Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (26 page)

With both hands, David dragged the blade across the angry corpse’s belly, eviscerating the ghoul and exposing its rotting insides for all to see. In the next instant, he circled the beast, coming up behind it. Grabbing its hair like a handle, David sliced its throat from ear to ear, the smiling cut leaking an inky crimson.

He slid out from behind the beast to face the doctor and her followers.

“What’s it gonna take, Luz? Christ, I’ve gutted it and cut its throat and stabbed it in the goddamned heart.” He held his hand near the shuffler’s face. On cue, the undead being snapped its teeth, teased with a taste of living flesh.

But still, the doctor stood stoically, unwilling to believe her eyes.
 

“Gabe? May I?” David asked, holding out his hand. “Just in case she suspects
my
gun’s firing blanks.”
 

The Janitor handed over his revolver, and David fired round after round into the seemingly superhuman being. The aroma of gunpowder and burnt flesh wove itself into the polluted breeze. His ears rang madly, but he didn’t care. He could see it on their faces. His point was hitting home.

“Want to examine him now, doc? Drag your ass and your stethoscope over here and see why he’s
still
trying to fucking eat me?”

The doctor and Infirmaries were quiet and still.
 

“Not sure where
you
come from, but
I’ve
never seen a sick person keep trying to kill me after being stabbed and sliced and shot. Hell, the only thing I haven’t done is—”

He stopped abruptly, and just stood there for a moment, silently, while his eyes crept over the ghastly scene.

Lenny and Gabriel volleyed curious glances, the shuffler still wriggling in their grips and growling at David’s back.

“Dave,” the Janitor said, dipping his chin at the mutilated mess of a dead man.

Resurfacing from his reverie, David placed a palm on his pistol, prepared to finish what he’d started. He paused, his brows in a deep ‘V,’ then changed course, drawing the hatchet from Lenny’s hip, instead. Facing the resilient corpse, he grabbed it by the hair of its head, stared into its hazy eyes. The two men restraining it stepped back as far as possible, stretching the thing’s arms to the limit.

He wasn’t sure if what he was about to do would work. But he believed he’d made one hell of a convincing argument already. If this succeeded, it’d be the exclamation mark on the day. Perhaps of the entire experience thus far.

He yanked the dead man’s head to the side, exposing his neck, then chanced a glance at Luz. Her hands were pressed to her lips, eyes glassy, pleading and begging,
don’t do it.

Her green-light expression was all he needed. With everything he had, he brought the blade down on the shuffler’s neck, almost decapitating it with one blow.

The thing dropped to its knees, David’s fingers still entwined in its greasy locks. One more whack of the axe was all it took to separate head from body.
 

The shuffler’s headless frame crumpled to the ground. It quivered, then went completely still. Burgundy blood spilled from its neck like wine from a tipped-over glass, the already saturated ground taking a slow drink.

David held the head to his audience like some arrogant conquering tyrant. Blood dripped and oozed from his trophy. And then something happened. Something that David had counted on happening. Its lids fluttered open. Its eyes rolled in their sockets, scanning. And its mouth opened and closed, teeth clacking, David still on the menu despite no body to nourish.
 

A small gasp floated over the doctor’s lips, and over the lips of every witness present.

Right at that moment, David could sense it. Could actually
see
it—the power and influence sliding away from Luz in hulking sheets of ice, shattering on the ground. He observed the faces behind the fence. Folks were coming around, an instant awareness. A realization that they were wrong to follow this woman, after all. That despite her credentials, and know-it-all bluster, she was… wrong.

And something happened within him, too: his own guilt-riddled realization, pummeling him, forcing an understanding of something he’d denied but knew all along. Natalee had suffered beyond death because of him. He’d prolonged undeserved misery. Her body—and possibly very
soul
—imprisoned in a decaying hell. He needed badly to find her. To free her.

Horrified gazes remained glued to the head in his hand.

His point made and nothing left to say or prove, David handed off the hatchet to Lenny.
 

Then, David pulled El Jefe from the holster on his hip. He cocked the hammer, pressed the barrel to the decapitated head he now held high, and fired, his own eyes closed tight against the blast. The head’s eyes stilled, its jaw froze. A grotesque horror that had fueled many a campfire story. David opened his fingers, dropping the head on top of its former body, where it landed with a sickening
thud
, like an overripe melon, before rolling onto the tainted ground.

More gasps.
 

A meek voice broke the silence. “She ain’t no doctor.”

Onlookers turned, heads swiveled.

A couple of men stepped away from a young Hispanic woman, who appeared to be in her early twenties. David hadn’t noticed her before. But being so engrossed in his life lesson, he wasn’t surprised.

“Go back inside, Maria. Now.” Luz pointed toward the building, thankfully with her empty hand.

“She… she’s no doctor.” The normally timid woman’s glare focused on Luz as accusatory tones leapt from her tongue.

The spectators, already reeling from David’s demonstration, tossed confused glances, unsure of this young lady’s intentions.

“I said go back inside.
Now
. You need to get back to the children.” A sudden unease exploded through Luz, like she had some deep, dark secret to hide. A politician being called out, found with the dead hooker.
 

“Maria—”

“These people, they need to know.”
 

The crowd parted like the fabled Red Sea, leaving Maria standing alone, bodies to either side. All eyes were on her.

Gabriel stepped forward, eyeing the woman, then turned his squinty-eyed gaze on the doctor. “This true, Luz?”

Her voice was a messy tremble. “Maria, I said—”

“Luz!” An uncharacteristic ire lit Gabe’s tone, his patience as thin as his old skin.

Luz volleyed his gaze, her eyes welling. She blinked away tears, swiping with her fingers what she couldn’t blink away.

“I asked you a question, Luz. Is Maria telling the truth?”

Luz started speaking Spanish, hurling her words at Maria. The younger woman behind the bars shrank, taking several steps back.

“Goddamnit, Luz! Answer me!”

Even David was surprised by the Janitor.

Defeated, she bowed her head, and sobbed.

Gabriel hooked a hand on his hip, shook his head. “Well I’ll be goddamned. We’ve been hornswoglled.” He paused a moment, allowing the revelation to sink in. “Why, Luz? Why’d you lie about being a doctor?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. She was too busy bawling.

“Son of a bitch,” David muttered. Evidently, he wasn’t the only liar on the premises. At least he lied mainly to himself.

No one stepped forward to comfort Luz. Just cold, confused stares. Whispers.
 

David seized his opportunity. Dr. Gonzalez had wronged him, sure. And he could gawk and point fingers and accuse with the rest of the crowd, but his own private war with a faux Doc Holliday was well underway. The wannabe gunslinger had struck a healthy blow earlier that day. And already, the next blow awaited him, only feet away.

Before he could investigate, Gabriel laid a hand on his shoulder, then patted his back. “Thank you, David. You showed some serious cojones.”

“I made quite a mess of the place.”

“It’s not about the place, it’s about the people. We could have the strongest walls in Texas, but if we’re weak and divided behind those walls… well, we may as well not have any walls at all.”

David nodded. “Truer words, Gabe. Truer words.”

“I see you’re anxious to check out Doc’s latest doing. Be careful, Dave. Keep your emotions in check. That’s where he’s winning right now, getting you all riled up.”

David nodded.

“And remember, it don’t have to be just you against him. Alright?”

“Sure, Gabe. Thanks.” He handed the Janitor’s pistol back to him.

The old man patted him on the back again, allowing him a moment to himself.
 

Being mindful of the mire now coating the drive and grass, David made his way to the butchered box, an unholy dread clutching his chest.
 

Upon reaching it, he tried to look away but couldn’t, the world suddenly a washing machine on a frantic spin cycle, his arms and legs and torso heavy against the tub. Even his head fell forward, impossible to move, to look away. With an involuntary wince, he let his gaze lock on the mutilated cardboard. It was as though he knew exactly what he’d find.
 

And unfortunately for him, he was right.

PART THREE

Head to Head

With a stiff arm still guiding her by the scruff, Tom swung his captive around and forced her forward, plunging them back into the darkening woods, toward the pond and beyond.
 

He kept her in front of him as they traversed the narrow trail, gripping and twisting the fabric in his fist, the tee-shirt’s collar a tightening noose. She gasped through the garrote, every breath a struggle. And Tom would make her earn every one.

He would not be easy on her. Not at all. He knew who she was, her voice familiar, her name spoken aloud by another.
 

Jessica.

Without remorse, he twisted tighter, and a sick joy surged inside him. The same sick joy he felt when he killed that obnoxious trio at the bar. And he smiled.

Jesus Christ, Doc. What the hell is getting into you?

Why… whatever do you mean?

You’re out to avenge Kate’s death, not just kill for the thrill. Those three morons had nothing to do with her death.

But this one did.

You’re losing your goddamned mind, Doc.

On the contrary, I’ve finally
found
it.

Tom unwittingly wrung the fabric, distracted and lost in his mercurial musing. “Keep your hands where I can see them, dahlin’.”

Through a husky breath, she managed, “I… I can’t…” She groped at her throat, coughed.
 

“You can and you will.”

The compactor had ceased its roar and rumble, returning a certain peace and calm to the wilderness. But the disappearance of the din also meant his aural cover was gone. They’d have to move quietly—and swiftly—to avoid detection. But perhaps… he
wanted
to be detected. Then he’d have another reason, another excuse to kill.

Jessica pawed at her collar again, and Tom stabbed her nape with Bertha’s barrel.

His voice harsh and low, he said, “Next time you do that, you’ll be eating bullets through the back of your pretty little head.”

Fear tangled her ankles. Tom gritted his teeth and yanked hard, saving her from a nasty spill. There would be no accidental pain inflicted, only intentional and by his hand. She pinwheeled her arms as he dragged her up, then held them out as if under arrest. She coughed violently again.

The distant crack of a gunshot caused them both to recoil.

His prisoner’s knees buckled and crashed into the dirt. But she didn’t fall completely forward; Tom’s fingers still clutched her collar from behind, halting her impetus, sparing her a mouthful of dirt yet again. But the fabric dug deeper into her neck, and she choked out a desperate bark. Her hands sprang reflexively to her throat again.

“Up.”

She rocked on her knees, caught between breathing and standing.

“I said, ‘up,’ dahlin’.” He jerked her neckband, hauling her to her feet.

Leaning in close to her ear, he said, “Next time you have to be told, Bertha does the talking. Understand?”

The revolver’s barrel kissed her neck. She was becoming well acquainted with his persuasive steel.

The tension against her throat eased a bit, and she took advantage of it, greedily gulping wheezy breaths. She hacked, making a noticeable racket.

With a wad of clenched fabric, he unceremoniously shoved her forward, a dog on a very short leash, and they were moving along the trail again. She was finding difficulty falling into rhythm, their strides significantly off. She yo-yoed as he aggressively yanked and pushed, the garment adorning her torso stretching to the point of ripping, challenging every thread. Another gunshot in the distance. Seconds later, another. And Tom wondered if perhaps he wasn’t missing out, moving the wrong way. Maybe he could end it all tonight.

 
But while he endeavored to distance himself from the shooting, others were drawn to it—and to his prisoner’s hacking. Ahead, a biter staggered out from behind a tree and onto the path, only feet away.
 

A sinister grin lit Tom’s lips.

You think you’re scared now
—

He thrust Jessica straight at it.

An unwilling participant in a deranged and deadly game of ‘chicken,’ his captive flailed wildly. Still choked and unable to scream, Jessica tried digging in her heels, dragging her feet, but Tom was too strong, capitalizing on their forward momentum. Instead, she attempted a mid-air crunch, to get her knees up. To twist, to turn. Kick. Get away. The scene was oddly reminiscent of a cat being carried by the scruff toward a bathtub with the faucet on full blast.

Don’t fight it, dahlin’.
Just… let it.

He uncocked and holstered Bertha in a hurry so he could draw his knife from his boot.
 

“You scared, dahlin’? You scared? ‘Cuz you should be! You should be fucking terrified, little lady!”

Tom shoved her into the growling beast’s chest, then yanked her back before it could wrap its arms around her, the biter stumbling forward stupidly.