Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (19 page)

The Lumberjack was gasping, near wheezing. He’d barely breathed since unleashing his pent-up resentment and frustration over the end of the world.

Finally, he stopped. Stumbling several steps backward and away from the fence, he dropped his oozing hatchet to the grass, and hinged his torso, planting his hands on his thighs. He fought for air.

Randy stepped over to him, a hand on his back. “Are you… you okay, man?”

Lenny’s mouth was wide open, pulling in pungent air, and he nodded tight, quick nods. Sweat dripped from his body, diving off his brow, his bald head, his nose, feeding the thirsty grass. And he shivered.

Randy looked toward the fence again. Lenny didn’t kill all of them. Far from it. But he’d made one hell of a dent in the mob. Several lifeless rattlers now lined the outside of the bars, like sandbags, creating another barrier and making access to the iron harder for those still trying to get at them. Plenty of moaning and growling still vitiated the air, but it didn’t seem quite as prominent now that Lenny the Lumberjack had cut several rattlers down.

“Jesus,” Randy said, that sour taste returning to his mouth. He wanted to retch, and tried telling himself he was looking at the aftermath of a props department explosion rather than the real deal. Blood was everywhere. The steel was slick with it. The grass, the brick pillars, Lenny… If it weren’t for the bodies, he’d have guessed someone had terrible aim with a paint gun. And paint grenades. And buckets of paint.

From behind the two men, a woman’s voice. “What the hell have you done?” A terrible tremble shook in her tone.

Randy turned to see Luz Gonzalez approaching with four other men. And she had a pistol in her hand, aimed right at Randy and Lenny.

“I can’t stay in here, Gabe. If this means we part ways, then so be it. But I cannot and will not simply hand my fate—or the fates of others—over to someone else.” David took an imposing step toward the old man. “I won’t do it Gabe.” With one eye, he stared him down.

The Janitor wagged a bony finger at David. “You’re lying again, Dave. Lying to yourself, lying to me. And the worst part is, I think you’re starting to believe yourself.”

“Goddamnit, Gabe. Enough of the games. Now, either hand over the key, or…”

“Or you’re gonna take it?” The Janitor reached into his jumpsuit pocket, fished out the key. He held it in front of him, twisted it in the sterile fluorescent light, daring David to take it.

David took the dare. And the key.

Immediately, David spun on his heel, plunged the metal into the lock. Then stopped.

He sighed, then, without turning to face Gabriel, said, “Come with me, Gabe.”

“I can’t, Dave.”

David whirled back around, deep frustration welling like molten magma, pressing up and up through the earth. “Why the hell not?”

“There’s people here, Dave. Good people that are being misled. Like you, I cannot and will not let something happen to them because of the irresponsible and ill-informed actions of another.”

“There’s no convincing Luz or her monkeys.”

“I have to try.”

“No, Gabe, you don’t. It’s something she’s going to have to figure out for herself.”

The Janitor squinted his eye at David. “Just like you.”
 

In his mind, David threw his hands into the air. Precious time wasted. More precious lives endangered. That’s how he felt. What he believed. And
that
was no lie.

The Janitor’s agenda was all out of whack. Why couldn’t he see that the Alamo and the people in it were a lost cause? That these people wouldn’t change their way of thinking? Their way of believing?

Just like me.

David didn’t care about making a point. Nor did he care about those that clearly meant him harm. People like this Doc Holliday wannabe and Luz, they had stability and reality issues. Permanent residents of Crazy Town, those two. Well, David was tired of his stay here and for his own sake needed to get far away. There were bad people here, no matter what the Janitor professed. And his demons were here. He needed to just leave them all behind…

He twisted the key, and the deadbolt
clacked.
Gabe spoke the truth. The key worked. This actually upset him even more, why the old man would let himself be a prisoner. Where was his sense of self-preservation? Did he have a death wish?

“C’mon, Gabe. We can discuss this—”

“I’ve already told you, Dave. I’ve got to stay and make things right.”

“Gabriel, things here are so wrong that they’ll never be right again, okay? Never again. This ain’t the old folks home you used to work at across town and these ain’t some sweet grandmas and grandpas on their death beds in need of companionship and comfort. These are men and women who believe walking corpses are just ‘under the weather.’”

“Was Natalee just under the weather?”

David rolled his eye, huffing. “Christ, Gabe. Can you let it go, already?”

At that moment, David heard running footsteps down the hall. He pressed his ear to the door, listened.

“What is it, Dave?”

He held up a finger. “Sounds like… people running.” He swiveled his head, a pleading expression on his face. “We’ve got a chance. Sounds like something is going down. Let’s go now, while they’re distracted.”

The Janitor waved him off. “You go on. I’ll nab anyone that may come along.”

“Gabe, please.”

“You have your purpose. I have mine.”

David ground his teeth, angry and frustrated with the old man. A perfect opportunity to save themselves, and he was brushing it off like he had some Sunday picnic planned that he just couldn’t miss.

“I’ll come back for you, Gabe.” But he wasn’t sure he meant it.

“Worry about yourself, Dave.”

David didn’t even waste a sigh. He barely opened the door, leaned slightly into the hall, catching the reflections of the runners on the floor as they rounded the corner. He looked both ways like he was about to cross the busiest, most dangerous highway in the world, then slunk out of the room.

Behind him, the familiar
clack
of the lock. And here he sighed. If Gabriel was determined to die, there was nothing more he could do about it. Staying close to the wall, he headed off toward his room.

David crept along the hall, his neck and arms a prickly mess, his hackles raised. He almost preferred dashing from the dead in the black of night through the middle of the woods than being closed up in the bright hallway, his options severely limited. At least in the forest, he could dive into the underbrush or slip around a tree. Here, within the sterile halls of Alamo Assisted Living, he could go forward or backward. Or chance a door.

Pick a door. Any door.

As he passed one, his ears tricked him into thinking the room brimmed with shufflers. He could hear the incessant, mucus-filled moaning, the worn and weathered shoes scuffing the buffed tile. Bloody drool dripping to the floor. The fungus-painted fingernails against the wood…

And tell us, Bob, what’s behind Door Number One?

Well, hold onto your seats, folks, because behind Door Number One is a room full of Roys and Scottys! And they’re hungry for
you!
That’s right! They’re deader than dead and to stay that way, they need to eat vibrant living flesh!

Whose flesh, Bob?

Why, your flesh, of course! So what are you waiting for? Open up that door and feed ‘em a thigh ‘cause they are hungry tonight!

A shiver racked David’s body, and he stopped, bringing his hand to his mouth. He pressed hard, squeezed his eyes tight. Hunching slightly, he just knew he was going to throw up right then and there. He managed a sidelong glance down the hall and saw no one, despite feeling a presence behind him. Above him, the fluorescents continued their barely there buzzing, an unescapable scattered spotlight.
 

Psst. Hey. He’s over here.
 

Nerves. Frayed, tattered, and torn, flying like flags, whipping and popping. He wasn’t a pill-popper, but god how he needed one. Several. Something to help get him through this. He tilted his head, squinted, as if doing so would help him hear. And somehow, it did. Yelling, on the west side of the building, near the front doors. Then he heard the unmistakable
clank
of a commercial door’s crash bar, someone pressing wildly through it, the shouts from outside amplified for only a brief moment, then muted when the door swept shut. The halls stood silent again.

He wondered what was happening outside, what had riled up the residents, gotten them scurrying and scattering about like freaked-out rats. Maybe another herd of shufflers had shown up, surrounded the place. That would be bad news for him. There’d be no way to escape quietly or without notice if the dead were again surrounding the facility. Not to mention the elevated danger of doing so.

And as usual, he immediately second-guessed himself, his timing, his motivations. Perhaps he should have listened to the Janitor. Taken the time to talk through things. Maybe it would have actually… helped.

But he felt sure the old man was wrong. About him, about the Infirmaries. David would try to save everyone he could. It was the right thing to do, though he had to be reasonable about it. He couldn’t help everyone, especially not from themselves. He’d already written Luz off as a lost cause. She was too far gone in her little fantasy world where the dead were just sick.

Natalee.

Yes, he admitted to himself that he initially believed Natalee had just been sick. Desperately ill. But he finally came around, didn’t he? Eventually…

Too late. You came around much too late. You caused her even more suffering. More hurt. Pain beyond any you could fathom. And now Doc’s
—

He stifled another wrong-way flow, choking back the burning bile that scratched with hot fingers at his throat. His feet shuffled along the floor as he inched toward his room, constantly on the lookout for an Infirmary. He wasn’t sure if Randy was on watch duty or not. He actually hoped he was. Then, if he bumped into David, he could create a diversion, give David a fighting chance to jump the fence. But chances were he was outside amongst the clamor and commotion. Still, maybe…

He prayed Jessica was with Bryan, hanging out with the boy, reassuring him. Comforting him. It would certainly make things easier, having two extra sets of eyes. Especially since his own eye was still mostly swollen shut, courtesy of Guillermo’s hammer fist.
 

Or, maybe she was with Randy, bending the big guy’s ear, crying on his shoulder about the fight she and David had earlier. That would be ideal, finding them together. Grabbing Bryan and Charlie, they could all get out of there together. Strength in numbers. If Randy wanted to stay with Leonard, that was okay, too. He felt Lenny could protect Randy, believed Lenny to be the most sane of the Alamo bunch.

More hurried footsteps snapped off the walls and floors, and David froze, pressing himself against the brick, trying futilely to blend in like some zany wallpaper. Wasn’t happening. Instead, he tried the nearest door. The knob jiggled, locked. A swallow stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t even curse under his breath.
 

He minced to the next doorway. Same thing. Locked. The footsteps at the end of the hall disappeared after another moment, followed by the now familiar
clank
of the front doors.

He trembled again, this time in temporary relief. He needed to hurry, to get to his room. Luz had marched him straight to his makeshift jail cell, and had left his gun rig on the floor. He hoped it was still there and that she hadn’t gone back for it or ordered someone else to snatch it up.

Sensing the time was right, his gut screamed at him.
Go, go, go!

He started and stopped, lurching and jerking like the dead, then pushed from the brick and launched into an awkward trot down the hall, toward the nurses’ area and his room. His heart flipped in his chest, like a chancy gymnast without regard for his own safety, willing to take a risk to land that perfect ten, paralyzation be damned. All or nothing. Everything on the line.

David careened shoulder-first into the far wall, and he winced at the sparks of pain firing through his battered torso. Doctor Gonzalez had told him he’d suffered bruised and possibly fractured ribs, but he swore he could feel bone grind on bone. Adrenaline masked most of the physical hurt, but it could never touch the banged-up emotions rolling inside him like loose billiard balls after a snappy break.

Within seconds, he reached the nurses’ station, pushed frantically through the doorway to his room, and damn near tripped over his gun belt.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Hand shaking, he gripped the edge of the door, heaving it shut with such force it rattled on its hinges. He recoiled at the racket, as if a jet had buzzed his tower, positive he’d just alerted everyone—living and dead—of his whereabouts.
 

Sound the fucking siren, why don’t you. Light the neon sign, for shit’s sake. Now, make it quick. Like your life depends on it. Because it sort of does.

A cursory glance confirmed all was exactly how he’d left it: gym bag in a heap on the buffed tile, gun belt coiled and twisted like a snake ready to strike. He could even feel the heavy vibe haunting the room, the arguments with Jessica and Luz curdling the caustic air. Or maybe it was the aroma of death seeping through the foundation… more likely his wife’s dismembered hand spoiling away like lunch long forgotten in the box inside his bag.

Lungs pumping furiously, he scooped his gun belt from the floor, wrapped his waist. It felt good and right, the tooled leather holding him together again, keeping him from unraveling and falling in ropey loops to the floor. Leather creaked when he hinged his torso to snatch his gym bag.

He glanced around, a final check to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, or if there was anything else of use. Satisfied, he slid to the door, twisted the knob. Peered out. The halls were eerie still and quiet, devoid of any activity. But in the front vestibule, he could see the long, early evening shadows of bodies playing on the west wing floor, the front doors’ glass acting like a film projector. He felt certain that these weren’t the dark umbrages of the dead. The way they moved and bobbed across the screen of the floor, like oversized shadow puppets, suggested the smooth sureness and mobility of the living.