Dead South Rising: Book 1 (15 page)

Randy stared, listening.

“But I woke up today. I saw the proverbial light, and now I’m a convert. Mitch? A liability. Dangerous to himself and others. Reckless and careless. Those … things”—he pointed to the yard—“didn’t even start coming around until one of his drunken, hillbilly backwoods Rambo stunts with an AR-15 went south, making all kinds of racket, drawing them in. They’ve been showing up in droves ever since.”

He leaned against the railing, pinching at the same peeling paint that Jessica had picked at earlier that morning.

“Did … did you … kill him? Is Mitch … dead?”

David stood with his gaze over the yard, not looking Randy in the eye. He wrapped his hands around the decaying two-by-four railing and squeezed as he leaned. He bit down on pinched lips, debating on whether to tell Randy the truth about his premeditations.

“No, Randy. I didn’t. I don’t know where he is or where he went. That’s the truth.” He cut a sideways glance at him.

“Are we going to look for him?”

David craved the hit of another cigarette and for this conversation to end. Shaking his head, he said, “No. This may be hard to hear, you two being good friends, but our chances are better without him. I’m sorry.”

Randy nodded, eyes dropping to the porch where his boot still flirted with the cracked boards. Had he been in the yard, he would have already dug a hole. “Jessica feels the same way.” He sounded like he didn’t want to admit it out loud.

David fought the muscles trying to tug his lips into a smile. This was great news. Fantastic news. He had dreaded trying to persuade her to drop Mitch, not just as her husband, but from their group. His heavy plate was now a touch lighter.

“You see? Even Jessica gets it. It’s tough, Randy, I know.” He lifted his eyes to the first star of the evening. “I’ve had to come to the same realization myself. It’s time to admit, as hard as it is, that Natalee—”

Randy laid his hand on David’s shoulder and squeezed.

They stood together silently, watching shadows fade while twinkling stars came out of hiding, both star and shadow immune and oblivious to the dangers of these new times.

David pulled himself back to the now, careful not to get caught up in an emotional storm at such an inconvenient time. Danger still lurked, and he needed to be sharp and alert. For himself, for them. Until Jessica beat her nuclear UTI, Randy was his only real backup. Though Randy’s intentions and heart were top notch, his actual abilities were lackluster at best. Sitting on the porch plinking shufflers was one thing as was holding a gun on already subdued troublemakers. Actively overcoming said troublemakers or shufflers was another thing entirely. Out in the open, it would be critical. Life and death critical.

David said, “Did you tell Jessica what I told you to tell her?”

Nodding, Randy said, “Yeah, that Mitch’s brother and his friend decided to go looking for Mitch themselves.”

“She believe you?”

He nodded again. “Far as I can tell. Seemed relieved when I told her.”

“Good.” He read the concern on Randy’s face, and put a hand on his shoulder. “We did the right thing. Don’t worry. That’s all she needs to know for now. I’ll set the record straight when—”

“David?”

David turned to the child’s voice addressing him from inside the screen door. “Hey, Bry. How’s it going in there, champ?”

The boy smiled, pleased with this new nickname, and hugged Charlie against him. “Miss Jessica said to tell you she’s almost ready.” He touched his cheek to Charlie’s head.
     

David dipped his chin, smiled. “Okay, champ.”

Bryan padded away into the darkening house.

David lowered his voice, this time reading Randy’s thoughts. “I know you don’t like lying to her. I’ll take care of things, okay?”

Another nod.

“Any more thoughts on where we’re headed, El Jefe?” Randy asked, trying to change the subject and lighten the mood with a good-hearted jab.

Hooking his hands on his hips, David blew a breath laced with humility, and smiled. “Cut that shit out.”

Randy returned the smile. “It does kind of fit.”

David patted the holster housing his Walther P38. “
This
is El Jefe.”

“Well, you’re the one leading this outfit. Seems appropriate at this point to me, anyway.”

Waving him off, David said, “I’m just trying to do the best I can to keep us alive. Do right by the group. Y’all are my family now, and I’ll lay it all on the line to protect you.”

Randy nodded. “I feel the same way. I’m actually optimistic, for the first time since the shit hit the fan.”

David smiled, giving him another shoulder squeeze. “Glad to hear it, Randy. We stick together, we’ll be okay. You follow my lead … we’ll be good.”

“Sure.”

Jessica pushed the screen door open, trying to nurse the arm with the IV needle still protruding from it. “I’m ready. Randy, can you get the new IV bag, please?” She still seemed tired, weak. Bryan, Charlie still in his arms, stood by her hip.

“Sure thing.”

David cupped his hand on her elbow, his other behind her back, and carefully led her down the steps and toward the Dodge dually. “There’s plenty of room in the backseat. We’ll hang the IV bag from the clothes hook, and you’ll be good to go.”

She nodded and smiled feebly. As he was helping her into the towering truck, she said, “He’s dead to me, you know.”

David’s throat squeezed on itself. “What?”

“Mitch. He’s dead to me.”

He brushed back a strand of hair from her eyes. In a comforting tone, he said, “You don’t know that for sure. That guy on the radio—”

“No, David. I said he’s dead to
me
. He may or may not be physically dead, but to me, emotionally …”

“Oh … well, let’s not think about any of that right now, okay?”

“I thought bad things, David. I wanted to do bad things to Mitch.”

“I know. Me, too.”

“I don’t think you under—”

“Sshh. Later. We can talk about it later. Let’s get you situated and comfortable.”

He helped her up into the backseat of the cab, and Randy got her IV going again. David assumed the sleeping pills had prompted her maundering about Mitch. She probably wouldn’t even remember the conversation tomorrow.

A few moments later, Bryan and Charlie joined her in the back. Finally, everyone and everything was loaded, ready to go. All that was left was to turn the key. After pressing the clutch, of course.

“We’re doing the right thing,” Randy said in a low voice intended for David’s ears only.
 

David simply nodded, assuming Randy was trying to convince himself more than anything. He reached for the key, a smile almost crossing his lips, when he stopped and frowned, his brows scrunched.

Randy eyed him, and with his voice still low, asked, “What is it?”

David answered with a raised forefinger. “Listen.”

And then Randy heard it. The unmistakeable crack and rumble of Mitch’s Franken-Harley. His eyes grew wide behind his glasses, a panic on his face that his beard couldn’t hide, no matter how thick.

David turned in his seat, his voice low and calm. “Bry, stay down, okay? Jess, you, too.” Jessica was already in the fetal position, nearly asleep. She nodded weakly while giving a thumbs-up.

“Is that the man you had a fight with this morning?” Bryan asked.

Randy shot a questioning glance at David.

Ignoring the question, David said, “Just stay low, okay?” Turning his head to Randy, he said, “You, too, Randy. Get low. The truck is so high, he’d have to climb the running boards to see in. But let’s not take any chances.”

Randy acknowledged David with a nod, then slid his mass as best he could and as low as he could into the seat.

The tinted windows made it seem darker than it really was, though twilight was in full effect. David cracked the driver and passenger side front windows a few inches. Instantly, the barking pipes got louder, closer sounding.

Then David saw the bouncing headlight throw a stuttering beam across the drive and yard. Bugs scattered in the spotlight, the Franken-Hog rolling closer. He felt his chest tighten, the anxiety growing, twisting his intestines. He ducked slightly, paranoid that the man on the motorcycle would spot him, come for him. He wondered if he’d regret not following through on his original plan to cure the cancer, this malignant tumor coming back stronger than ever.

He felt the truck vibrate from the bike’s V-twin. The rider revved the motor, exhaust kicking up loose grass and dirt, some of it pelting the side of the Dodge. Another crack of the throttle, and the engine went silent. Then the squeak of the kickstand.

Footsteps came next, crunching the grass. Then the distinct sound of boot heel on the shell of steps leading to the trailer house. Clomping boots meeting wood boards. David realized he had been holding his breath long enough to start seeing stars, and he exhaled slow and long through circled lips. The outside rearview mirror protruding from the truck wasn’t angled correctly to see.

The screen door’s rusty spring sang its tired song before yanking the door back to the jamb.

“Should we go?” Randy whispered.

David brought his forefinger to his own lips, shaking his head with quick snaps, then motioned with his flattened hand to keep it down. Randy shifted his bulk in the seat, causing the truck to rock slightly, and David scowled at him. Randy said he was sorry with his eyes.

They waited. Then waited some more, David’s fingers itching to twist the key and slam the gas. He was fighting a losing battle with impatience.

David didn’t see it, but he heard it through the ringing in his ears: the simultaneous sound of the screen door being thrown open and the racking of a shotgun. His heart immediately clogged his throat, his hand going to his pistol.

This is it. This is how it goes down.

He eased El Jefe from the holster and rested the weapon on his lap. He forced his lungs to slow down, to pull in enough air to keep him alert, keep his head and vision clear. It was growing darker by the minute, and he needed his eyes to keep up.

“Son of a bitch.”

The words muttered from the porch bristled David’s neck and arms.

“You goddamn dead sons of bitches.”

Quick steps across the porch, then the heavy
thump
of a man leaping and landing on the unforgiving ground. The truck rocked, someone slamming against it. There was a gurgling moan, almost a growl. Then the sound of a body dropping. A sickening series of thuds—wood and metal on skull.

“You walking, breathing dead motherfuckers.” Mitch’s voice had almost a hint of sorrow, remorse. He punctuated every smash with a
fuck you.
 

David was holding his breath again. He’d been so focused on Mitch, he didn’t realize a shuffler had ambled into the yard. This concerned him, how quietly the creature had made its way through the yard and up to the house. He wondered if there were others. The blast of the shotgun answered his question.

“Eat that,” Mitch simply said.

Bryan jumped at the blast, a nervous whimper spilling over his quivering lips. David twisted, leaned into the backseat and put a calming hand on the boy’s knee. “It’s okay, champ. It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” He glimpsed Jessica. The commotion outside had her wide awake. Her lips were thin, eyes hard. David could hear her breaths coming and going through her nose. He touched her leg, reiterating that things would be okay.

David could just barely hear them, but he heard them, even through the ringing that had settled into his ears from firing El Jefe earlier in the afternoon. Screams. Down by the pond. Where he’d left two troublemakers.

David heard one more crack of wood on bone, then footsteps heading away, headed for the pond. Toward the screams. This could be their break. With Mitch far enough away, they could get a significant head start, lose him. He felt himself relax just a little.

He inched up in his seat, enough to see into the rearview mirror on the door. Mitch was indeed headed for the pond, the oasis that had helped feed the group over the last twenty-two days. Dusk had overtaken twilight, and David could just barely make out the man with the shotgun slung across his shoulder, strolling confidently, seemingly without fear.

Keep going, Mitch. Keep walking, you bastard.

He’d give Mitch another minute or so to get where he was going, where he’d be far enough away. Mitch would hear the diesel start up and drive away, but there’d be nothing he could do about it. They’d be well on their way, down the bumpy drive and barreling down highway 204 by the time he got that bike started up. If the bike would even start again. It was a crap shoot with that thing.

Randy spoke unexpectedly. “Maybe we should let him know—”

“Randy,” David said, cutting him off in an angry whisper. “We talked about this. He’s a liability, remember? He’ll only bring the group down. Maybe do something stupid. Get us all killed.”

Second thoughts filled Randy’s gaze. The peacemaker who craved harmony at whatever cost.

“That man will kill us?” Bryan said from the backseat.
 

David glowered at Randy.

See what you’ve done? You’ve scared Bry. Don’t become a liability, Randy. Don’t turn cancerous. Stay benign. You’ll live longer. We’ll all live longer.

“Of course not, champ. Nobody’s going to kill us. But we need to stay quiet. That man out there, he’s not a nice man, and we don’t want him to know we’re leaving. He doesn’t belong with us.”

Bryan nodded, seeming to understand David’s reasoning for leaving someone behind.

“Now, everyone just stay calm. As soon as he’s far enough away, we’re gone.” He cut his eyes at Randy, and the big man averted his gaze.

David slid El Jefe back into the holster and sat up in his seat. He focused back on the mirror.
 

Mitch had almost disappeared into the eventide, a veritable walking shadow charging into the gloaming, indiscernible from a shuffler save for his self-assured gait. Near him, another shadow briefly lit by the flash of the shotgun muzzle stumbled backwards. It was like Mitch was strolling straight into hell through the front door, taking out everyone in his way. Another blast, and another shadow crumpled. They were coming out of the woodwork now.