Dead South Rising: Book 1 (44 page)

Jess brushed a tear from her cheek. “Bitten?”

Randy shook his head again, though not quite as forcefully.

“Someone … living? Killed …?”

This time Randy nodded. “Yeah. Someone else did it. It wasn’t David.”

And she was suddenly much more scared. Much more afraid. Going on terrified. She didn’t ask him who had actually killed Mitch, not that Randy would have known. Or maybe he did. She just automatically assumed Sammy and/or Gills had done the deed. Who else would have done it? If Randy was right, if Sammy was willing to kill his own brother, or allow Gills to do it for him, he’d have no qualms about taking David, a complete stranger, out of the game of life.

She was officially terrified.

And now she understood why Sammy had refused to let her talk to Mitch on the radio. He had lied about him not being there. In a sense, anyway.

Try me, Sammy’d said. Just try me, and see if your boy David lives. You got till nine o’clock to get your fine little ass out here. Now don’t you be late for our date, sweet cheeks.

Those kissy, smoochy sounds. That chuckle.

Ugh.

She swung the passenger door open, leaned out, and retched. She couldn’t stop it, snuck up on her much too fast and all at once. Her insides were spinning, a blender on high.

When she finished emptying her stomach, she sat up slowly, brushing hair out of her face, running her arm across her lips. Her throat burned, sizzled with sick. Her eyes were glazed and glassy. She needed to cry, but couldn’t. The tears had unexpectedly dried up, disappeared. Her whole body spun, catching up with her insides, and she fought off another round of vomiting.
 

Randy said, “Close your door.”

She was still dazed, unaware.

Randy tried again. “Jess, close your door. Hurry.”

Her head did a slow turn to look at him, and he quickly started the car, throwing it in gear. It lurched forward. And as it did, Jessica felt the tug on her shirt.

The undead lady didn’t get a good grip, and Jessica stayed in the car, mostly. She was suddenly thankful for the little things, like her habit of buckling up.

Seatbelts save lives.

As the car jolted forward, the door swung closed on her arm, acting as both a hinderance and a help. More help than hinderance, since it forced the undead woman to break her grasp. Jessica didn’t even scream, but the door slamming on her arm seemed to wake her from her trance.

“Ow, shit!” Jess yanked her arm back inside the vehicle, the rotting corpse beating on the outside of the car. She cradled her throbbing, soon-to-be-bruised arm.

With all of Jessica’s parts safely inside the vehicle again, Randy jammed on the gas and hauled ass about a mile down the road. The area appeared devoid of shufflers, so he stopped. But he kept a keen eye out. Highway 204 wasn’t much more than a slim hallway through thick forest, a narrow strip of darkening sky for a ceiling. Light was leaving them fast. As was time. Sammy had been clear about that, too.

Killing the engine, he said, “Jess, I’m so sorry. I should have told you. But I promised David … he wanted to be the one to tell you. Since he found him and all. I’m so sorry.”

The spinning was slowing, and she was starting to feel grounded again. She sat quietly for another minute or so.
 

The very real possibility of David’s death weighed heavy now and she understood the gravity of the incredibly volatile situation. She hadn’t taken Sammy seriously, thought he was full of shit. Boys being boys and such. She had talked back to him, even. Given him lip. David had sounded like crap when Sammy put him on. Didn’t even sound like himself, truth be told, and she questioned if it was really him. Actually thought it was Mitch fucking with her. But things were getting very real, very fast.

“We’ve got to go now.” She slapped the dash.

Randy nodded. “Right. Good idea. Get back to the Alamo, get some reinforcements, come back—”

“No,” Jess said, “we’ve got to go to Mitch’s.”

He just stared at her for a few seconds, big fish eyes blinking unbelievably, swimming behind thick fishbowl glasses. Finally, he spoke up. “It’s a suicide mission, Jess. Ain’t no two ways about it. Call it Kamikaze if you’d like, but if we go out there … those maniacs will kill us.” He let out a heavy breath. “And us dying won’t save David. So the only option I see’s to get back to the Alamo, round up some folks and—”

Jessica raised her voice, startling him. “There’s no time, Randy. Don’t you get it? Sammy made it clear. If we’re not there by nine o’clock, David’s as good as dead.”

And to think just that very afternoon she’d dismissed clocks and the extinct need for time. She suddenly found herself fighting her old nemesis again. Time was everything. Then nothing. Then everything again.

Time.

“We don’t have time, Randy,” Jessica said. Her voice shook with fear and anger and regret. And impatience. Randy had made his argument, and Jessica would have none of it. “They’ll kill him. They said they would.” Her eyes glassed over, no longer able to contain the salty flood surging behind them, replenished. “They killed Mitch, and I believe they’ll kill David.” And she meant it.

Jess knew she was right. Had a knack for it. Sixth sense, woman’s intuition, whatever folks wanted to call it. She had an accurate and acute case of it. Always had, all her life. And despite Randy’s persistent resistance, he knew it, too.
 

Now, only moments away from Mitch’s place, they had to make a critical decision.

Randy removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and said softly, “I don’t want to die, Jess. They’ll kill me. I held a gun to their faces. I helped cuff them to that tree.” He sniffled. “They’ll kill David whether we go out there or not. He’s just bait. They won’t kill you. They’ll kill me.” His hands had begun to visibly tremble.

Jessica felt for him, laid a hand on his arm.

And as badly as she hated to admit it, Randy was probably right. On both counts. She doubted that Sammy and Guillermo would kill her. They were bad dudes, for sure. No doubt about it. And she suspected serious evil intent, specifically with regard to David and Randy’s executions. But not hers. Most likely take her hostage, prisoner. For what, she didn’t know. Maybe they’d force themselves on her. Have their way with her. Maybe.

She couldn’t even believe she was having to make such a decision. Only a month ago, she was standing in line at the grocery store. She couldn’t even remember what all she’d gone in for. Junk, probably. Trash food. Mitch was fond of chocolate-covered donuts, always sending her out for some.

Was. But not anymore, because he’s
dead.
Mitch. Is. Dead.

She shook her head with quick snaps, focusing. Time was slipping away. They were going to be late if they didn’t get going.

Driving in guns a’blazing would be suicidal, to use Randy’s term. But really, what other choice was there? When the clock struck nine, the guillotine would drop on David’s neck. They needed to be there to stop it. Or at least make it challenging.

She considered scouting the tree line, sneaking in through the south, as David had supposedly done. Randy had his rifle, but he wasn’t a great shot. It’d be risky. Much too risky. And it wouldn’t work, anyway. When she mentioned it, he shut her down immediately, citing his large, difficult-to-maneuver size and poor marksmanship. He was right on both counts. Not to mention his lack of confidence. There was no way he was traipsing through a mile of dense forest, not with his bulk. The brush and foliage were hardly conducive to brisk and furtive passage, even for someone of Jessica’s petite build. She struck the idea from the rapidly shrinking list.

Over the next several and very precious minutes, she wagered everything and anything that came to mind, no matter how ludicrous or outrageous. But nothing seemed even remotely workable. She saw no other way. If David had even a shred of hope for survival, she and Randy would have to go in with hands high, and pray for a merciful welcome.

But even then, she struggled with marching a man to his inevitable death. Maybe it was simply too late for David. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be. The end. Roll credits. Thanks for playing the game of life.
 

Tell him what he’s won, Grim Reaper. Well, Bob, David has just won an all-expenses-paid trip to the beautiful land of the afterlife. It’s off to the spirit world for him. But he won’t be alone. He’ll be accompanied by his best friends in the whole, wide world, Randy and Mitch. You remember Mitch, don’t cha, Dave? Left him to fend for himself, remember? He’s waiting, and he’s got a few questions for ya.

“They don’t know you’re with me.”

Randy glanced at Jessica. “I’m pretty sure they figured it out.”

“But I never confirmed it.”

He sighed deeply, shaking his head. “You heard him, Jess. You may not have said, ‘Randy’s with me,’ but they figured it out. They know.”

Fingers tapping her chin, she shook her head. “No, they don’t know for sure.”

“So then, what are you proposing we do?”

Still tapping at her chin, Jessica started laying out the only plausible plan she could see having a slightly better outcome than the storied snowball’s chance in hell.
 

As David sat on the steps leading up to Mitch’s porch, praying harder than he’d ever prayed before, he heard exactly what he’d prayed he wouldn’t hear—the humming engine of a compact car wending up the cruel driveway. Toward him. Toward suffering. Toward the inevitable slaughter.

Thanks for fucking nothing. Amen.

David was done praying. Done with it. Over it. That meant depending on himself. For once. Maybe that’s what the guy upstairs had been trying to tell him all along.

Get your shit together, man. I can help, but I can’t do
everything
for you.

The little metallic blue car—at least it
looked
metallic blue in the glow of twilight—emerged from the dense cave of brush and trees, slowing to a crawl as it ticked up to the trailer.

On the porch, Sammy’s body was hinged as he leaned comfortably on crossed forearms against the railing. He took a small step back, dipping his head, and launched a wad of chewing tobacco into the sun-fried flower garden below. Truth be told, that slimy brown wad of goo was probably the only moisture the flowerbed had seen in weeks.
 

“Well, looky here. Right on time,” Sammy said, a chew-stained grin chiseling his chin as he straightened. He brushed the back of his forearm across his lips. “I didn’t think they’d show. Guess that means you get to live a few minutes longer, El Jefe.” He punctuated his observation with a chuckle, then adjusted his hat, being careful of his recently chewed on and shot up ears.

David didn’t even bother glancing up at Sam from his seat on the front steps. Doing so would just fan his flaming anger. The sight of Sammy repulsed him, enraged him. He wanted so badly to punch the cocky redneck in the throat. Repeatedly.

Instead, he strained his one good eye, the one not swollen shut, and searched the windows for occupants. He couldn’t see into the car, the sky’s gleam painting the glass in purple opaque hues, obscuring the bodies inside. And despite his exponential aggravation, he shuddered, nervous and scared for Jessica and for how this horrible day would finally finish. No happy endings in sight.

“Move it,” Sammy said, towering above David.

With an audible, pain-filled grunt, David slid to the side, clearing the steps for Sammy to descend. He toyed with tripping him, reaching out and grabbing one of his blood-spattered boots, and sending him chin-first into the sticker burrs and rock. But he didn’t, thought better of it. Actually considered the consequences, for once. He’d only succeed in pissing off the asshole Neanderthal, making things that much harder on Jessica and himself. He’d save his strength for when it counted.

Sammy clomped down the steps and into the sorry excuse of a yard. He greeted the vehicle with his revolver drawn. The car stopped just short of him, bumper hugging his shins.

David almost expected Jessica to plow over Sammy, wished she would. He could see it play out in his head, the perfect scenario. Sammy creamed by the car. Gills would come running and Jess would stop him cold with a bullet to the face. Game over. Fuck you for playing.

But this wasn’t a TV show, and it wasn’t a movie. Such an endeavor carried too much risk, and Jess didn’t know what she was getting into, what awaited her, exactly. For all she knew, they had David strung up to a keg of dynamite and hanging from a tree. One wrong move and
kaboom
. While she shared many of her cousin’s traits, she was more the cautious sort. Much more so than David.

“C’mon out, now,” Sammy said. He waved his hand cannon at the idling vehicle.

Gun it
, David quietly urged.
Gun the gas, run over his ass. Do it. Do it. DO IT.

But no such thing happened. The whirring engine stopped, the driver having twisted the key. Silence now, save for the nocturnal insects and Sammy’s creaking boots as he shifted warily, anticipating trouble. The clicking back of the .357’s hammer jolted David, stepped on his frayed nerves.

The driver side door opened, and Jessica stepped from the car.

David’s heart clawed its way up into his throat, cutting off breath and voice. He reached up, clutched the railing, and pulled himself to a standing position. It hurt, standing up, and the time sitting on the steps had allowed his body to stiffen, a pre-rigor mortis state of sorts. A preview to non-movement, how it’d feel once he was dead. If the dead could feel.

The sight of her lit his soul with a hopeful flame. But he wished she hadn’t come. He would preferred to have sacrificed himself for her. Even if he couldn’t save his estranged wife, Natalee, he could have saved Jessica, redeemed himself that way. She still had a chance, a future—albeit a grim future in a world of walking cadavers, but a future nonetheless. She risked that future coming here to save him. He had a hard time believing he was worth it.

“Hands,” Sammy said. “Let’s seem ‘em, sweet cheeks.” He cut his eyes to David, having heard the wood railing creak when David pulled himself up. “You, sit back down.”