight-shooter (Bertha) in hand and ready, just in case. Stepping back out of her reach, he leaned against a nearby wall, watching.

The woman was petite, blonde. He felt he could easily fend her off if need be, without the use of his hand cannon. But something about her intrigued him. He didn’t remember any broken windows or open doors. She hadn’t just wandered in. She’d been trapped in here.

Put here. Kept here.

With his forefinger and thumb, he smoothed his wispy mustache in thought. And realization.

Mr. Morris. You sly dog, you. Maybe we ain’t so different, after all.

The woman hissed, snapped her teeth, chomping on her own curls. Hair in her eyes compromised her vision, but she couldn’t seem to fire up the mental capacity to brush the tresses away and give herself sight. Though Tom figured she could smell him. Them. The fresh meat now wandering the halls and upstairs. She wanted a taste, needed the sustenance. This he knew. From experience.

He glanced around, being sure to keep at least one eye grounded on who he believed was formerly Mrs. Morris, and tried to locate a family photo. Or any photo, for that matter. But only the ghosts of frames outlined where he suspected they used to hang.

Took your pictures with you. Smart, actually. Though I’m sure you did it for sentimental reasons, and not to throw me off.

He could find nary a photo. Not one. Mrs. Morris was still struggling to stand, so he stepped into the living room. The mantel was empty, the walls were bare, even the end tables and piano were devoid of portraits.

But still, who else could this be? David’s daughter? Neighbor? Family friend?
Mistress?

Tom walked back into the foyer. Mrs. Morris had made it to her knees and was pressing to her feet. He sighed. He certainly couldn’t kill her. Again. At least not until he could confirm her identity. Then he could execute her. He’d do that in front of David. In the meantime, he’d have to restrain her, tie her up, put her somewhere. Things were looking up, though. This little discovery—if he was right—ensured that David would most likely be back. He’d have to come back.

And Tom could see it play out perfectly. David would show up, preferably with his entourage in tow. Tom and company would ambush the unsuspecting group. He would kill the fat one first, Randall or whomever, while David helplessly watched. A practice sacrifice. Jessica would be next. He hated to do it, but Bryan would have to die, too. Guilt by association, however unfortunate. Finally, Tom would kill the near-and-dear Mrs. Morris for the second time in her life. And when everyone David loved was dead—all the way dead—he’d wait a while before killing David. Give him time to stew in a scalding soup of depression and indignation. Let him mull over it, cry over it. Let him get steaming angry and not be able to do a damn thing about it. Might even let it drag on for a day or two. Or Five. Then, when David’s heart and soul were good and cooked, he’d kill him physically, a little bit at a time. And when David finally died the first time, Tom would take his sweet time killing him a second time. True death for dessert.

Then, I’ll pile all their bodies in the living room, and burn down this fucking unappreciated, undeserved little slice of suburban utopia you enjoyed for god knows how long. Then, and only then, will Kate’s death be avenged. At least here on earth.