Dead South Rising: Book 1 (2 page)

Standing hurt, but he decided he’d live. His lungs filled more easily now, shaking off the shock of the impact. His neck still tingled, felt hot. Whiplash probably. He remembered what it felt like from years ago. He and Natalee both had become part of that club. Karla had been spared, thankfully, her car seat absorbing the brunt of the crash. Seemed like yesterday …

The shadow up the road moved again. A couple shadows? He had to get moving. Not a good idea to get caught out in the wide open by himself, with no one to watch his back. He lifted a foot, then the other, maneuvering himself out of the tall weeds and grass, and back onto the blacktop. He slid a hand along the brush guard of the Dodge, rounded the corner, and approached the driver side door cautiously.
 

David had learned quickly from his jaunts into town not to open doors or round corners without first verifying the area was clear. Shufflers had taken him by surprise only a couple of times before, nearly taking a chunk out of him. A quick learner, David moved deliberately, cautiously.

Jimmy and Angela must have loved their Dodge. It was tricked out nicely with an expensive lift-kit that made it tower like a monster truck. And lots of shiny chrome. Even the lettering professing their love forever on the blacked-out rear window was chrome.

David paused, glancing up the road. Despite the dwindling daylight, he could see them. Two of them. Maybe the rental’s death throes had alerted them to life on this barren two-lane stretch. They were not a threat—yet.

He turned his attention back to the Dodge. Planting a boot on the chrome running board, he hoisted himself up so he could peer into the vehicle, the dark tint and dying daylight making it difficult to see inside the cab. He squinted, then, curling one hand around his temple, pressed his face to the window.

A hand slapped the glass. A face followed.

David yelped, startled. He tumbled off the running board and onto the road. More flashes of light across his vision, the burning in his neck reignited. He sat up, brushing dust and debris back to the ground.

Should have known. Should have known that truck would not be empty. He almost started laughing. Almost.

He rubbed his stiffening neck, fire coursing through it. He could practically taste the flames. How he wished for ice. Something taken for granted, now a long lost luxury.

The two shadows up the road ambled his way. The air, once dominated by anti-freeze, now hinted of decay. He was downwind. At least he had that going for him. Snarls and hisses emanated from the two shuffling shadows. He’d need to move more quickly. Quit being that jumpy teenager he’d killed off so long ago.

David stood, wiping his palms together, releasing more dirt and dust. He stood several feet back from the truck, surveying and planning. Even in death, Jimmy apparently was not quite ready to give up his beloved Dodge dually. David decided Jimmy had enjoyed it long enough. Pulling himself back onto the running board, he lifted the door handle. Locked. The flailing undead man inside must have bumped the button and locked himself in. Or he had done it before he died, hoping to keep his diesel forever.

Forever. Hmph. Doesn’t matter, Jimmy. I’m coming in
.

David hopped off the running board, wincing as something pinched in his neck, sending another lava flow up and down his tender nerves. He walked around the front of the truck again and to the passenger door. He pulled himself up, peered inside, noting that Jimmy was strapped in all by his lonesome, Angela nowhere to be seen.
 

Looks like Angela had plans other than forever, there, Jimmy boy.

He tugged on the door handle, expecting it to be locked, and the door swung open, almost knocking him off the towering truck a second time. Jimmy growled, reaching, but the seatbelt restrained him. The smell punched David square in the nose. He sat on the edge of the passenger seat, just out of Jimmy’s reach, allowing the cab to air out a minute. He drew the knife sheathed on his own hip, held it, twisting it, the cab light ignoring the dull matte blade. Jimmy snapped his teeth, wanting a taste of fresh life.

David flexed his grip on the nylon cording that wrapped the knife’s hilt, then sheathed the weapon. It was strange, but the dinging sound inside the cab caused by the door standing ajar brought him back to a civilized time. He had yet to ‘kill’ a shuffler, and he decided today was not the day to start. Instead, he waved a hand high near the dome light, distracting Jimmy. With his other, he pressed the button on the seatbelt, and it retracted, catching on Jimmy’s shoulder. David then popped the locks before retreating, slamming the passenger door.

As he walked back to the driver side, he noticed the two shufflers nearly on him. He had maybe another minute or so before he’d have no choice but to contend with them. A revitalized urgency moved him.

He reached up and slipped his fingers under the door handle, throwing the door open. Jimmy lunged for him almost immediately, and David took advantage of the momentum, grabbing the dead man’s arm and yanking. There was a sickening snap as Jimmy spilled from the truck, his arm hung in the seatbelt, now bent at a most unnatural angle. David felt bile rise in his throat, something else to accompany the searing heat stuck between his skull and shoulder.

He grabbed the flailing Jimmy by the scruff of his shirt, desperately working to free him from the seatbelt. Bone grinding on bone sent more burning bile into David’s throat, and he clenched his teeth, stifling the wrong-way flow.

Finally, the seatbelt relented, and Jimmy sprawled to the pavement. He locked his dead fingers around David’s ankle. David brought his boot heel down on Jimmy’s wrist. More cracking. Jimmy’s grip weakened, but still held. David stomped again, and covered his mouth. He wanted to retch.

He brought his leg up hard, like he was kneeing God in the groin, and pulled free of the shuffler’s grasp. Twilight teased him, the narrow stretch of road transforming into something out of a horror movie. The trees lost definition, became one continuous shadowy mass. The two shufflers were only seconds away, but he could see less of them now than he could before.

His heart kicked his sternum hard, reminding him that he needed to grab the bag out of the car. Otherwise, the whole trip was for naught.

The air stank of something dead and dying. Jimmy writhed in the middle of the narrow highway, either unsure how or unable to get back to his feet.
 

David acted without thought. He launched forward. He was the bowling ball, the two shufflers the bowling pins. He got a strike. They went down; two sickening thuds caressed the soured air.
 

He slid back down into the ditch, windmilling his arms for balance before diving half-way into the car to retrieve the bag containing Jessica’s medication. He didn’t bother with the walkie. Or with closing the door.
 

After scrambling back up the short hill, he rounded the dually and pulled himself into the driver seat. It was surprisingly cool, not warm like someone had occupied it only moments before. It gave David the chills, this fact, and served only to reaffirm the reality of this nightmare. He shook, almost like a convulsion, and pulled the door shut. More shakes and shivers, more chills pricking his arms. A salty tidal wave crashed over his stubbled cheeks and he slumped in the seat.

* * *

David wasn’t sure how many minutes had slipped away. He just knew that he could no longer see—the sliver of moon insufficient for sight, blurred by unexpected and unwanted tears. He strained to hear. It was barely audible, the hissing, rasping. His heart hammered away at his ribs again, a new surge of adrenaline about to launch him into action like nitrous rocketing a race car down the track.

He wiped his eyes, mad at his emotions.

Jessica. Got to get back.
 

He breathed deep, exhaling through circled lips, trying to calm himself. He wanted to be careful, to not make stupid mistakes. Like getting stuck. Stranded. Hurt. Killed.

He pinched the key already in the ignition.

Please, please, please, please …
 

He feared Jimmy had died while the truck was still running, burning all the fuel and draining the battery. The chimes and dome light from earlier gave him hope, though.

David twisted the key. The dash lit up.
 

Good, good, good
…

He twisted another click. Nothing.

Shit, shit, shit, shit
…

He turned the key again. Not a sound.

He sighed a heavy sigh of defeat.

Another turn of the key yielded the same.

He slammed his fists into the steering wheel. Then, his mistake bitch-slapped him like a pissed-off pimp.

You idiot
.

He pressed the clutch and wiggled the stick shift.

Please, please, please
…

The truck roared to life with the twist of the key.
 

Fucking clutch. Thank you, thank you, thank you
…

He scratched into first gear, jerking the tricked-out truck forward. It died. Jamming the clutch and spinning the key brought it right back to life. He played out the pedal, finding the friction zone, and the truck lurched forward. He managed to avoid running over Jimmy and the other two shufflers, leaving them to writhe, undead speed bumps for the next hapless traveler.
 

Shifting into second, the dually growled loudly. He jammed the stick into third, the Dodge heaving up the hill. It made an angry racket, Jimmy’s baby did. David wasn’t sure what kind of exhaust system Jimmy had finally decided on, but he was sure that the guy wanted everyone for miles around to know he was coming. Or going.

He lowered the window. While he couldn’t see the black smoke billowing out of the dual diesel smoke stacks, he could sure smell it. Mixing with the aroma of death made for an unappetizing olfactory cocktail.

To avoid distraction, he left the radio off. It was pointless to leave it on, anyway. He hadn’t heard a voice—or the ‘Z’ word—on the airwaves for well over a week. Besides, people were counting on him, and he needed to give the remaining few miles his undivided attention. Well, Jessica was counting on him. A crucial conversation awaited Mitch. Things would be changing.
 

He flipped on the brights, then found a switch for fog lamps. He lit those, too, and the road gleamed like daytime. The Dodge barreled down the skinny highway, puffing an inky cloud, roaring a mighty roar. It sounded like a truck twice its size.

Shadows whizzed by, playing tricks, fooling David into thinking he saw things he didn’t. Almost home, he slowed, downshifting the growling diesel. He nearly passed the turnoff, as he always did. Shrouded by bushes and trees, anyone not looking for it would zip right past it, even at slow speeds. David believed this was partly why they had been safe for so long.

He swung the truck wide and onto the dirt road. About a half-mile to go. He ground gears again, not quite in tune with the rhythm of the clutch and stick. The engine bellowed as tires grabbed the dirt and grass and rock. The tiny road morphed into two dusty strips, signaling he’d reached the pocked and pitted driveway. The Dodge bounced its way along, limbs and brush closing in and scratching the sides like fingernails on a chalk board. David gritted his teeth at the sound. He’d rather deal with the stink of death than that infernal sound.

Finally, he reached the end and killed the engine, bringing peace and quiet back to this secluded spot.

The fog lights still shone bright, lighting up the trailer house. David spotted Mitch on the narrow porch. Undoubtedly blinded by the brilliance, Mitch welcomed him by pointing a rifle directly at the truck.
 

David rocked the switch for the lamps, dousing them, then hopped out on unsteady legs, his palms to the dark and starry sky. He rounded the front of the truck.

“Mitch, it’s me, David.”

Mitch continued sighting the gun at the truck. He swayed. Then fired.

David dropped to his belly, the gunshot ringing fresh in his ears. Weeds and grass tickled his nose and ears, but he dared not rise. Still lying face down, he yelled, “What the fuck, Mitch?” He started patting himself, feeling for a wound, for blood.

Another gunshot. David covered his head. And then he heard a
thump
.

“Goddamn it, David,” Mitch said, stumbling down the stairs, rifle barrel perched backward on his shoulder.
 

David chanced a glance, saw Mitch walking to the bed of the truck. Deciding the bullets were not meant for him, he pushed to his feet, legs even more shaky than before. He sidled up to Mitch, then understood.

“Ya gotta bring these fuckers back with you, man?” Mitch turned his head and spat a wad of chewing tobacco, and alcohol sullied the air.

David rubbed his still simmering neck. There, slumped over the truck’s bed railing, was Angela. Or what had once been Angela.

In the bed. She was in the bed. Should have checked the fucking bed.

Now that he thought about it, he had also forgotten to check the backseat. He was lucky tonight. Very lucky.

Mitch hoisted the rifle with one hand, pointed toward the woods. Slightly slurring, he said, “Heard you coming a mile away. What are you trying to do? Give away our location to every goddamn zombie in Texas?”