Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (12 page)

David didn’t know where to start. Despite the bad filling his life— being brutally beaten, losing his wife twice, daily battles with shufflers, the new weirdness at the Alamo—he still believed room existed for happiness. Maybe not the same happiness that prevailed before, but an evolved happiness, a new and possibly improved kind.
 

Before the dead walked, that round peg of happiness fit into the round hole of life. Granted, the hole had rough edges, and the peg was a bit warped, wasn’t always a perfect match. But one could eventually get the peg to fit with a little twisting and coaxing. Now, it was a rough round peg trying to find a new hole altogether. So far, he’d found ones that were squares, triangles, rectangles… Hell, he’d even found shapes of holes he didn’t know the names of. Perhaps paying attention in geometry class would have helped. Either way, things change, including perceptions that shifted with new realities, a world redefined. Maybe it wasn’t a new hole he should be looking for, but a new peg.

As was usually the case, he found himself staring at a big fat question mark. Unsure and uncertain of anything. Or anyone. Truth be told, he was terrified, not sure what to do. Where to go. How to handle things.
 

Going after this Doc Holliday wannabe wasn’t just a choice, but a requirement. He could not and would not sit idly by while some deranged fruitcake endangered him and his family. Doc was working David’s fried nerves and doing a fan-fucking-tastic job of it. If Doc had set out to scare him, to fuck with his emotions, he’d royally succeeded. Probably better than the lunatic would have imagined.

Then there was Dr. Gonzalez. David dreaded leaving Bryan and Jessica at the Alamo with this woman—
doctor—
who couldn’t discern the dead from the sick. Then again, maybe she was more like David than he realized… or cared to admit.

One thing was for sure, though. She had an agenda. David was sure of this. But what was it? What was her angle? Hell, maybe she was just a wannabe like ‘ole Doc, a pretender. Not to be trusted. Or perhaps she was just as off track as he himself had been—or still was.

Later. Deal with her later.
 

Holliday took precedence over all other threats because he wasn’t just a ghost lurking in the shadows anymore. He was a real man. A proven danger. An immediate and deadly threat.
 

David read Doc’s note again, the wrinkled, scarlet-smeared paper shaking in his grip. He had memorized it on the first read, had no need to lay eyes on it again. But seeing it there, in his hand, made it real. Made it a part of him. He’d done the exact same thing with Natalee’s ‘Dear John’ letter.

Dead John Letter.

He consciously worked to calm his breathing, to steady the shaking. It pained him to look at it, knowing his wife’s blood adorned it. At least Doc had used a real pen for writing rather than blood.

David’s insides churned, threatening to expel the small meal he’d forced himself to eat earlier. Closing his eyes, he chanted something calming. But he could still feel the paper and grime between his pinched fingers.
 

The roses are dead,

The violets are, too.

Your wife’s on this list,

And soon I’ll add you.

—Doc H.

P.S.—Don’t call me, I’ll call you.

Games. That’s all this guy, this… Doc… was about. A goddamned game player. And a bully to boot. Someone with way too much time on his hands.

You’d do the same goddamned thing, and you know it. Face it. You and Doc—you and Luz—are a lot more alike than
—

Shaking the last thought from his head, he folded the note neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles created when Jess crumpled it into a ball, then tucked it away into his chest pocket. The same pocket where Natalee’s ‘Dear John’ letter formerly resided. A new tenant, to be evicted once Doc was handled. He promised himself this.

The ashes still glowed hot from the argument with his cousin. How could she say such hateful things? Especially given recent events? They’d fought before, sure. They were family, after all, and that’s what families did from time to time. But what she’d done was the equivalent of kicking him hard in the nuts. Not that he’d exactly held back himself…

Before their spat, he’d actually considered asking her to go with him, to find Doc. To help him end it. Without her, he strongly believed things might have turned out differently with Sam and Gills that evening. Randy helped. He gave Randy his due credit. But it had been Jessica running the show and no one else, no matter who might have
thought
they were.
 

She had distracted the banditos so Randy could get set. Took one hell of a risk doing so. It was Jess who stayed strong out there in the pasture when David crumpled to the ground, defeated, beaten in every sense of the word, ready—begging—to die. He recalled just how close he’d come to sitting up, putting himself in the line of fire, praying for an errant bullet to punch his skull…

It was Jessica who turned to face the friendly fire, who grabbed Guillermo’s Colt 1911, turned the man’s own gun on him. Inspired
 
David to action, to help—to not give up and
die
. They lived that night. And they couldn’t have done so without each other.

He needed her. This wasn’t about shoring up their side unfairly, two against one. There was nothing fair about this game. David suspected Doc wasn’t acting alone. Highly doubted it. And that—the fact Doc was in cahoots with sinister unknowns—made him beyond dangerous.

It was one thing knowing he needed her. It was another admitting it. Admission meant action, asking for her help. And his conceit ran deep these days.

He finished packing the gym bag; the white silk-screened letters on the side proudly proclaimed:
Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement—We Remember You!
Then he slung it over his shoulder, dug the Dodge keys out of his pocket, and strode into the hall.

Mallory giggled almost uncontrollably as he, TJ, and Laura crossed the concrete loading area to the back gate. TJ walked with an embellished limp, foot dragging the ground as though one leg were casted or welded at the knee.

Marching behind the group, Lenny said, “I still don’t see why you think it’s so funny your friend limping like that. What happened to him? Wasn’t like that before. Wasn’t bit, was he?”

Mallory was now biting down on both lips to keep his hyena heckle in check. Finally, he managed to say, “He’s well-endowed, dragging the ground and shit. Porn star extraordinaire.” Another fit of laughter, boxes teetering in his arms.

Clearing her throat, Laura said, “No, wasn’t bit. And he sure as hell ain’t well-endowed. I can tell you that from experience.”

“Well what then?”

Laura said, “It’s a, um… old uh, football injury. Yeah, dumbass got hurt playing football.” She slapped TJ’s arm. “Didn’t ya, dumbass?”

With a critical eye, Lenny looked TJ up and down. “When? While’s I was inside those few minutes?”

TJ huffed. “No. From… before.”

“You barely a buck-fifty soaking wet. What’d you play? Towel boy?”

“Hardy-fucking-har,” TJ said, throwing a glance behind him. “I was a catcher. And a fucking fast one.”

“Catcher?”

“Yeah, you know. The motherfucker that catches the damn ball. Man, they grow ‘em big and stupid around here.”

Raising a brow, Lenny’s tone oozed skepticism and blatant doubt. “Uh-huh.”

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“Maybe if you’d’ve said pee-wee league.”

Another crazed laugh from Mallory. He had to walk a tightrope to keep from dropping his boxes.

Reaching the gate, TJ said, “Never mind. Just open the fucking thing and we’re gone.”

Pushing past them, Leonard gripped one of the fence bars, glanced around the field. The only thing moving—or making any sound, or smelling up the place—was the mass of undead inside the tennis court fences across the way. The imprisoned rattlers became a bit more active, interested by the movement inside the palisade fence.
 

Lenny said, “Don’t see no stragglers, so you all’s good to go. If I was y’all, I’d head—”

“Well you ain’t us and we know where the fuck we’re going.” TJ flipped the shotgun barrel to his shoulder, nodded at the gate. “Open the fucking thing already.”

Lenny sucked in another deep breath, then opened the gate. He was eager for these people to just… go away.

Metal clanked, and the gate rolled along the track a few feet, enough for the unwelcome guests to exit. Holding an upturned palm to the yellowed, sun-stained field, Lenny said, “Good luck to y’all.”

“Whatever,” Laura replied. “I’m so ready to get out of this fucking place. Oh, and thanks for the car. Jerk.”
 

The three of them slipped through the gate opening, and Lenny rolled it shut behind them, the latch catching, ringing the iron like a dull dinner bell. Lenny stood there, watching.

“You gonna watch us go?” Laura said. “You don’t even trust us
outside
the gate? Huh?”

The former NFL linebacker-turned-pro-wrestler held his hands high, turned on a mighty heel, and crossed back to the loading dock, shaking his head the whole way, his steps heavy.

The three troublemakers watched him until he disappeared into the building, the back dock door slamming shut behind him. They waited almost another minute before setting off toward the tennis courts.
 

“They are gonna so fucking regret this shit,” Toby Jack said, livid over their forced egress. He stopped, unbuckled his belt, then reached into his baggy pants, producing a pair of bolt cutters. “Ah, that’s better.”

Mallory laughed again. “They are so gonna regret this shit.”

“I know. That’s what I just said.”

“Let’s celebrate. Light one up, home skillet.”

Laura said, “Can’t you wait two fucking seconds? Let’s take care of business, then the festivities begin.”

As they neared the tennis courts, they scrunched their noses, frowned.

“Jesus,” Laura said. “What’s the fucking point? Why keep deadies penned up like this?” She cocked a thumb toward the south end of the building. “And in the pool, too?”

Toby Jack shrugged. “Bunch of sick fucks. If I had enough shells, I’d blast every last one of these things.”

“Seriously,” she said, “what kind of people do this?” Shaking her head in disgust, she added, “Probably best they kicked us out. I don’t wanna live somewhere people keep these fucking things as pets.”

“Right on,” Mallory said.

The three of them slinked toward the high fences with darting glances. The hissing and growling behind the chain link intensified as they neared the perennially hungry corpses.

“Shit,” Laura said. “They’re gonna give us away if they keep getting all crazy.”

“This’ll only take a sec,” TJ said.
 

They made their way around the courts, finally finding the main entrance door. The handle was padlocked.

Kneeling, Toby Jack held out his Mossberg shotgun to Laura, and she took it. Gripping the bolt cutter handles, he lined up the blades with the padlock’s shackle, and started to squeeze.

“Whoa, dudes. Living alert, living alert.” Mallory was trying to dip his chin toward someone walking in the field.

Laura and Mallory dropped to their knees and froze.

Toby Jack stared at the lone soul in the pasture, clippers still gripped tightly. “That a chick standing out there?” he asked in a low voice, but still loud enough to be heard over the undead’s dissonant chorus of moans.

“Think so,” Mallory said. “She see us?”

“Not sure. Maybe she’s a deadie…”

“Don’t think so, homes. Ain’t staggering around all drunk-like, you know?”

The three of them kept still.

After a few more seconds, TJ said, “She’s looking right at us. Just stay still. Don’t fucking move.”

“Yeah,” Mallory said, “her vision is based on movement.” A laugh trickled over his lips.

“Shut the fuck up, man. Jesus.”

Another tension-filled moment went by, the figure in the field staring, then started away, toward the tree line, occasionally glancing behind her.

TJ exhaled deeply. “Holy shit, dude. That was intense. Thought she was gonna come over here and bust us.”

Still holding the shotgun, Laura said, “I’d’ve handled that bitch.”

Mallory giggled.

Nudging TJ, Laura said, “Alright, let’s do this and get the hell out of here and find us a drink.”

Toby Jack spun on his heel, realigned the blades on the lock, and squeezed the handle hard. After a few seconds, there was a crisp
snap
, the restraining metal rendered impotent. TJ tugged the now worthless lock from the latch, and tossed it aside.
 

“Our work here is done,” he said, lifting the latch. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. Before that bitch decides to come back.”
 

The three of them started away, and TJ said, “Be free you deadie motherfuckers.”

And Mallory laughed.

PART TWO

Show and Tell

David didn’t get far. Didn’t even make it out of the building, let alone the back doors. She’d been waiting for him only paces away, barely beyond the door to his room.

“That’s it,” Luz said, pistol pointed at David, backing him up into the room he’d just exited. “Just leave it on the floor there.” Without glancing behind her, she shut the door with her heel.

He lowered the gym bag to the buffed tile, fingers splayed.

“Good. Now, very
slowly
, unbuckle your gun belt, and toss it in front of me.”

“Luz, look,” He tried smiling, though it only came off as patronizing and insincere. “You’re upset. I get it. But just listen to me for a second…”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She swallowed hard.

“Roy, he was—”

“I said there is nothing to talk about. Unbuckle it, toss it over. Do it
now
.”

He pursed his lips, a flaring sigh through bruised nostrils. This disagreeable bitch was making things very difficult for him. He needed to leave. Now. He had the momentum of emotion, and he had to capitalize on it.