Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (6 page)

David simply nodded, lazy gaze still glued to the glass.

She blew another breath, exasperation swirling in it. She crossed her arms, raised her voice. “David.” A moment later, “
David
.”

He swiveled his head slowly, his empty eye locking on hers.

With an upturned palm, she motioned to Bryan, who stood in the doorway. “He brought you a present. The least you could do is say, ‘
thank you
.’”

David couldn’t seem to focus his mind or his sight, both shifting, drifting, chasing his wandering thoughts. His gaze landed everywhere and anywhere, but avoided Bryan. Finally, with his chin dipped to the floor, a pained whisper left his lips. “Thank you, Bryan.”

Jessica huffed, tilting her head.
 

David glanced up at her, the world in slow motion. He wanted to be alone, just left the fuck
alone
. He wasn’t done beating himself up, yet. Wasn’t done making himself… hollow.

“David… please.”

He sat there, motionless. Finally, he held his palm to her, but kept his gaze grounded.

Understanding, she pulled her knife from its sheath, handed it to him. Embarrassed, she smiled at Bryan.

The hilt felt wrong, like it didn’t belong there in his grip. He’d lost his own knife—Mitch’s old knife—at his house, where he’d been jumped, beaten. While his dead wife watched.

Another damn tear. He thought of scraping it away with the blade, of plunging the steel into his own eye to end the tears. Then he’d cry blood, a more fitting tribute. Instead, he let it be.

He rested his hand on the box, adjusting his grip on the knife. Then sighed. He just wasn’t up for this. Not now. But the boy had gone through God knows how much trouble, and David owed him that much.

Open your present. Smile. Nod. Thank him again. Don’t be an asshole. He’s just a kid, for Chrissake. Promise to get together with him later. Play catch or something. After you finish beating yourself up.

Another sigh, heavier this time.

At least smile at the kid.

But traitorous muscles left him barely able to blink, breathe, let alone smile.

“David.” Jessica’s voice clapped off the white cinder block walls with a snappy echo, and he flinched. He noticed Bryan flinch, too.

His eye roved again, forced himself to move. Finally, he focused, funneling his attention to the box on his lap. He made short work of the clear tape, opened the flaps. Peered inside. And he was quiet. Still.

“Well?” Jessica stood there, arms still crossed. “David, what is it? What’s inside?” She shot Bryan a smile, then looked at David again.

He couldn’t move. Just stared. Spots pecked at his vision, his throat twisted. His heart kicked wildly against sore ribs. A shivering breath. The tears resumed like they’d never stopped. Deep within him, a different anger, a different sorrow, crashed, exploded.

“David? You’re scaring me…”

He didn’t hear her. All he could hear was the sound of another’s voice. The voice of a woman he had fallen in love with, had asked to marry him. Who had said
yes
and had bore his only child, Karla. A woman he’d promised to take care of, to love ’til death did them part.

’Til death do us part. Here’s one of my parts… dear.

He couldn’t stop himself. He reached into the box, and held her hand once again, his thumb stroking the blood-caked skin. He recognized her hand, knew it was hers. Doubt did not exist. But if there
were
any doubt, it was quashed by the ring on the dainty decaying finger. He’d recognize that ring anywhere. He’d found it, picked it out, bought it. Gave it to her—a happy proposal on bended knee—and laid eyes on it everyday thereafter. Touched it when they’d held hands, just like now. He knew her hand well, and the ring was simply his last name attached.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there like that, holding his dead wife’s hand inside that box. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours. No way to tell. He didn’t hear Jessica scream, didn’t notice her run out of the room, yanking Bryan with her. Didn’t notice her come back into the room, tears streaming down her face, Randy in tow, along with Doctor Gonzalez, others. Didn’t notice them all looking at him, talking to him, at him, coaxing him to let go—to just
let go
.

He’d found his wife. Or she’d found him.

With Southern Comfort-fueled patience, Tom Mackey waited. Sip, swallow, wait, repeat. His trigger fingers itched, craved a kill. A very important kill. The kill of his life.
 

He’s in there, dahlin’. And he’s alive, so says the boy.

I know he is, Doc. And you will kill him. Soon. For me.

For you. Soon. I will.

Three days ago, he’d returned to Mitch’s place to retrieve his dead—
murdered
—wife’s body, to lay her to rest. Kate deserved a proper burial. He would not allow her to rot on the side of that shitty driveway like so much roadkill. And she was there, right where he’d left her that horrible night, after finding her viciously run over. Mauled by metal and rubber guided by the carelessness of a soon-to-be dead man.

That goddamned David Morris.
 

And like any other faithful husband who loved his wife unconditionally, he broke down all over again, spilling endless tears over her, onto her. For her. He wished he could bring her back. Wished he could see her chest move with life again, her lips smile, her lids flutter. Eyes glow. Smell her lavender bath soap mix with her natural scent. But his grieving tears held no such magical, mystical healing power, and she remained… dead. Ironic, in a world where the dead lived.

He clutched his chest, bowed his head. Southern Comfort could only comfort so much.
 

After he had loaded up her body that day, he decided to check out Mitch’s place one last time. He presumed that Sammy and Gills had killed David, finished him off, as it were. Left the body for the biters and vultures and dogs… and maggots. Given the hellish depth of Tom’s rage and need for a very specific spiritual restitution, he had to be sure. His future, his existence—his life—hinged on destroying David. But he found no body—at least not the one he was looking for, and he again thanked the god beneath his heels.

He did find two friends, though. Two friends he thought he’d lost forever. The reunion lit a ring of hope around his hurting heart, his love for them second only to the love for his wife. Gleaming resplendently in the dirt of the drive, among the weeds and the rocks and spilled blood, were Bessie and Bertha—his beloved Ruger Vaquero pistols.

This wasn’t just a fortuitous find; it went beyond chance or luck. Destiny, not serendipity, had brought him and his steel back together. Tools of reckoning, extensions of himself. Fate was giving him the green light, the go ahead, and he had every intention of doing just that.

In Mitch’s yard and in the pasture, under a bright morning sun, he found no Sammy, no Guillermo. No David. Tom had checked each and every corpse in the vicinity, while adding a few others to the collection, and discovered only twice-dead strangers. This delighted him, further proved that his mission of vengeance—his calling—was right and true.
He
would kill David.
He
would kill Sammy.
He
would kill Guillermo. Jessica. Randy. Bryan. He would kill them. All of them.

He stole another sip of Southern Comfort before movement by the building snagged his eye, and he smiled a smug, knowing smile. Four or five men, armed and searching, as though looking for an intruder. An uninvited guest. A
living
one. Bryan had delivered.

Well done, kiddo.

Tom stepped back, pinching the brim of his hat. He felt invulnerable there, veiled in the tree’s shroud and shadow. He doubted the men could see him. His observation post, roughly two-hundred yards south of the building, was on the edge of the woods, immediately behind the barbed wire fence that divided forest from field. Even if they spotted him and were to light out after him, he’d have a significant head start. Never mind that he had more bullets than there were people to chase him. And he was a good shot. A
very
good shot.

As he watched the men sweep the grounds inside the wrought iron fence, he tugged back his coat’s edge, rested a palm on Bessie, his six-shooter. His heart fluttered, happy to have the western-style wheel gun holstered on his hip once again. He felt complete, whole. Dangerous.

Immortal.

“Curb your jealousy, Bertha,” he drawled to the eight-shooter hanging low on his other hip. “You’ll both get your chance at the big dance.”

In his mind’s eye, he rehearsed David’s death for the umpteenth time—visualizing, really
seeing
it happen. He envisaged a gleaming Bessie, her majestic barrel pressed to David’s terrified heart. The scarlet spray of the first kill shot. David’s heart conceding this life, wispy white smoke coiling from the empty hole, a symbolic white flag of surrender.

I… give… up.

Life essence extinguished.

Tom would watch, wait for David to turn. And he
would
turn. He’d become… a biter. But before he could take that first bite, before David could taste the living, Tom—

Doc

—would press Bertha’s equally magnificent barrel between David’s foggy eyes. He’d revel in that glorious moment, inhale it like his favorite cigarette. Taste it like his favorite whiskey. Feel it like his wife’s electric touch. Love it as he’d loved Kate’s pure and innocent soul. He’d
live
it as if it were his last moment to live.

Be that moment. Become it.

He’d thumb back the hammer, hear it click splendidly. Another blast of crimson and steaming pale flesh, the barren glow gone from David’s eyes a second time. Forever, never to glimmer again.

A near orgasmic sigh left him as glass met his lips, and Doc took a small pull from the whiskey bottle, savoring the bite. He desired a cigarette with his liquid lunch, but didn’t chance one. Not with Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement residents just across the way, working to ferret him out. He needed to be cunning and smart, not give away his location with smoke signals. Smells.

Over here, ladies and gentlemen. Follow the traces of tobacco smoke crumb trails.
 

Stupidity and carelessness got folks killed in a hurry. Was true before the dead roamed, was true now. Be smart. Stupid kills. He thought he’d read that on a bumper sticker once.

Leaving stray drops on parched lips, he squinted, trying to gather clues as to the group’s progress. There was pointing, yelling. The pool full of biters a source of contention. Temporarily, at least. One of the men got in another’s face. Shoving. More pointing, arguing.

A house divided. How delightful.

Tom’s little gift had made waves, created a rift fueled by fear and the unknown. Proposed questions with no answers.
 

How did this happen? Where did he come from? Where was he?Inside the fence? How? Why would someone do this? Why, why, WHY?

Ask motherfucking David Morris. Ask him, why?

Doc had stirred serious emotions. Mix those with alarm and terror, along with a dash of the unknown, and things would go his way, by his plan. Not that he had much of a plan…

How he yearned to have been that famous fly on the wall, witnessed David’s face when the cardboard released its secret. He could only imagine for now, but his imagination was vivid, and he smiled. He’d be sure to ask David about it before squeezing the—

The whip-crack of the rifle shot and exploding bark beside his head snatched him from his musing. He lost a breath, dropped to one knee.

Another shot sullied the peace, and he was certain, positive, that lead had found flesh. Had heard the sickening punch of bullet through body and bone. He patted himself, convinced he’d caught it, been that mark. And he’d be partly right.

Tom—his identity—
was
the mark, the intended target. His physical body, however, did not catch the metal meant for him. Another entity mistakenly thought to
be
him was sacrificed, unwittingly stood in for him. A divine intervention allowed Tom’s life to continue while freeing the decomposing soul of another, now twice dead.

On the other side of the tree, the ghoul gurgled in its death throes. Knees giving out, it hit the ground with two distinct
thuds
.

Tom breathed hard, thankful breaths.
 

Musing—and slightly tipsy—Tom had been blind to the dead man beside him. Assuming he was alone, he’d been careless, self-absorbed, unobservant…
stupid
.
 

Be smart. Stupid kills. You know what they say about assuming, Doc. Makes an ass of u and
—

I know what they say.

Do you, Doc? Do you know what they say? Do you know what they’re saying about you right now?

Who? That bemused and befuddled group of inbreds across the field?

Whom else would I be talking about, Doc?

Perhaps you’d prefer conversing with company that gave a fuck.

Tom tuned out the contentious voice yammering away incessantly inside his head, deciding instead to listen to his gut. And it screamed at him loud and clear:
 

Get the hell out of here
.
While you still can
.

David swung his legs out of the bed, and the box fell to the floor. But the hand—his wife’s precious hand—remained firmly within his own. He would not let go of her again.

The barrage of emotions beating him down ran the gamut, from one heart wrenching extreme to the other. Back and forth, from suicidal sadness to unbridled fury. These feelings propelled him like some spiritual nuclear reactor on the verge of meltdown, both powering and poisoning. They got him moving, thinking past worldly possibilities. Whoever had done this to him—to her—would endure a punishment, a judgement, beyond any this physical existence alone could ever deliver. He would find a way, would call on hell itself if need be.

Voices faded in and out.