Dead South Rising: Book 1 (43 page)

Outside, he assisted Mrs. Morris by helping (shoving) her into the bed of the pickup truck. She required a bit of ‘encouragement’ (shoving) but finally the undead woman acquiesced with his help (shove). A compressor/pump/sprayer of sorts shared the truck bed, and he lashed her makeshift leash to the contraption in such a way as to discourage her from leaping out of the back. Not that she’d have an easy time of it. Her torso cocooned in duct tape, she was balance-challenged as it was. Getting herself on two feet, or even one knee, would be a near impossible feat without help. His help. Still, he wanted to ensure her safe arrival. Well, safe-
er
arrival. He needed her. For his plan.

And with the twist of a key, he set his new-
er
plan in motion. He was riding again. Many had crossed him, and he would not make the same mistakes. And anyone else who hindered his vindictive mission would be sucked into his vortex of vengeance. Paddles and life jackets be damned.
 

The East Texas sun was sliding away, signaling the end of another dire day in David’s Deadland. And he felt his life essence being dragged with it, chained to the fiery ball as that fantastic orb of life-giving (and life-taking) flame began falling away into the vast nothingness of night. The morning would surely bring the sun’s return, but David wasn’t sure he’d be there to see it.

Sammy and Gills proved relentless in their demands. David finished his first task, finally, carving Mitch’s final resting place out of the earth. He’d worked the shovel until the handle snapped in two. Sammy blamed him, of course. Said David did it on purpose. Accused him outright. David
had
done it on purpose before, when he was a kid, to get out of a chore assigned by his father. A young David had deemed the job pointless, and to prove it (and so he could hurry on to his friends, who were enjoying time at the mall arcade), eradicated the means to complete said task. He thought at the time he was being clever, sneaky. No matter. His father simply found an alternate tool with which complete the task, providing David with a small garden trowel in place of the busted shovel. What would have taken maybe an hour grew to half the day. No arcade for David. And his father docked his piddly allowance to buy a new shovel. Needless to say, David never purposefully broke one of his father’s tools again.

Growing impatient—and eager to move onto more rewarding endeavors—the two banditos actually pitched in, dragging the dirt with their boots, helping David cover the hole now housing Mitch’s body. Of course, they cursed David the whole time, much like his father had that day so many years ago. David didn’t care, though. He wanted to be done with it just as badly as they did. He honestly wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue pushing and punishing his body. Sammy and Gills had beat him thoroughly, and he came close to fainting and passing out so many times that he lost track, quit counting. In a sense, he was over it. Over them.

Let’s just get this fucking over with.

After saying a few weak words in tribute to Mitch, Sammy grabbed David’s arm, dragged him away from the graveside, and stuck a finger in his face, resuming a conversation started earlier. “I’m not going to ask you again,” Sammy said, practically grinding the few teeth he had left.

David let an exhausted and exasperated breath slip over his parched, plump lips. That tiny gesture said it better than David could have with any amount of words.

I’ve already told you time and again, dick. Are you too fucking thick-headed and stubborn to hear what I’m telling you? For the one-hundred and seventy-fifth time, I don’t fucking know where Mitch hid whatever the fuck it is you are looking for. Get a goddamned clue, already. Now let me go in peace. Damnit.

Sammy, gripping David’s shoulders, shook him like a child scolded, slammed him against the dually. “I said I’m not gonna ask you again. You don’t come clean, you’re gonna start losing bits and pieces, starting with Mr. Pinky there.” He grabbed David’s wrist—the non-fractured one, thankfully—and held it to David’s face, curled down all of David’s fingers except his pinky. His eyes were tight on David’s one good eye, the eye Gills hadn’t shut with his fist, emphasizing just how ‘fucking seriously gangster’ he was about to get ‘on David’s ass.’ “So what’s it gonna be? Huh? Gonna be goddamned hard digging your own grave with no fucking fingers.”

David considered fucking with him, telling him whatever.

Yeah, it’s over there, just by the tree line. Dig there. Oh? Not there, you say? Probably in the pond, then. Yeah, try the pond, right out in the middle. Not there, either, you say? Maybe Mitch buried the secret treasure in his ass. Yep, that’s where he hid it. Gonna have to dig him up. Should of checked when you had the chance … pendejo.

But David would be the one digging, doing all the work. Just like he’d dug Mitch’s grave. All by himself. And he just didn’t have it in him to dig anymore, even to stall Sammy. He just couldn’t, being physically and mentally spent. Besides, when nothing was found, they’d either call him a liar, or believe that Mitch must have moved the stuff, rendering David no longer useful (other than for digging, which he would refuse) and therefore expendable. In either case, they’d beat and/or kill him. He figured he was a deadman, so why not have some fun with them?

David must have drifted off, because Sammy shook him hard. “I said what’s it gonna be? I’ll duct tape that goddamn shovel to your bloody stumps and have you dig all over this goddamned field until you find it. Comprende, asshole?”

By this time, Gills had sidled up to Sammy, his Bowie knife gleaming in the final waning rays of the day. He appeared eager, ready to play with his sharp toy. He was a hungry shark circling a wounded seal. Scraping the blade against his own scarred cheeks, he reiterated Sammy’s request. “He said, what’s it going to be, cabrón?”

That fucking fury that David had done such a fantastic job of keeping at bay for most of the afternoon and evening just couldn’t be kept in check any longer. It started in his core, a quaking rumble, vibrating through his legs, his arms, warming his body like heating elements on a stovetop. He felt like he was going numb, yet he felt everything—every throb, every ache, every cut and bruise. Exhausted muscles tightened. His second wind was going to be a tornado of rage. And there was simply no stopping it. He wouldn’t even try to.

David stood as tall and upright as his beaten body would allow. He coughed lightly, then said, “You wanna know … where it is?”

“Damn skippy,” said Sammy.

Guillermo crossed his massive arms, the knife still protruding firmly in his grasp like some metal sail.

David practically mouthed, “I’ll whisper it.”

Sammy furrowed his brow, frowned. “Wha?”

“I’ll whisper it to you,” David breathed.

Sammy leaned in closer.

With a wheeze, David’s beaten lungs pulled in a handicapped breath, then he looked Sammy straight in the eyes. “Fuck. You.”

The corners of Sammy’s mouth turned toward the darkening sky, and he slowly swiveled his head to look at Guillermo. “You hear that, Gills? El Jefe just told me—”

As Sammy’s head was pivoting back to David, David mustered the thickest, nastiest wad of phlegm he could manage. Then fired it. Like gooey buckshot. Straight into Sammy’s open eyes.

A casual observer might have guessed Sammy’d been stung by a wasp based on his reaction alone. He reeled backward, hands flailing to his face. His ankles tangling, he landed hard on his ass. “Motherfucker!” He desperately wiped at his eyes, blinded by the mucous and blood and spit.

Gills reacted with haste—probably to avoid another phlegm projectile—grabbing David’s hair and slamming his head against the side of pickup. He quickly pressed the blade to David’s neck. Two bloody rivulets appeared beneath the knife’s edge, creeping down David’s neck, mixing with his sweat. Gills meant business.

Using his shirttail, Sammy wiped away as much of the mess from his face as he could. He pressed to his feet, brushed his hands together. “Oh, boy.” A chuckle. He started toward David. “You are one dead motherfucker, I’ll tell you what.” Another chuckle.

David couldn’t speak. He dared not move. Guillermo’s blade was sharp and licking at his life. One simple slice. That’s all it would take. Just a turn of his head. Then he considered pressing himself forward, saving the ruthless Mexican the trouble. Offing himself. To be done with it. Not give these two assholes the satisfaction.

“You are so fucking dead you don’t even know it,” Sammy said. His head was lowered, nostrils flaring, and huffing like a bull about to charge.

The only thing between David and Sammy was Gills.

Then Guillermo turned his head slightly, cutting his eyes to Sammy.

Sammy started to shove Gills to the side. “Move, Gills. He’s—”

“Shh. Listen,” Guillermo said. He still had David’s hair clutched, knife to his throat. “You hear that, amigo?”

Sammy was still pumping furious breaths, his fists clenching over and over. He flicked his nose with his thumb, like he was about to start boxing.

“I don’t hear nothing.”

“Wait … there it is again.” Gills nodded toward the cab of the truck.

Sammy eyed Gills doubtfully, his own ears deceiving him, casualties of gunfire too close to his head. “I still don’t—”

“Cállate, cabrón.”

“
You
shut up.” After firing off a sneer at Gills, Sammy obliged his Mexican pal, then opened the cab door. And with the door now open, Sammy heard it, too.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Sammy said, a sinister smile creeping across his face.

And that’s when David heard it.

No. No, no, no, no.

From inside the truck cab, a two-way radio beeped. “David? Are you there, David? Answer me, please.”
 

Jessica’s desperate voice drifted from the cab via the two-way the Janitor had given David that morning. For safety. Just in case.

It was a done deal, David’s death. The ink was wet and drying fast. Jessica’s was signed, as well. And if Randy accompanied her, the big man would be a part of that deadly deal, too.

Jessica put it off for as long as she dared, and for as long as she could. She fought her fear, though. Stepped right up to it, punched it right in the throat, and was duly rewarded. Rewarded with the absence of that drawling, menacing voice that had tormented and teased her with death. That had told her David was dead. That had told her Mitch was dead. That voice that had called her
dahlin’
. Seemed like that voice might have been right all along, though.

But instead she’d found another voice. One just as malicious, just as depraved. And she knew this voice, had met its owner. That dusty, vocal-chords-through-the-lumbermill tone. The one filled with arrogance and conceit. And that chuckle. That shitty little cocksure chuckle.

“He’s full of shit,” Jessica said to Randy, clutching the now silent two-way radio in a tight, trembling grip. If she was trying to convince herself of the fact, she was failing. Miserably.

“I still don’t get why Mitch would go along with this,” she continued. She was shaking, angry. “He’s an asshole, not a murderer. I mean, I know he and David hate each other. Hell, can’t stand each other’s guts. But never in a million years would I have guessed he’d throw his hat in with those two. Stoop to this. I mean, threatening to
kill
someone? To
kill
David? They’ve gotta be bluffing. Gotta be.” Instead of pinching herself to see if she was dreaming, she hooked her seatbelt with her thumb and let it snap back fast against her shoulder. Nope, not dreaming. Wide awake.
 

Crossing her arms, she glared at Randy. And then she saw it again. That little tell Randy had when he was holding something back. Hiding something. She’d caught glimpses of it here and there all day. With a heavy beard and thick-framed glasses obscuring a good bit of his face, she couldn’t always spot it, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Not this time. There was something more. Something he wasn’t saying.

But he did eventually.

“They’re lying. About Mitch.” He swallowed hard. “Mitch … he’s …” Randy started. He was looking straight at her, looked like he’d seen a ghost, but then averted his gaze.

“Mitch what? What’d he do?”

He let out a long, lingering breath, emptying his huge lungs. Then gathered a gulp of courage. “David was going to tell you … tonight or tomorrow … when you got to feeling better.”

“Tell me what?”

She knew it. Just knew it. Randy
had
been holding back. And so had David. Whatever Mitch had done, it must have been pretty serious, because Randy was having one hell of a time spilling it.

Her impatience brimmed. “Tell me what, Randy? We’re losing time, here.”

She was frustrated. Outraged. But also scared. Uncertain. And Randy’s stalling and pussy-footing was pissing her off.

“For Chrissake, Randy. Spit it out, already.”

And just like that, he blurted those three words she would not soon forget:
Mitch. Is. Dead.

The words slapped her eardrums, and she flinched. She simply sat there for a moment, stunned, allowing those three syllables to penetrate her. Those powerful, impacting three little beats. Where would Randy have heard such shocking nonsense?
 

She jabbed a thumb to the passenger window, as though Mitch’s place were on the other side of it. “But … on the walkie … just a second ago … Sammy made it sound like … like Mitch was there and …”

Randy just stared at her, sympathetic eyes peeking through thick lenses, his lips pursed. The tiniest of head shakes.

But how could this be? They—David, Bryan, Randy, herself—had all left together that night, and—

David went back. That night. David went back. He acted so strange this morning. Did he—?

Her voice quivered. “Did … did David … did he …?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask properly. Her imagination filled in the blanks in the worst possible way. David wasn’t a killer. Or was he?

Randy quickly and vehemently shook his head. “No, no of course not. He didn’t do it. He found him. Mitch was already …”