Dead South Rising: Book 1 (35 page)

David swiped his eye with the pad of his thumb, blinking madly. He wanted to be angry. Angrier. Not sad, reminiscing.
 

“Dave.”

David stopped at the sound of his name being called aloud. Another brush of his thumb across his cheek, and he pivoted on his heel to face the rich voice. “Hey, Gabriel.”

The old man dipped his chin at David, eyed him a moment before speaking. “Everything okay, Dave?”

David nodded. “Yeah, sure.” A quick sniffle.
 

The Janitor did not push.
   

Shifting attention from himself, David said, “Um, how’s Roy?”

“Been better. Brought him inside. Trying to talk him into letting us take Scotty down, so we can have a proper funeral.”

David wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “He not being agreeable?”

The Janitor exhaled a big breath, looked down the hall, away from David. “This … plague. Messes with people’s minds. People like you, me … we see it for what it is—death walking. Those people out there”—he pointed a crooked, bony finger toward the front doors—“outside that fence … ain’t sick. You know that. I know that. Some people
think
they know that. But when they see someone they know—someone they love—logic … reasoning … it all goes out the window.”

“So Roy thinks his boy’s just sick.”
Said the hypocrite.

The Janitor nodded, eyes back on David. “Had to hold him back. Tried to open the front gate and let Scotty in.”

“Jesus.”

“I don’t blame him, Dave. I really don’t. Scotty’s the only family Roy’s got left.” He shook his head. “It’s hard, trying not to be insensitive. But this ain’t some flu bug that clears up in a few days. I’ve become desensitized to it quicker than I’d care to admit. But you gotta be, or else you’ll act like Roy.” He finished by jabbing a thumb toward the front doors. “And folks like Roy, well …” He let David fill in the blank.

And David filled it in with himself. He swallowed hard to stave off the flood of hypocrisy surging his throat, trying to make itself known. His thoughts immediately swooped to Natalee.

“I’m gonna make a quick trip …” David said, pointing to the dock doors.

Gabriel raised one brow while the other fell over his squinty eye. The accusatory look made David feel uneasy.

“You sure about that? Can’t it wait?”

“It’s something I really need to take care of. Today.”

The Janitor’s impaling look never ceased. Stroking his chin, he added, “Certainly can’t stop you. Can’t say that it’s wise, either.”

“If it wasn’t important—”

The Janitor reeled in his piercing gaze, waving David off. “Hell, you’re a big boy. You know what you’re doing, El Jefe.”

David cringed slightly. He was beginning to loathe the nickname. He was no chief. Didn’t ask to be. Never cared to be. Circumstances had dictated action, action carved out Karma, and now Karma was making good on universal promises.
 

He decided that once he set his wife free, he would reinvent himself. Shed the El Jefe moniker and everything else he’d lived with prior to this whole dead debacle, up to this very moment. Return to his roots, to who he really was. Do the right thing for the right people. Bryan deserved a role model, someone to look up to. David could be that person, but he needed to set his wife—and his demons—free.
 

The Alamo was a good place. A safe place. Staying made sense. But he’d keep an open mind. He was leery of relying on others to such a degree. He wasn’t a loner, but life on the road—on the move—still appealed to him as an option if need be, despite his initial thoughts of a place like this one. He thought back to the fifth-wheel travel trailers he’d seen on the way to the Alamo. One would be perfect for them. For Bryan, for Jessica.

Always greener on the other side. Always want what you don’t have.

They had safety, shelter, sustenance, society—all right here. And now that they’d found it, he was seriously considering other alternatives.

He was sure that Randy would stay, though. Lenny and Randy were getting along famously. They connected, like two brothers separated at birth, reunited.

“… do you mind?”

David had totally tuned out the Janitor. “I’m sorry. My ears … from firing the pistol the other day … still ringing,” he lied. “What was that?”

Gabriel was holding what looked like a business card between his fingers and extending it to David.

David accepted it, reading it aloud. “Alamo Assisted Living, eight eighty-nine, Highway—”

“No, no. The back. Flip it over,” the Janitor said, twirling a finger.

David turned the card. On the back, he found a short, hand-written list.

The Janitor said, “Excuse my chicken-scratch.”

David’s eyes bounced from the Janitor to the card and back.

“It’s a list of medical supplies for Doc Gonzalez. Some things we’d planned on picking up for her today. If you’re going out anyway, I figured—”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. No problem,” David said, waving his hand. More déjà vu.

“I can send Lenny with you.”

David, scrunching his lips, shaking his head, said, “No, don’t worry about it. Y’all have your hands full here with that rotting mob out front. Plus, trying to deal with Scotty and Roy.” He waved his hand again. “I got this.”

“We normally don’t send anyone solo. Too dangerous.” Gabriel rubbed his chin again, eyes to the floor. “Look, I know you’re trying to pull your weight, be tough and all that, but you’d be much safer with backup. Another set of eyes and hands, ya know?”

“I appreciate it, Gabriel. I really do. But I’ll be fine. I practically lived in town for weeks during the worst of it. By myself. So don’t worry about it.”

Those piercing gray irises peeking out from beneath the Janitor’s black bushy brows cut at David. Sliced at him. Carved him up and left him to bleed out pure guilt. He didn’t want to appear ungracious, an unappreciative guest—the asshole.

Mitch had been the asshole. He wouldn’t be Mitch.

“Really, Gabriel.” He forced a smile. “I’ll be okay.” He held the card up, flicked it with a snap. “And I’ll pick up the supplies. No sweat.”

The Janitor expelled a sigh of defeat. “Alright. I see there ain’t no convincing you.” With a beckoning hand, he turned and started away. “Follow me. Got one more thing for you.”

Tom sat in David Morris’s La-Z-Boy recliner, his elbows propped on the armrests, Ruger Vaquero’s flipping on his fingers. He twirled the one in his right hand one full rotation, then grasped it, stopping the spin. The barrel pointed skyward, and he clicked the hammer back.

He spun the gun in his left hand as he dropped the hammer of the other. Cocking the left gun, he twirled the right. And so this went on, an alternating twirling, stopping, cocking, dropping. If the steel could sing, it would sing in a round.

Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream—

“Gonna blow your goddamned head off, there, Doc,” Sammy said, another granola bar filling his mouth. “Getting all fancy and show-offy, spinning them pea shooters.”

“Would you please finish chewing before addressing me. Please.” Tom continued his alternating firearms acrobatics while he stared through the thin blue curtain that hung over the living room windows.

From his seat on the stairs, Gills piped up. “Could see better if you’d open that curtain.”

“Leave it be,” Tom said.

Gills shrugged. “Whatever.”

Tom Mackey continued his vigilant gaze through the fabric and glass, his eyes never veering, barely blinking.

Sammy swallowed, then cleared his throat. It didn’t help. His voice still sounded torn and shredded. “What makes you so sure he’s coming?”

Twirl. Cock. Twirl. Drop.

Still working his guns, he gave a nod toward the undead woman duct taped to the dining room chair. “He’ll come for her.”

“And if he don’t?”

Tom stopped spinning his guns, barrels pointed to the ceiling. He pressed to his feet, and turned to face the two men behind him. “Then,” he said through his thick southern drawl, “I guess your services are no longer required.” He slowly lowered one of his revolvers at Sammy.

Sammy showed his palms, backpedaling, falling into a chair. “Whoa now, Doc. Easy there. I ain’t saying—”

“Then what
are
you saying?” He stepped forward.

“I’m just saying”—he twisted his head toward Guillermo—“Help me out here, Gills.” Sweat was beading on his forehead. His head swiveled again. “Gills?”

 
“He’ll come,” Guillermo said, dragging the blade of his Bowie knife along the speed-bump scars on his cheeks. “He’ll come.”

Tom smiled, motioned to Guillermo. “Now see? Gills gets it. He understands.”

Sammy sat splayed in the chair, arms and legs cocked at odd angles. He looked like he would slide right off the seat.

“Now relax, Sam. Have another … whatever you were partaking of.” He turned back to the window, rounded the chair, and sat back down. Planting his elbows, he resumed the firearms circus act on his fingers.

Sammy sighed, relief ringing in his breath. The wooden chair creaked under him as he straightened. Shooting Gills a glance, he said, “The fuck you looking at?”

Guillermo smiled, then chuckled, the blade still scraping his cheeks. He laughed harder until it finally morphed into a genuine belly laugh, his stout shoulders shaking.

“Asshole,” Sammy muttered through a frown. He leaned forward, staring at nothing.

“Behave, boys. And remember the plan.” Twirl, stop, cock, drop. “Either of you kills him before I exact my revenge, you die. Clear?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said under his breath.

“Sí.”

“Good, gentlemen. That’s very good.”

Sammy said, “What about her?” He pointed to the dead woman gagged and taped to the chair. She could barely move.

Tom didn’t turn to look. “Same goes for her. You touch her, you go straight to dead.”

After a few silent moments, Sammy stood. “Well I’m bored outta my fucking mind.”

“Sit.”

“Jesus, Doc. You can’t expect us to just sit here and—”

“I do and you will.”

Twirl, stop, click, drop, twirl.

From the staircase, Gills looked at Sammy, shook his head, then resumed dragging the massive blade over his scarred cheeks.
 

It was happening all over again. That cursed déjà vu, latching onto him like a rabid dog he just couldn’t shake. Everyone experienced the phenomenon at one time or another, sooner or later, some more often than others. David felt like he’d had more than his fair share. And there he stood, the recent past in the palm of his hand. Again.

“Channel eight,” the Janitor said, nodding at the two-way radio.

David sighed a deep sigh. “Thanks.” He glanced at the logo. Jesus. It was even the same brand as Mitch’s.

“I doubt the signal’s strong enough to reach where you’re headed, but it’s best to have some way to communicate case we need to come looking for you.”

“I’m sure I’ll be alright.”

The Janitor paused, lips and tongue working like he’d dipped a wad of chew. Or maybe his dentures were just being fussy. “It’s a different world out there, Dave. You don’t just call Triple ‘A’ if your truck breaks down.”

“You’re right.” He held up the radio, forced a smile. “I’ll keep it on channel eight. Just in case.”

The Janitor reciprocated with his own signature smile, his porcupine mustache bustling above his lip.

Changing the subject, and hoping the Janitor wouldn’t steer it back, David said, “Y’all going to try to clear the fence?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Gonna distract them long enough for you to get by, then hole up inside, take ourselves off the menu. Standing around outside just excites them.” He rapped his knuckles against the counter. “Got a few projects we can work on in here. Keep us busy for a day or two. And I need some time to work on the Infirmaries, convince them that mowing down rattlers is the right thing to do.” He closed the cabinet where the walkie-talkies were stored. “What time you plan to be back?”

When the deed is done, Gabe. When the deed is done.

“Later this afternoon. Definitely before dark. Shouldn’t be an all day event.”

“Good. I’d advise a short outing.”

David shifted on his feet, the Janitor’s stalling puncturing his patience. “Alright, then.” He reached for the door.

“Wish you’d reconsider.”

David stopped, his fuse lit. He’d finally found something to get angry about. Turning back to Gabriel, he said through grinding jaws, “I appreciate it, Gabriel. Your concern. I do. But I have something very important to tend to. Today.” He let his eyes lock with Gabriel’s. He stared a hard stare, unwavering. A stare that sent a message.

You don’t control me. You are not my parents, my father. Let me take care of mine, you take care of yours. And we’ll get along just fine. Just let … me … be. For now. Please.

He could tell the Janitor was running his tongue along his front teeth by the way his lip bulged and his mustache bristled. Probably trying to hold his tongue without actually biting it.
 

And at that moment, David began to question whether he could live under the Janitor’s little convalescent council. He was already feeling like a teenager who had moved out of his parents’ house, only to be grudgingly forced to go back and live for a spell. Until he could get back on his feet again. The parents, meanwhile, not realizing, recognizing, that he’d grown up, become a man. His own man. Who could make his own decisions. His own rules. Who knew what was best for himself. Only he really hadn’t, really didn’t.

“Okay?” David asked, his gaze still set to stun.

The Janitor, narrowing his eyes with barely a nod, simply said, “Sure, Dave.”

David dipped his chin, near a whisper, “Okay.”

They set out down the hall, a brick wall of silence between them.

Someone approached the duo. The doctor, Luz Gonzalez. “Hey, Janitor.” She nodded at David. “David.” To the Janitor, “Can I talk to you for a sec? It’s about—”

Gabriel waved the woman off, shaking his head. “In a bit, Luz. Got some business to take care of right quick. Something Lenny might can help with?”