Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (30 page)

“Then let’s go say, ‘hi.’”

And then it came: the big sigh that signaled Randy’s surrender. All she had to do was keep pressing him until she heard it, then pop the cork on the champagne, because it meant she’d gotten her way. If only her husband had been that easy.

She crossed the room to the door, then almost as an afterthought, said, “Oh, and you may wanna grab your pistol.”

“Great.”

Patience. David lacked it. If Natalee or Karla were still alive, they would attest with gusto to his severe deficiency in it. Similar to a diabetic who requires daily shots of insulin, David needed the occasional prodding to practice it. But neither his wife nor his daughter were there to inject his daily shot of patience. And now, he was sick.
 

Five minutes. That’s how long Gabe had been gone when Doc first moved. The cot creaking beneath him, the injured outlaw twisted his head and groaned, perhaps dreaming something mildly unpleasant. Or outright awful—flying rocks and bottles and zombies, maybe. If he was smart, he would stay right there in dreamland and bar the door. Even the worst of nightmares could not prepare him for what David was planning.

Doc’s captor crossed the room, palm on his pistol, and stopped a few feet short of the cot. He leaned, like that famous tower, and watched his prisoner breathe for a moment. Observing the rise and fall of Doc’s chest, a curious thought crossed his mind: how it felt to know one’s breaths were numbered. Without exception, everyone’s lungs quit eventually. No secret there. That was just how the universe worked. Life, then death, a single breath bridging the two.
 

But David just couldn’t shake the thought of that inescapable finite number that existed in everyone. His own lungs would process the air only so many times. At birth, his breaths were already numbered and accounted for. Predetermined in hindsight. He could spend his life counting them until the very last one, or he could live them, as they were intended. But the fact remained: everyone’s counter hit zero eventually. Everyone reached the bottom of the bucket. Even the living dead. It was only when a man neared the end of the countdown that he could peer off the ledge, spying the jagged rocks below.

It was time to move, not muse. He had no intentions of letting Doc wake up completely before setting his plan in motion. He’d waited with a rare thread of patience for Randy and Gabriel to leave. For the Alamo to go to sleep. He didn’t want anyone trying to stop him or talk him out of what needed doing. His style of retribution would be very unpopular with those close to him. He felt sure of this. Gabe had already hinted as much with his ‘answer for what we do’ comment.

And Randy. Jesus. The man questioned him constantly. He was that guy who sat on David’s right shoulder, dressed in white, yammering away in his ear. Always suggesting David think things through, do the right thing. Think about this and what about that. Well, David didn’t need Randy telling him anything, prodding him toward the ethically correct choice. It wasn’t about right and wrong. Not anymore. It was just about
doing.

All his life, David allowed those above him to map out his course. His boss. His boss’s boss. His boss’s boss’s boss. His in-laws. His father. His mother. Even his wife and kid. And circumstances.

Well, no more. He was his own man, and he’d do with his remaining breaths as he damn well saw fit. If that meant limiting another’s, so be it. He only regretted that he couldn’t take those breaths and add them to his own. But wasn’t he, in a way, doing just that by eliminating Doc?

The faux gunslinger was again quiet, his breathing steady, his body still. David minced to the door and peered into the dim hall. Not a soul stirred. In order to save on generator fuel, the building switched over to a nighttime lighting circuit, which limited the amount of fluorescent tubes burning throughout the halls, which was typically about every fifth socket. He decided it’d be enough cover to transport his prisoner.

When I drag him down death row.
 

Fortunately for David, the holding room was near the east wing and the warehouse. The Janitor had done him the favor of returning the Dodge dually to its spot beside the back loading dock, and the vehicle was already loaded up with his bag, as well as the gun belts stripped from Doc’s waist. David made it clear he was taking those guns as trophies, but didn’t broadcast just where he was taking them to. While Randy had tended to Holliday, David asked Lenny to stash the cowboy guns in the pickup, along with Natalee’s heart and hand. Done and done.
 

He’d also spotted a few odd and end tools in the warehouse when he and Gabriel passed through earlier in the day en route to the construction machinery. Some that might come in handy during Doc’s ‘interrogation.’ David also hoped to grab a few days’ worth of food. He didn’t plan on returning right away, as he intended to be present for every second of Doc’s miserable suffering.
 

David crossed the room again, standing over Natalee’s killer. Staring. His teeth ground together so hard he was giving himself a headache while his hands clenched over and over. Despite the limited air conditioning, he was sweating slightly. His old friends impatience and impulsivity wanted to hang out. Have a beer. Get into trouble. Just like old times.

Why wait? Let’s do this! Now!

Was he really going to go through with this? Was he really going to torture and kill another man, a fellow
human being
? Men were dying faster than they were being born, and one could argue that David was simply hastening the downfall of mankind.

Fuck yeah, I’m gonna kill him. This motherfucker is
not
a benefit to mankind. His absence, his
death,
will be a positive mark on the world, not a negative one. I’m
saving
the future of mankind by killing this dirtbag.

His heart thumped his sternum, an intense game of racquetball underway in his chest. Doc was not just any random man. This ‘man’ butchered David’s wife. Sliced and diced her. Then heckled him. Mocked him. Hurt him.
Tortured him.
David was only reciprocating, dressed in Karma’s garb.

But as David Morris stood there, convincing himself he was a martyr, he couldn’t help but wonder about the man he planned to execute. Why did this stranger assume the persona of a long-dead gunslinger? Why call himself, ‘Doc Holliday’? What was his real name? Obviously, this ‘Doc’ truly believed that David had killed Mrs. Holliday.
 

And David could only figure that the wannabe outlaw had expended his supply of whatever psychotropic drug kept him stable and sane pre-apocalypse. No one in their right mind would chop up a human being, pack her pieces into cardboard boxes, and terrorize another by delivering them like Christmas presents. Nobody of sound mind did that. No one with a human soul, anyway.

Now David wondered if he wasn’t losing his own mind and soul, preparing to do unto Doc as Doc had done unto David’s wife.

Time to stop thinking. Time to act. Get this freak show on the road.
Now or never.

He stood at the end of the cot, behind Doc’s head, and reached under Doc’s arms. Unfortunately, the end of the world occurred before wheelchairs could be delivered to Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement. So, David would have to drag his captive down the hall. Oh, he supposed he could swipe a rolling office chair out of one of the conference rooms. But why provide his enemy such a luxury? Besides, should Doc begin to stir again, David could simply drop him to the floor, which would most likely render him unconscious. And even if the blow didn’t knock him out, he’d have a hard time defending himself on the ground, blinded by the stars that would be exploding across his vision.

David had just started to lift when the doorknob twisted.

Fuck. Who the hell—

The door swung in slowly, and Jess peeked in.

“Jessica!” David hissed in a harsh whisper. He eased Doc back down, then quickly crossed the room as though walking across hot coals. He practically shoved her back into the hallway, where she collided with someone behind her.

Jesus Christ. Randy, too? Should have locked the fucking door.

He tossed a quick glance into the room, then pulled the door to behind him. In the same coarse whisper, “What the hell are you two doing?” He hooked his hands on his hips, angry eyes flicking back and forth between the two.

Jess said, “What the hell are
we
doing?” She jabbed her finger in his chest. “What the hell are
you
doing?”

“I’m guarding the goddamned prisoner. What the fuck does it look like?”

“Looks to me like you were about to take him somewhere.”

Guilt and anger splashed his face red. “I was just shifting him. Sounded like he was having trouble breathing.”

She sneered at him. “Oh, bullshit. You were about to take him somewhere. Where were you gonna take him, David? Huh? Where?”

He drew his lips into a thin line, averting his gaze from hers.

“Well?”

“Randy,” David hissed fiercely, his brows drawn into a vicious ‘V,’ “take her back to her room. She’s obviously still out of it.”

Her eyes went wide. “Out of it?
Out of it?
” Her head seemed to spin three-hundred and sixty degrees, then she latched her angry gaze on him. “Just what the hell is
that
supposed to mean?”

The conversation was quickly going to shit, picking up right where they’d left off earlier that day. Unresolved feelings fueled hurtful, retaliatory jabs. He honestly didn’t want to fight with her, didn’t have
time
to fight with her, especially not now. Doc consumed his mind, but his fury was shifting to his pseudo-sibling.

“Now’s not the time, Jess.”

“Then when?”

Randy, ever the peacemaker, tried chiming in. “Hey, y’all. Look—”

Jess snapped at him to shut up, and he backpedaled, his palms to the quarreling duo.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” David told her.

“Like you’ve treated him any better. At least I treat him like a human being.”

David dropped his face into his palms. “Jess… can we do this later, please?”

“Later? When is ‘later,’ David? Why not now?”

“Because. I’ve got to keep an eye on Doc.”

“You gonna run off in the middle of the night with him? Take him somewhere and kill him?”

The accusation stung unexpectedly. It was like she could read his mind, though he knew that wasn’t possible, just a lucky guess. But still, hearing it aloud punched a hole in the dam that held back his surging guilt.

More calmly, he said, “Go back to bed, Jess.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Randy, take her back to her room, okay? Give her something to relax her and help her sleep.”

The order only succeeded in winding Jessica up tighter. She rolled her shoulder, knocking his hand off of her. “Relax me?
Relax me?
Wanna see me excited?” Her voice started cracking despite conversing in a loud whisper.

Randy remained quiet and neutral, tossing embarrassed glances down the hall.

“We’re going to start drawing attention out here,” David said.

“So what if we do? Who cares?” She coughed, her throat going dry. “Maybe it’d give these people something else to gawk at other than the dead walking around.”

“You’re tired, Jess. You’ve had a long day. Go to bed.” He turned on his heel, dismissing her, and reached for the doorknob, twisting the cool steel.
 

Another cough. “I’m not going until I see Doc.”

David stopped, releasing the knob, then turned back around to face his cousin. “And why do you need to see Doc?”

She glimpsed Randy, then reached into her pocket, pulled out a billfold. Practically shoving it up David’s nose, she said, “I want to know where he got
this
.”

David eyed it dismissively. “A wallet?”

“Not just
a
wallet. Mitch’s wallet.”

The realization was immediate, the brown leather pinched in her fingers an admission, proof. Doc killed Mitch. Why else would he have the man’s billfold? The scary scene played out a few different ways in his head, but each one ended with Doc blowing Mitch away. That night, while hiding in the pond, David heard Doc conversing with the two banditos. So he knew he’d been there. But now, puzzle pieces seemed to fit.

To Randy, David said, “You found Mitch’s wallet on him?”

A nod.

“You think he did it?”

Hesitation, then another nod.

David snatched the billfold from Jessica’s hand, flipped it open. There was Mitch, staring right back at him, the man’s head whole again. The sight pricked his skin, seeing Mitch’s face. He didn’t miss the guy, but the last time he laid eyes on him, half his face was gone… It was almost like Mitch was still razzing him from the grave.

Bull’s-eye, bitches! Now where’s my beer. And my joint.

“You think Doc killed Mitch?” David asked Jessica, knowing that she believed so, too.

“Who else could have done it?” Jess said. “I doubt that Sammy or Gills would have shot him.”
 

David stared at the wallet for a long moment, the pad of his thumb massaging the worn leather, then said, “Well, what does it matter, anyway? Mitch is dead, and—”

“What does it matter? That…
murderer
… in there killed my husband, that’s why it matters. Jesus Christ, David. You of all people… How can you even say—”

“You were going to leave him, anyway, Jess. Or did you forget that minor detail?”

“Yeah? Well, Natalee actually
left
you. Or did
you
forget that minor detail?”

David couldn’t dodge it, Jessica’s aim too accurate, too close to home. She hurled a huge stone of hurt that landed right on his chest, crushing his heart.
 

Randy stepped in between them. “Y’all, please. Can’t we just…”
   

Hard stares impaled him.
 

Finally, Jessica broke the boiling silence. “Whatever.” She plucked the billfold from David’s hand, started to push through the two men. “I’m going in there, and I’m not leaving until I get answers.”