Dead South Rising: Book 1 (24 page)

Randy drove the truck about fifty yards down the highway, then stopped.

Leonard said, “What are you doing, man?”

“Yeah,” Taneesha added, “Why you stop?”

Randy glanced around. “David.”

Leonard cocked a brow, “David? Who’s David?”

“I’ve got to give David a chance to get back.”

Gazing into the rearview mirror on the passenger side door, Leonard said, “I don’t mean to be all Negative Nancy, but if he’s back there …” He punctuated his remark with pursed lips and a head shake.

“He’s right,” Taneesha said. “If he’s in that by himself. Mmm. Only reason me an Lenny made it was ‘cause we had each other’s backs.”

Randy squeezed the steering wheel. “I’ve got to give him every chance to get back.”

The two newcomers glanced at each other, nods nearly imperceptible, their own private code. But Randy caught the exchange. And hoped that it was an innocent one.
 

He couldn’t lay there all night. He knew this. But he was content to do just that. To keep his eyes closed, his nostrils in the dirt, starry sky at his back. Like a bit of childhood magic, he felt invisible that way. Immune to the shufflers’ grasp and bite, immune to the sporadic gunshots cracking the cooling air, immune to the miasma of decay hovering above. David was safe—felt safe—and he wished it would last indefinitely.

And why not? He was just as invulnerable there, in that pasture of death and stink as he was back in the dually’s cab. But at least the pickup provided hope
with
safety. In the field, he wasn’t going anywhere, the proverbial sitting duck. Any survivalist worth his salt says if you want to increase your chances of being found, stay put. Don’t be a moving target. David didn’t want to be found, didn’t want that bull’s-eye on his back. If he was going to be a target, at least be the duck on the conveyor belt.

Just thinking about acting, doing something, got his mind moving as well, got him motivated. He felt like the gears were greased, the cogs clicking seamlessly, coalescing into one finely tuned and oiled machine. He halted his brooding over the bad, refocusing his energies on the positive and the possible.

As he pushed to his knees, though, his mind stumbled. Mitch’s death profoundly affected him. More than he cared to admit. Sure, he’d planned on killing Mitch himself. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t leave Sammy and Gills to die wrapped around that tree. And his mind
 
agonized in consternation, a see-saw of morality. Right and wrong, two paints of different color dumped in the same bucket and stirred, blending, becoming an entirely new color. A color he didn’t like. An ugly, useless color. But one that he saw splashed everywhere. He couldn’t keep up this back-and-forth charade, this terminator/savior persona. He needed to pick a side and stick with it, though he feared they were becoming one and the same, one indiscernible from the other.

He patted El Jefe, his protection and solace. It would be his divining rod to the truth through this filth-filled world. After unsnapping the thumb break, he tugged the ornately carved Walther out of the holster. As it lay across his palms, he read it like a revered religious text, the black and white yin-yang engraved on the bone grips, the first and only commandment in his graying world. Him against them. He knew it wasn’t chance. It would keep him grounded, focused. His eyes turned skyward, lips mumbling, and then he tucked away his precious prize.
 

Up the hill, the gunfire had dwindled considerably, the occasional whip and crack piercing an otherwise peaceful night. He finished pressing to his feet, brushing himself free of grass, dirt, and other detritus. The moon was high, hung among a myriad of twinkling stars. There were so, so many. He wished he’d taken the time to truly enjoy them before … all this. Wished he’d enjoyed them with Natalee, spent more time with Karla. Maybe Natalee wouldn’t have left him those many months ago. Maybe Karla would still be alive.

He dreaded plunging back into the stretch of thick forest. With his hearing slightly compromised from firing his gun earlier in the day, he had to rely more heavily on a handicapped sense of sight. Though the glowing crescent above shone bright, it wasn’t a full moon. Besides, the woods were dark, even darker than the field in which he now stood. But despite the ringing in his ears, he heard movement—shuffling. His head slowly pivoted in search of the perambulating dead. And he found what he was searching for. More of them. One actually tripped, toppling to the ground in a face-plant that would have sent a living person to the emergency room. If emergency rooms still existed, of course.

Still, he reckoned his chances against the dead were better than against the living. Given the slew of gunshots that had come from up by the house, going back the way he came made the most sense. While he’d love nothing more than to hop back on the bike and get to the truck more expediently, he didn’t want to chance an encounter with Sammy and Gills. If he could get far away, he doubted they’d ever be a problem again. With everyone dying, the world was getting bigger, easier to hide in.

David started backtracking, avoiding the occasional grope and grab. One shuffler managed to hook his shirt sleeve, but a hearty yank freed it. The earlier slaughter had planted plenty of stench on the air, so he couldn’t rely on his nose to warn him.
 

Something stirred his curiosity, though. For the better part of their stay at the trailer, they had fended off the occasional wandering corpse, two at a time at most. It was nothing like the pack Randy had shown him earlier that day, and nothing like the sprinkling of shufflers now filtering through the field. Noise attracted them, sure. He’d figured out that much. But the population density this far out in the country was thin at best. It was the primary reason he believed they were not bothered much, existed in relative peace. With the exception of Mitch, of course.

It was on the ground, in the tree’s shadow, as he rounded the pond. Too busy musing, he didn’t even see it. Not that it would have been easy to spot, anyway. The dead fingers wrapped around his ankle like a pair of vice-grips, and he fell forward, that ever-famous rug pulled right out from under him. A searing pain spiraled through his wrist and arm when he hit, and immediately he hoped it was only sprained.

The dead man latched onto David’s leg with his other hand, pulling himself up David’s body like climbing a rope. Anticipation of a warm meal got it growling and snapping.

David flailed wildly, desperate to avoid the death sentence a bite would bring about. He twisted his torso, tried to free his knife pinned beneath his hip.

Running on pure instinct, the monster tried to close its gaping jaws on David’s hamstring, eager for satiation that only fresh flesh could provide. With every snap of its mouth, the thing’s teeth slid harmlessly against David’s jeans. Until his last bite.

David screamed. A deep, guttural scream. He couldn’t be bit. He just couldn’t be. He’d seen what happens to people, and it couldn’t happen to him. He simply wouldn’t let it. He had people to protect, to care for, to save. How could he do that if he couldn’t save himself?

He kicked fiercely. Freeing his knife, he flexed his arm best he could given the awkward angle, then let the blade rip through the air. It grazed off the shuffler’s skull, and he nearly stabbed his own leg. He cocked his arm again, then fired. The blade hit its mark, piercing the attacker’s temple. A hiss, just like the one Old Man Bartlett had let loose, leaked from the thing, and David felt its grip dying along with it.

Finally, the creature’s clutch on him faded to nothing, and David dragged himself away, his breaths shallow and fast. He sat there on the ground, knife gripped tightly, expecting the beast to come at him again. He waited, but the dead being didn’t stir, even though David thought he saw movement. He kept his gaze locked on it for several seconds, letting his breathing, beating heart, and nerves all sync back up.

It happened so damn fast.

Learning his lesson quickly, he scanned the area around him, listening. Sniffing the air. There was movement, an ambling figure, but it would take it a minute or so to reach him. But there were others, and they had noticed the struggle on the ground.

Two of them, to his left, nearly on top of him. His leg throbbed and his right wrist was already swelling. Neither a good sign. But thanks to his body pumping enough epinephrine to fill a keg, he felt no pain in either.

He held his blade to the sky as the first corpse descended on him, dropping to its knees, jaws unhinged and primed. But it never had a chance. David nailed its mandible shut, pinning the dead soul’s mouth closed with the knife. Head on a stick. But the way the beast stumbled twisted the knife from David’s weakened hand, leaving the implement embedded, the handle hanging like some newfangled goatee.

David scrambled, heels kicking away the body while sliding on his ass to avoid the shuffler’s friend. It reached for him with talon hands, its torso hinged, swooping down on him.

There was no time to think, only time to react. Yanking his pistol, he pointed the barrel at the brute above just as their ankles tangled, sending the corpse crashing down on top of him, and they were face to face. David had never smelled anything so foul and wretched as the bilious breath of the dead, and he heaved, the stench a finger down his throat. When he retched, his hand spasmed with the involuntary convulsion, propelling the first shot through the shuffler’s shoulder.

It seemed indifferent, not aware of any pain, though David could sense diminished motor skills. It didn’t stop, but it slowed.

He coughed, clearing his throat, spitting residual vomit at the snarling thing, then jabbed his handgun underneath its chin. It kept coming, incessantly snapping its teeth, grinding on him, searching for a handle. David turned his face away, eyes and lips closed tight, and pulled the trigger.

He couldn’t escape it—the explosion of meat, bone, and blood—and he instantly felt sick again. He managed to avoid saturating his eyes and mouth, but his nose and ears … he felt like he’d just gone swimming in a rotting pool of mud, sticks and grass. But it was everything hitting him: the smell, the texture, the taste. He gagged again.

What was left of the thing’s head lolled on David’s face and its body went limp. David frantically shoved the corpse off of him, then rolled onto his side, still gagging, coughing, spitting. His ears stung, the gunshot still ringing fresh, the only thing that was fresh.

An obscene vileness that he couldn’t wipe clean covered him. He felt stained, tattooed by death. It would be with him forever.

He didn’t know how much attention he’d drawn, how many more there were. The grainy grit blinded him, dripped from his face. He tried opening his eyes, tried crying to clear his vision. Funny how the tears never came when he wanted them to.

Get to the pond.

He was close. He could get there, rid himself of the gnarly nastiness, and get the hell out of there. Willing his body to action, he dragged himself along the ground, El Jefe still clutched, ready for the next attacker.

It came much sooner than he’d anticipated. He sensed it, the ambling figure to his right, but he couldn’t see it, his eyes clogged with gunk. And he heard it only because it was so close. Still on his belly, he pointed his pistol in the direction of the growling, blasted off a few rounds, praying he’d at least slow the thing down. He thought he heard at least one bullet hit its mark, and he tried to wipe his lids clean so he could confirm his hope. Squinting through a bleary haze, the monster’s head eclipsed the moon. David took full advantage, firing off rounds into the black hole in the middle of the glowing halo.

The moon appeared again, freed, David having hit his mark. He let his head and hand drop back to the ground while he pulled in deep breaths. Thrumming fast and hard, his heart was a vibrator on cocaine. He was trembling, but numb. He glanced around, best he could, and listened. There were more of them.

Move, move, move!

So shaken, so nerve-racked, he barely felt the ground, barely knew up from down. He was seconds from the finish line, and he had to summon every bit of will left inside him to get to the water’s edge.

Pushing to his elbows, he ground his way forward, dragging himself over the earth even though his legs still worked. He felt dried out, withered, despite dripping sweat and blood. Ahead, only a few feet away, water rippled from a feeding fish.

His hand found sanctuary first, and he instantly splashed his face over and over, clearing the crud. It was wonderful and refreshing in a way he’d never experienced before. He forced himself to stop long enough to listen, to peer behind him, but the threats were not immediate. He had time, precious seconds were his alone.

The cleaner his face got, the cleaner his hands and arms got, the more he desired a thorough, full-body cleansing. Just as much for his physical self as his mental self.

Surely they wouldn’t wander into the water.

Before he rolled into the pond, he had the presence of mind to release the gun, leaving it on the bank. He’d make this quick. No time for a Calgon moment. He had only a minute or two, then the next batch would be on him.

The water was warm, but felt like another world. A pleasant world. One free of hate and bullets and gnashing teeth. He floated farther out, dipping his head under, scrubbing furiously at the filth, then resurfaced. Once his face was clear and he could see again, he scanned the bank, the trees, what he could see of the field. Shadows moved, but none were close. He’d earned a reprieve, and he would take it.

But his throbbing hamstring started to awaken, and his spirits nose-dived. His adrenaline tank full, he’d already forgotten about the bite and his twisted wrist. Both were tender. One would most likely heal on its own. The other …

He couldn’t stand it any longer, had to know if it was worth fighting for his life any longer. If the bite was as bad as it felt, he may as well call it a day. And a life.

Thank you for playing, contestant. You made it to day number twenty-two of the zombie apocalypse before being voted off the island of the living. It was wonderful having you, and we hope you’ll enjoy your stay in the land of the dead. Watch out for those humans! They’re tasty, but feisty!