Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (35 page)

David cut him off. “Just shut the fuck up and do it, already. I’m tired of your threats, your melodramatic bullshit. If you’re gonna kill me, fucking kill me. Quit pussyfooting around.” He took three steps toward Doc, then leaned in until El Jefe’s barrel bolted itself to his forehead. Glaring at Doc, he said, “Point blank. Go ahead. Pull it. Drill a hole right through my fucking skull.”

Several tense moments passed.

“What are you fucking waiting for, huh? I need to change your diaper? You got a fucking vagina down there?”

Steel trembled against his forehead, and he prayed for Doc to squeeze the trigger. He almost reached up and pulled it himself. His lids lowered, palms open at his sides, as though ascending to the heavens above.

Do it. I’m ready to see Natalee. Karla. The way they used to be. I’m ready to be a family again. Please, pull it. I want to go home.

David no longer felt the kiss of metal against his forehead.

Did he do it? Was that it? Was it that painless? That quick?

“No.”

David opened his eyes. Doc was still standing in front of him; El Jefe dangled at his side.

“What?” David asked.

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re not getting off that easily.”

“I don’t know how much more easy I can make it for you.”

“I’ve got one more present for you. One I’m sure you’ll love.”

David’s mouth went dry, his throat clogged with sand.

A smile returned to Doc’s face. “I know you read my last note. You know there’s one more box.”

Doc was determined to make David’s last minutes on this earth as miserable as he possibly could.

“Santa Claus is coming… to town…” Doc sang.

David dropped to his knees, and retched.

* * *

Like June bugs to a light bulb. It was a common saying in the South, to be sure. At least in the Morris household it was. David’s father used the expression often. But that was the only way David knew to describe what he was seeing as he watched the shufflers move toward the fire.

Doc didn’t even take the time to dispatch them, in too much of a hurry to get to where they were going. Simply weaved around them like a skier through slalom cones.
 

David and Doc negotiated the field within two or three minutes, pressing toward the tree line and the barbed wire fence. Only God, the devil, and Doc knew for sure what was waiting there for David. Based on the last little rhyme, he suspected Natalee’s head in a box. How he wished Doc had pulled the trigger and sent him somewhere else.
 

Behind them, the Alamo’s roof spit flames and black smoke at the night sky. It wouldn’t be long until the facility—and everything in it—succumbed. David thought it would be appropriate to cry, but he just didn’t have it in him.

In almost no time, and with some fancy footwork, he and Doc reached the barbed wire fence separating the field from the forest.

“You first,” Doc said.

David just stood there, eyeing the toothy wire gleaming in the moon’s rays and growing glow of the distant inferno. He could almost feel the fire’s breath on his neck.

“You took Kate from me,” Doc said, a quiet quake in his voice. “You took Bertha. You took Bessie. You can take no more from me.”

“You’re right,” David said. “Because you have no soul to take.”

The explosion across David’s vision nauseated him, and he dropped to his knees, his hands clutching the wobbly fence wire and holding on for dear life. Doc had again used the butt of David’s own gun against him, cracking the back of his skull. He glimpsed the sky, cursing unwanted tears streaming down his face. But he quickly realized they weren’t tears he was cursing, but the blood from the fresh gash in his forehead, courtesy of the barbed wire he’d snagged on his way to his knees.

“Move.”

David coughed, heaved.

“I said move, goddamnit.” Doc kicked his back again, and David gritted his teeth in pain as he hit the wire like a pro-wrestler thrown into the ropes. His body was shutting down, wanting no more.

“You ain’t getting off that easy,” Doc said.
 

With everything he had, David pressed to his feet, and slipped through the fence, barbs catching his clothing, ripping his shirt and jeans. And skin. Tripping over the bottom wire, he rolled onto the path, ended up on his back. High above him, the susurrus of the gossiping leaves could barely be heard over the roaring blaze across the way.

Doc followed, his long coat catching in the wire’s teeth.

Now’s your chance. Jump him. Attack him. Kill him.

But Doc was too quick, freeing himself before David could even sit up. Again, David found himself on the wrong end of his own Walther P38 pistol.

“Up.”

Before plunging into the inky blackness, David glanced one last time at the Alamo. The flames licked heaven’s pearly gates, the vast grassland alight in the orange glow. An inordinate number of shufflers were emerging and pressing toward the inferno. But strangely, most were originating from the east, and heading west.

Just like that night out on Highway 204… the pasture at Mitch’s place… going west… why west? The fire, of course. But there are almost none coming
from
the west, only
toward
the west…

He’d picked a poor time to deliberate such trivial things, as substantial or significant as they may actually be. He wouldn’t live long enough to care.

Hell, maybe I’ll be joining them by the morning’s end… Time for a stroll. I hear it’s gorgeous out west. Let’s head west!

Doc shoved David’s shoulder, and he stumbled toward the gaping darkness. David couldn’t see very far down the trail, the foliage and blackness swallowing the parts of the path not glowing orange.

But Doc remedied that right quick. Over David’s shoulder, a brilliant white light kicked on like some superhero sky signal, a light so bright, the edges glowed blue. His own shadow walked before him, leading him. Betraying him.

Death this way, just follow me. If you dare.

He was walking death row again, heading down that final stretch. Not that he’d ever been given a reprieve…

Ahead, two shufflers ambled toward them, effectively blocking the way. David didn’t stop or hesitate. He kept right on walking, feeling no fear, inviting their bites.

But Doc would not let that happen.

David jerked at the concussion from the gun’s blast and the bullet’s breath as it screamed by his ear. Ten feet away, the lead shuffler crumpled in a heap to the trail. A second later, another blast, another downed shuffler.

Stepping over the bodies, David tripped, the light and shadow lying to his eyes. He plowed into the path like a baseball player sliding into home plate, the dirt and rocks biting his palms, his chin, his chest. That was it. He was done. Doc could just shoot him right where he lay.

“Up.”

David didn’t move. Doc kicked his heel.

“Up.”

David exhaled heavily, the dirt and dust blowing back onto his bloody face, where it stuck like dull glitter in glue.

Doc kicked him harder.

“I said get up. Right fucking now.”

A weak pushup, and David was on his hands and knees.

Another kick from Doc sent him face-first into the dirt again.

Doc didn’t realize it, but he’d just lit a new fire. An arsonist of the soul. Anger like David had never felt in all his forty-five years of living was sparking to life, every kick from Doc’s boot fanning the flame.

David pressed to his hands and knees, then hovered there, daring Doc to kick him again. He spit grit back to the ground.
 

Right at that moment, he made a decision. He was going to kill this impersonator. Hand him true death. This he vowed to every god in existence and yet to be created. Maybe it would be the last thing he ever did, but by the gods, he would do it, even if it cost him his own life, his own
soul
. Living was overrated. And he was questioning the existence of Heaven, anyway.

He sat back on his heels, hands on his thighs as he caught his breath. Maybe Doc could smell the furious fire smoldering in David, because instead of delivering another vicious kick, he grabbed David by the collar, and hauled him to his feet.

“Move.”
 

A shove.

David stumbled a couple of steps, then stopped.

Doc launched a heavy sigh. “If you want to say goodbye to your wife before I kill you and her, you’ll commence to move your ass.”

It took David’s mind a moment to process what Doc had just said. But he was sure he’d heard it. “What did you say?”

“Ah. He comes alive.”

David turned on his heel, faced the blinding light. “What… did you… just say?”

“You… fucking… heard me.”

“Natalee’s… alive?”

“Or some reasonable facsimile thereof.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Though in his heart of hearts, he knew exactly what that meant. He had to get to her. Now.

“As the mystical Magic 8-Ball says, ‘Better not tell you now.’”

David lunged at the light, only to be met with the fist of a man intent on killing him. Knees buckling, his ass met the ground, his teeth clacking together hard. He spit out a piece of one, the coppery taste of blood tickling his tongue.

Doc crouched beside him. “I’m going to grant you something you denied me. The chance to say, ‘goodbye.’”

In some sick, twisted way, this appealed to David. Actually…
excited
him.

A chance to say goodbye. Farewell. I love you… see you soon.

“Take me to her.”

“After you.”

Barking? Is that a… dog?

Despite the shattered storm window, smoke filled the room like an unemployed pothead’s lungs. Jessica coughed uncontrollably. She felt like a steak beneath a broiler, the heat from above bearing down on her. Or like some screwed up Bizzaro world, Hell roaring above instead of below. Any second, flames would engulf the ceiling. The room. Her. The bite of the dead would be preferable to burning to death. But she just couldn’t bring herself to leave Randy. She’d never live down his demise. She’d rather die right there with him. Besides, she realized in that very moment—that very instant—that she loved him. Wanted to be with him. And she would not leave him. Death be damned.

Jess had just resigned herself to death when she heard the barking, the yipping.

Charlie?

Then, a woman’s voice.

Luz?

The door reverberated like a drum.

“—in there?”

More coughing. Jessica managed a single, raspy, “Yes!” Her eyes stung and the roaring above grew louder.

The robust clack of a retracting deadbolt. The door swung open, whipping the wall behind it. Then shuddered to a stop.
 

“Hello?”

The room was a hazy, swirling soup of creamy smoke. Jessica couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

“Hello? Are you in here?” The same woman’s voice.

A male’s voice this time. Randy’s. “Yes! Help!”

“Over here!” the woman’s voice called again. A palm slapping wood.

Another bark. Coughs.

“Randy!” Jessica said, her hand in his. “C’mon!”

“Go! Go!” he encouraged.

“Where are you?” Jessica called to the woman.

“Over here!”

“Keep yelling! I can’t see you!”

More slapping on wood. More yipping, barking. “Over here! Here! I’m over here!”

Jessica and Randy crawled blindly toward the noise, their lungs working desperately to expel the poison forcing its way inside them.

“Where are you?” Randy yelled through coughs, hacks.
 

“Here! We’re over here!”

“Miss Jessica!” A boy’s voice.

Bryan!

Jessica’s maternal instinct kicked in. “Bryan! Get out—” A coughing fit claimed her lungs.

“Go!” Randy said, dragging her with.

Shins. A person’s shins.

“Is that—?”

“Yes!” A hand on her head, then her shoulder.
 

Jessica reached up, another hand finding hers. She pressed to her feet.
 

“This way!” the female voice ordered.

“What about—” Jessica couldn’t finish her question, her lungs fighting for breath and air that wasn’t there.

“Lenny?” Randy called into the thick haze.

“He’s getting the Janitor,” the woman yelled through coughs. It was Luz. Jessica would recognize her voice anywhere.

Tugging. Towing. Jessica had no idea which direction they were going. Didn’t care. They were going somewhere, anywhere but here. Away from smoke and flame and guaranteed death.

“Wait!”

Randy’s voice.

“Randy!” Jessica managed.
 

A hand grabbed her ankle. She reached down, found his wrist. Pulled. “C’mon.” More coughing. Barking. Roaring. Eyes burning.

Screams.

“The Janitor?”

“Lenny’s getting him!” Luz screamed.

A roar above them. Getting closer. Scary close. Down the hall, behind them, the ceiling caved. A bright flash.

“Go! Go! Go!” Luz shouted.

“What about—” Randy started.

Glass. Jessica’s palms slapping glass. The vestibule. Her hands slid down, found the door’s crash bar. Pushed through.

On her knees now. Pain. Fingers around her wrist. Pulling. More tugging.

“C’mon!”
 

Randy’s voice.

More glass, her forehead hitting it.
 

Blood? Tears? Don’t matter.

She pressed to her feet. Someone pressing into her from behind. Trapped against glass. Stuck. “Back”—cough—“up!” Jess couldn’t breathe. She drove her elbow backward. “Back! Up!”

A door opening. Smoke following. Billowing. She grabbed Randy’s belt, following. The
clank
of a door. They spilled out onto the concrete walkway. Violent coughs. Searing pain in her elbow. Knee.

Doesn’t fucking matter. We’re out! We’re fucking out! Outside!

“Keep moving!” yelled Luz.

Another hand? A strange hand? A
cold
hand.

Again, Jess jumped to her feet. Adrenaline high. A scream.

“No! God no!”

“Run!”