Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (3 page)

“Well, fuck me. It’s just some kid.” The man coughed again, waving his hand around his face. Turning to the other figure, he said, “False alarm, dude.”
 

Bryan held the box more tightly against his chest, could feel his heart banging them both like a bongo. With his throat closed, it would have to stay right there inside his chest, beating away.
 

These shadows, these figures, were not his pool friends. Or tennis court friends. They were strangers. His parents and his grandpa had told him never talk to strangers. He closed his eyes tight, reopened them, trying to clear away the bright of day still glowing on his vision. Hoping it was just his imagination. Though he knew better than that.

Another figure emerged from behind a stack of boxes off to his left. A shorter one. Three of them now.

“Where the hell he come from?” Another man’s voice.

“Who cares? He ain’t gonna say nothing. Light that bad boy back up. Puff, puff, give, home skillet.”

“Yeah,” the second man said. “Right on. Don’t wanna fuck up the rotation.” The two men giggled.

Bryan’s eyes had started cooperating, focusing. Two men, one woman.

The woman spoke next. “No, hold up.” She glanced at Bryan, eyed him warily. “Not in front of the kid.”

Bryan watched one of the men tug a lighter out of his pocket, and light what appeared to be a small twisted piece of paper. He thought it might be a cigarette, like the kind his grandpa smoked, but he’d not seen one quite like this.

The man puffed smoke, and that funny smell came back. Then, he handed the funny smelling cigarette to the man wearing sunshades. Bryan wondered how the man could see inside the dark warehouse while wearing sunglasses.

“Mallory.” The woman in pigtails slapped Sunglasses Man on his arm. “I said not in front of the kid.”

Blowing a cloud of smoke into her face, he smiled and pointed at Bryan with the twisted paper. “Who’s he gonna tell, huh?” He hinged his torso, hand on one knee, and extended the smoking paper to Bryan. “Wanna hit, kid?”

Bryan could see himself in the man’s glasses. He scrunched his nose.

The woman slapped the man’s arm again. “Mallory, Jesus, man. He’s just a kid.”

“Fucking chill, Laura,” the bearded young man said. “We ain’t doing nothing wrong. Just taking a smoke break, that’s all.” He looked straight at Bryan. “Right, kid? You don’t care if we take us a smoke break, do ya?” His eyes had a mean look to them, like he was still fighting to see in the sun. Maybe he needed sunglasses, too.

Bryan didn’t say anything, didn’t acknowledge them with a nod or a head shake. He simply stood there, his back pressed against the dock door, holding his box tight.

The woman said, “Shit, TJ. The old man thinks we’re outside watching the place. Ain’t supposed to be nobody out there but us.” She narrowed her eyes at Bryan, then crouched in front of him. “So how’d you get out there, huh, cutie pie?”

“Yeah,” the bearded man she called TJ said. “How’d you get by us, squirt?” He took the cigarette back from the man with sunglasses—Mallory—and sucked in smoke, making the end of the paper glow red, and held his breath. He never took his mean eyes off Bryan.

Bryan’s lips thinned. He didn’t want to talk to these people. He wanted to get David’s present to him, prove to Doctor Holliday that he could be trusted with his very important—
critical—
delivery. And he wanted to make David happy, like Santa made people happy. He decided these people weren’t on Santa’s good list, that they were definitely on the naughty one. Maybe that’s why they were in the warehouse, trying to find their own box.

TJ coughed out a big breath of smoke, waved away the cloud. “He ain’t talking.” Another cough. “Probably a mute. Retarded or some shit. Hell, he’s only got one shoe.”

Laura stood like she’d been crouching on a spring, spun, and slapped TJ hard enough to ruffle the whiskers on his cheek. Finger in his face, she said, “Asshole. Don’t you
ever
use that word again.”

He shrugged, smile slanted. “What? What’d I say?” He turned to Mallory. “What’d I say?”

“You know she hates that word, dude. Call him ‘special’ or ‘mentally challenged’ or… ‘intellectually disabled’ or, I don’t know, ‘learning impaired.’ Don’t ever say the ‘R’ word, dude. So disrespectful and shit.”

TJ glanced from his buddy, to the woman, and back again. Jabbing a thumb at Mallory, he said, “Coming from the regular short bus rider, over there.” He shook his head. “Fucking sensitive pansy asses. Fucking world’s gone to shit and you two fucks gotta be all politically correct and shit.”

Laura held a palm to him. “Toby Jack, just… please don’t use that word anymore. Okay? For me.”

Toby Jack huffed. “Fine. Whatever the fuck.” He started to plug the funny smelling cigarette back into his lips.

The sunglasses man slapped TJ on the arm. “Hey, puff, puff, give, home skillet. You’re fucking up the rotation.”

After handing off the smoking paper, TJ pointed to Bryan’s box. “So what’s in the box? Your other shoe? Maybe got some homemade brownies in there?” He snorted out a laugh.

After taking in another drag, Mallory said, “Ooo, you got brownies in there, ‘lil dude?” He let the cigarette droop on his lips, clapped his hands together, rubbing.

Toby Jack reached for the box, but Bryan yanked it away before he could lay his hands on it.
 

The sunglasses man with the frizzy, curly hair giggled. “You been denied, motherfucker.” Summoning a horrible mock Japanese accent, he said, “No brownie for you,” then cackled like a hyena losing a tickle contest.

TJ scowled. “Fuck you, Mallory.” Then to Bryan, “Hand over the box, kid.”

Bryan’s heart started pounding harder. He didn’t like these people, didn’t find them nice at all. They used bad words, like his grandpa used when he was really, really mad about something. And he wondered why they were so angry. Especially the man with the mean eyes, TJ.

Toby Jack wiggled his fingers at Bryan. “C’mon kid. Hand it over.”

The woman said, “TJ, just leave him alone. He ain’t bothering nobody. We need to get back outside, anyway.” She looked back at Bryan. “You don’t have any friends out there, do ya?”

Bryan thought for a minute, wondered if he should tell them about his friends in the pool. They were still out there, playing with his broken tug-o-war stick. And his shoe. Instead, he shook his head slowly.

“No?” she said, sounding relieved. “Good deal. You oughta get on back inside, before your parents start looking for ya.”

Bryan stared at her.

“Go on,” she said. “Git.” She took the twisted, smoking paper from Mallory.

Bryan pushed off from the door, eager to leave and get to David’s room.
 

TJ clamped his hand on the boy’s arm as he tried to push through the group. “Aaa. Hold on, now, squirt. I said hand over the box. You wasn’t supposed to be outside, so I’m sure you ain’t supposed to have this.” Before Bryan could react, TJ tugged the box from the his grip.

“Give it back!” Bryan demanded, his tiny voice a surprise echo through the warehouse.

Mallory said, “Whoa. ‘Lil dude does speak.” He let out another annoying, high-pitched laugh.

Bryan said, “That’s not yours.”

TJ smiled, held the box high—too high for Bryan to reach. That didn’t stop the boy from trying, though.

“Toby Jack,” said the woman. “C’mon. Give it back. We’ve got to get our asses back out there before that old man gets out of that meeting or whatever the hell they’re doing and rips us a new one.”

“Now hold on, Laura. We’ll just take us a little peek inside, then we’ll give it back. Right, squirt?”

Bryan just glared at the man, reached for the box again with a little hop, and TJ lifted it higher, teasing him. Then, TJ did the unthinkable—he shook the box.

“Don’t shake it!” Bryan yelled. “It’s
fragile
!” If Doc found out TJ shook the box, Bryan just knew he’d get the switch to his backside for sure. And he didn’t want that. Not at all.

Toby Jack let the laugh of a bully roll over his lips. “Fragile, huh?” He put an ear to the cardboard, then shook it harder.

“Don’t!” Bryan said. “Doctor Holliday said not to shake it! You’re going to break it and get me in trouble!”

TJ scrunched his brows at Bryan, and huffed. Mockingly, he said, “Doctor Holliday, huh? What, is he gonna come shoot me, pump me full of lead? Huh, squirt? That what he’s gonna do? Ride up on his horsey and plug me with bullets? Is he my ‘Huckleberry’? Huh?”

The
clank
of the door leading to the hallway startled the bunch, then a deep, booming voice. “Hey! I hear y’all in here.”

Mallory dropped the smoking, twisted paper to the cement and covered it with his tennis shoe, grinding it frantically. He brought his fist to his lips, coughed.

TJ swiveled on his heel, box still in his hands.
 

Laura stepped in front of TJ. “Hey, Lenny. It’s Lenny, right? How’s it—”

“Why ain’t y’all outside on watch?”

The three troublemakers glanced around, expressions groping for answers from the hazy air.

When Lenny spotted Bryan, he said, “What you doing back here, son? You’s supposed to be inside with the rest of the kids.”

Laura said, “Um, yeah, that’s why we’re in here. We saw the kid sneak into the warehouse. Caught him trying to steal one of these boxes.” She snatched the box from a slack-jawed TJ. “But we stopped him. Here ya go.” She extended the box to Lenny, who hesitantly took it.
 

Lenny hooked it under his arm, giving it barely a second thought. His gaze never leaving the three adults, he said, “Bryan, go into the hall. Wait for me in there. Okay, son?”

Bryan eyed his box, started to ask for it, then dropped his chin, obeying the towering muscle man. How he hoped he’d get his box back.

The speaker’s words were mishmash in Jessica Thompson’s ears. With her red-rimmed eyes and thin mouth in a perpetual dive, she appeared in desperate need of seriously strong coffee. Or grief counseling.

The small windowless conference room brimmed with residents. In normal conditions, the space comfortably seated twelve or so. Today, easily double that number crammed into the claustrophobic confines, leaning against walls or stuffed in cozy chairs circling the table. The room had grown stuffy with blustering breath beneath the shallow, sterile fluorescents.
 

 
Nearly everyone was present, save for a middle-aged woman tasked with babysitting the small children, and three young adult newcomers assigned to perimeter watch duty. David was absent, recovering in a room down the hall.
 

Leonard Knight, the Janitor’s right-hand man, had slipped out about five minutes ago at the old man’s urging. The Janitor asked him to check on the trio outside, make sure everything was still kosher since the meeting had been running for quite a while. The request was the last thing said that had registered with Jessica. Until now.

“How many have
you
killed?”

The room stood silent, the attendees awaiting Jessica’s answer to Dr. Luz Gonzalez’s pointed question. Jessica didn’t respond, her gaze focused on nothing and no one.

“Jessica.” The young, thirty-something Hispanic woman slapped the table, her Spanish accent very pronounced and sharp. It was clear English was her second language, but she’d adopted it well. “I asked you a question.”

Jess blinked her eyes, then looked directly at the doctor sitting across the table from her. “I’m sorry, what?”

Luz sighed deeply, tossing a glance of aggravation at Gabriel Jones, the Janitor. “How are we supposed to come to an agreement when you people won’t pay attention? How long do we have to sit in here, jammed together like sardines in a stinky can, and go over this? When are people going to start taking this seriously, huh? Just how are we—”

The Janitor held a palm to Luz while simultaneously dipping his chin, “Calm down, Luz. She’s been through a lot.”

“
She’s
been through a lot? Are you kidding me, Gabriel?” Dr. Gonzalez glared at Jessica, crossing her arms. “You poor, poor dear, you. You’ve been through
so
much. Maybe I could get you something. Would that be nice for you? Maybe a massage and pedicure… some Xanax, maybe perhaps? Fine wine? Would you like that?”

Gabriel’s rich voice dropped an octave, if that were possible. “Luz.” He squinted an eye at her. “Please.”

Luz huffed, rocking back in her chair, cursing in Spanish under her breath. She never cursed in English, only in Spanish, her native tongue.
 

A man standing directly behind the doctor spoke. “She still didn’t answer the question.”

“Roy,” Gabriel started, “I don’t see where that question is relevant to—”

“Well?” Roy interrupted. “How many? How many people have you killed?” Accusatory tones leapt from his tongue like throwing knives.

Jessica’s mind was returning, back from its out of body experience.
 
She just found it so incredibly hard to focus, her rattled emotions still coming to grips with her husband’s untimely death. Thirty-nine and a widow. Sure, she’d planned to leave Mitch. Had actually intended to pull the trigger over a year ago. Leaving him was one thing. Someone murdering him was another. And she was in full-on mourning mode.

“They ain’t people,” Jess whispered.

Randy Phillips, Mitch’s former best friend, stood behind her, and he laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Squeezed.

“What?” Roy said. He held his bandaged forearm. “We didn’t hear you, young lady.”

Jessica raised her voice, enough so that everyone in the tiny room could easily hear. “I said, they ain’t
people
.” Then she lowered her voice again. “Not anymore.”

Roy cocked his head, crossed his arms. “Oh, really? You saying my boy Scotty ain’t a real person? That he’s just a confounded figment of my fucking imagination? Huh? Is that what you’re trying to say, missy?”

“Roy,” the Janitor said. “Enough.”

“No, Gabe. This is why we’re here, ain’t it? I mean, we can’t have murderers running rampant through the halls, now can we? Christ almighty.”