Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (38 page)

Doc’s body collapsed like a lifeless bag of bones beneath David, and David fell on top of it. Retched again. And he cried.

David Morris sat in the tall, thirsty Bahia grass, his legs crossed beneath him. In his lap, Natalee’s head. He stared into her eyes, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. She blinked at him. Smiled. Or at least seemed to.

He had no idea how long he sat there, talking to her, reminiscing—even laughing—until he decided to tell her goodbye. Let her go. Two hours? Three, maybe? Above, the stars started to give way to a lighter blue.

It was time. He knew this. Time to say goodbye, their time together over. The last two or three hours had been some of the most magical of his life. As he sat there, cradling her head, he relived their lives together. The good, the bad. The in between. He loved all of it. Appreciated all of it. Without the bad, how would he know what was good?

He deliberated on how to do it. To end it. To put her to rest. The blade? The bullet? He did know he couldn’t leave her like this. As badly as he wanted to, he just… couldn’t. She wasn’t the same. She needed freedom. He’d expect her to do the same for him.

David groped the ground for El Jefe, finding the Walther P38 custom pistol that had thankfully eluded Tom. The bullet was quicker, more precise. More humane. Besides, he just didn’t have the strength—nor the anger—to heave the hatchet even one more time.

Tears streamed down his face. He’d never done anything harder in his life.

Picking up the 9mm pistol, he ejected the magazine, hoping against hope that it was empty. But shiny bullets stood at attention, ready. Willing. Able. He gently inserted the mag back into the hilt, then gazed at Natalee’s animated head. She seemed to plead with her eyes.
 

Please. Do it. Get it over with. I’m ready to go home. I want to see our Karla. See you there someday. We’ll be a family. Again.

David swiped at the rivulets running down his dirty, blood-stained cheeks. He took Nat’s head to the edge of the beautiful pond, and set her on the ground, her eyes facing the calm and peaceful water. Dropping to his knees, he pressed the barrel against the back of her skull, closed his own eyes, and squeezed the trigger.

At the south end of the stock pond, David stared out over the water. Morning was in full swing, the already blaring sun having muscled the moon and stars away. Birds sang happy songs. Dragonflies skittered across the water, teasing the fish. The woods reverberated with the conversation of gossiping insects, no doubt abuzz over the events of the previous evening.

Deep in his own musing, he’d barely noticed Jessica sidle up to him. She put her hand on his back, gave it a quick rub. Despite the well-meaning gesture, he winced in pain.
 

“Sorry.” A residual rasp persisted in her voice.
 

When David didn’t answer, she said, “You alright?”

His eyes dove, and he barely nodded.

Jessica stood there with him for a moment, appreciating the beauty of the place. The smell of smoke still hung heavy, but their saturated sinuses no longer registered it.

“Lenny and Taneesha are up by the tree line, scouting out the Alamo.” She coughed. “There were a few other survivors… Maria made it.” She was quiet for a moment, then, “Lenny doesn’t expect to find anything left. Just wants to be sure that everyone regroups.”

Another nod. An awkward silence.

“Anyway, I just wanted to check on you.” She pulled away, crossed her arms, then glanced down the service road.

He followed her gaze. She was curious. Curious about Doc. Wanted to know if he was really dead. If David really did it.

“He’s dead,” David confirmed flatly.

“What?” Jessica asked. “I mean—”

“Tom. He’s dead.”

“Tom?”

“Yeah.”

“That was his name?”

David nodded. “Yeah. Tom.”
 

She held out her hand, and he took it. Squeezed.

David said, “Thomas Theodore Mackey.”

“Why did he call himself Doc Holliday?”

He shrugged, even though it hurt to. “Don’t know. Not even sure if Tom was his real name.”

Rubbing at her neck, she sighed a wispy, relieved sigh. “So he’s dead. Whatever his name was.”

“He’ll never bother us again.”

She seemed to relax. “What are you going to do with…?” Jess asked with a single nod toward the box by the water’s edge.

“I want to take her to Karla. Bury her beside our daughter.”

“She’d like that.”

David nodded.

Another uncomfortable silence ensued, then Jess said, “I think they want to get moving soon. Find a place to get cleaned up. Maybe stay for a couple of nights. Then start figuring out what to do from here.”

“Okay.”

She started back toward the trail. “You coming?”

“Give me just a few.”

“Sure.”

He watched her disappear down the path.

After he was sure she was gone, he started in the opposite direction, back down the service road, to the truck. To Doc’s body.

For a long moment, he stood over the decapitated corpse of the man who’d vowed to kill him. Already, the flies had taken an interest. David shooed several of them, stirring the stench of death. The smell—and sight—was making him queasy, and he craved the taste and aroma of something else.

He hinged his torso, grabbed the scruff of Doc’s coat, and peeled the leather duster off of his body. David coughed, a fist to his mouth to stave off the sick. When his stomach calmed, he shrugged into the leather, then patted the pockets. Reaching inside, he retrieved a pack of Camel cigarettes. Two left.

David shook one out, tugging it with his teeth. Then, he slid out the last one, tucked it beside the first, and lit them both, breathing a healthy fire into them. He crouched beside Doc’s head, plugged one of the cigarettes into his mangled lips.

“Don’t mention it,” David mumbled around the cigarette drooping from his own mouth.

Doc blinked at him.

David stole a heavy drag off the Camel, his nose and tongue thankful for something to smell and taste other than death and destruction.

“Let’s see what we got here.” He leaned over the truck bed railing, peeked into the back. Doc’s hat. Somehow during the previous night’s scuffle, his hat ended up in the pickup bed. David plucked it from the back, eyed it a second, brushed it off. He admired it at arms’ length for another moment, then placed it on his own head.
 

Next, he opened the truck door, peered in. “Ah.” He reached in, lifted out a container sloshing with whiskey.

David held the bottle in front of him, scanning it, then read aloud, “Southern Comfort.” He gave it a shake, then stepped back over to Doc’s head.

Tom’s eyes seemed to plead, to beg, though David was sure it was all in his mind. Tom was dead, right? He had no way of knowing…

With a quick twist, David spun the cap off, then recoiled at the smell. “Jesus.” He coughed. “Strong stuff.”

Glancing down at Doc’s head, he said, “Smoke getting in your eyes?”

Blink. Blink.

“Well, I hope you’re enjoying your last cigarette, Doc.” David started to take a pull from the bottle, then stopped. “Thirsty?”

Blink. Blink.

David swore Doc’s eyes went wide when he dumped whiskey all over Doc’s decapitated head.
 

“Cheers.” He took a long pull off the bottle.
 

Within just a few seconds, the alcohol flared with flame, Doc’s head engulfed.

Chills racked David’s body.

Did he just… scream?

He’d definitely heard a high-pitched sound. Maybe it was a scream. Maybe it was just the sound a fire normally makes when consuming something, like a knot in a log. Either way, David was sure he heard it. And he’d hear it forever and ever and ever. An aural tattoo on his memory.

David chugged more whiskey.

He was grateful for the cigarette, though. And the whiskey. The odor of burning hair and skin and bone nauseated him. But he had to wait there, be sure the flames did their job. He’d promised Jess that Doc was dead. And this he would not lie about.

Finish what you start.

The fire weakened, started to subside, and David poured more whiskey onto Doc’s burning head. It flared.
 

And David knew for sure this time. Heard it. Was listening for it. Doc’s last word:

Dahlin’.

www.seanrobertlang.com

My heartfelt thanks to…

My one-of-a-kind, patient, and wonderful wife, Cass. Thank you for allowing me to pursue my passion. And for listening to me go on and on and on about it…

My just-as-wonderful and supportive family and friends.

Those brave enough to read my raw manuscript and give me feedback without worrying about my feelings. Thanks for helping make it a better book.

And to those readers who took a chance on me. My humble thanks to you.

Sean

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Also available:

Welcome to the South, where the dead are dangerous, and the living are deadly.
 

David didn't know he killed another man's wife. He was only trying to save his own family. His friends. Himself.
 

And now he's being hunted. By the dead. And by the living. He thinks he can handle the dead. But can he handle the living?
 

Contains strong language and violence.
 

Book 1 of the Dead South series, a suspense/thriller set in the Zombie Apocalypse.
 

Website:

www.seanrobertlang.com

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Coming Fall of 2014:

Dead South Rising (Book 3)

Dear Reader,
 

I want to express my thanks to you again for reading
Dead South Rising
. With the amazing amount of choices out there, it truly humbles me that you would give me the chance.
 

Please consider leaving a review. Reviews are a great way to help other readers decide if the book may be right for them. I thank you, and they’ll thank you, too.

Sean