Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (7 page)

“… back down, David. Please. Just lie back down and…”

He felt as though he were being lifted out of bed, but no one touched him. He was standing, but didn’t remember pressing to his feet.

“… hurt yourself if you…”

Gliding. Along the floor, floating toward the door.

“… David… David …”

The room glowed like heaven, or maybe hell. He wasn’t sure which. It had gotten bright, suddenly…
brilliant
.

He lifted the beautiful hand within his own and gazed at it, the ring glittering and sparkling, just as it had done that day under the lights at the jewelry store. A dazzling purity, untarnished, redolent of the soul he would later give it to.

His cheek stung, his body becoming suddenly heavy.

“
David!
”

Jessica’s frightened tone shattered his reverie like a mirror, and he brought his own fingertips to his face, rubbing where she’d slapped him.

“You’ve got to snap out of this. Please.”

His uncovered eye darted around the room, finding focus, losing it, then finding it again. There were others watching him, hands pressed together, tented beneath chins. Lips pursed. Looks of sorrow, of deep concern. Of fear.

Doctor Gonzalez moved toward him, reaching for his wife’s hand.

David yanked it back reflexively, a knee-jerk reaction.

The doctor said, “David, it’s not healthy. You could get—”

“
Don’t touch me.
” His voice boomed despite bruised lungs. Gripping Natalee’s hand harder, he held it in plain sight of the others. With breaths out of rhythm and on the brink of a sob, he said, “Where did… where did Bryan get…?”
   

Those in the room answered with only blinks and stares.

His voice more sure, “I said,
where did Bryan get this?
” He held his wife’s hand higher, a visual punctuation mark.

Jessica braved an answer. “He… he said that… Doc was here. That Doc gave it to him.”

David’s shoulders heaved as he pulled in deep breaths, throbbing, fractured ribs be damned. The physical pain he’d experienced seemed somehow superficial now. A surface aggravation, easily scraped away. He’d shed it like a snake sheds its skin, be done with the shallow suffering so he could focus on the deeper hurt buried and pulsating in his heart.

“Where is he?”

Those in the room traded unknowing glances.

“
Where is he?
” David yelled. “
Where is Doc?
”

Jessica’s hands slapped her ears. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” She seemed ready to cry.

David crossed to the door, slung it open. It rattled, vibrating on sure hinges. He stepped into the hall, calling out, “Bryan? Bryan? Come here, Bryan. I need to talk to you.”

Hooking his arm, Jessica tried pulling David back into his room. “Leave him alone, David. You’ll scare him. He’s already upset. He didn’t know what was in the—”

“I need to know, Jess. I have to know.” He shook the dismembered hand at her, his emotions swinging back toward despair. “Doc… he mutilated her. My god, Jess…”

She chanced a tender touch. “I know, David. I know. He’s a monster.”

He felt his knees weaken, and he wanted to let go, collapse in a heap to the floor. Lie there for hours, days, forever. Before he could, Bryan materialized down the hall. He approached David, his pace slow and cautious, steps taken by a mischievous child caught, about to face the belt. Or the switch. His chin quivered, sad eyes glassy. Charlie, his puppy, followed with the same, depressed gait.

David’s nails dug into his own palm as he worked to calm and quiet the erratic noise inside him. Seeing the boy and his dog was like Vicodin for his hurting heart. He kneeled, hiding his wife’s hand behind his back. No matter how distraught David was, he couldn’t subject Bryan to the sight of it.
 

But he couldn’t hide the tremble in his voice. “Hey, champ.”

Upon reaching David, Bryan said softly, “Are you mad at me?”

David held him by one shoulder. “Of course not, Bry.”

“I heard you yell. Like you were mad.”

“Not at you, Bryan. I could never be mad at you.”

Brushing away an errant tear, Bryan said, “Who are you mad at?”

David felt his throat closing, choking him. “Where did you get the box, champ?” He coughed lightly. “The present.”

“Doctor Holliday gave it to me. To give to you. He said it was like a Christmas present, and that it was
fragile
.”

Breathing became shallowed, and David dipped his chin to hide his own tear. Recovering quickly, he said, “Where… where did you see Doc?”

The child pointed back behind him, toward the warehouse double-doors.

“In the warehouse?”

“No, outside.”

“Outside? Past the fence? In the field?”

“By the pool.”

David hesitated, then said, “The pool? How did he get… Why were you by the pool, Bryan? We’ve told you to never go outside without an adult, no matter what. Remember? And to stay far away from the pool.”

Bryan’s lips thinned, chin quivering again. A shallow nod.

“Who gave you permission to go out there?” That familiar choppy anger churned just beneath his tone.

The boy hesitated.

Urging him on, David said, “It’s okay Bryan. You’re not tattling. I need to know.”

“Mister… Mister Roy told me to go outside and play. That the adults were busy inside at a—”

“Roy?”

Bryan nodded.

“He told you to go outside, by yourself?”

Another nod. Trembling.

And immediately, the pendulum of pain swung toward raging anger, smashing through the wall like a wrecking ball and exposing a newfound fury he didn’t know existed.

But he was relieved to find it, that simmering misery of absolute hate that stoked his outrage and ate the pain. It was there, in his blood, seething. Always there, he’d tried his best to ignore it, leave it be, occasionally poking at it, teasing it, like some dangerous caged animal.
 
But always with his back to that wall, never breaking through. Until now.
 

And with rage and hate and hurt, an epiphany. He’d learned a critical life lesson recently, one that he’d failed to acknowledge before, but would certainly abide by forever going forward: finish what you start. Or someone else will.

Had he killed Mitch, like he originally planned, these fallen dominos might still be standing. Instead, they toppled, loosing a hellish series of events that could only end in despair and ultimately death. David’s despair. David’s death. Their despair. Their deaths.

Should have killed him. Should have killed Mitch. Should have killed Sammy. Guillermo. Should have killed them. Shoulda’… woulda’… coulda’… Will.

And maybe had the Janitor executed David’s plan to flatten the shufflers that had surrounded the Alamo’s fence, Roy would still be acting like a normal person instead of sending innocent, defenseless children to their deaths. But the Janitor hadn’t, and Roy had. In a strange way, David welcomed it, because it gave him something to focus his aggrieved soul on since Doc wasn’t readily available to kill. A practice target. Roy had it coming.

He pressed to his feet. He started to turn, then stopped. “Thank you, Bryan. You did nothing wrong. Hear me? You and Charlie… you’re good.” He actually managed a smile, then added, “Hang out with Jess for a few minutes, okay?”

“Is Roy in trouble?”

“You don’t worry about that, okay, champ?” He tousled the boy’s hair.

Bryan glanced nervously at Jessica, who stood just outside the door with the others. “Okay.”
 

Jess smiled, waving him over, encouraging the boy to join her. Upon reaching her side, Bryan took her hand, squeezed. Charlie nudged their calves, craving attention. David saw the terror in Jessica’s eyes. She knew what he was about to do, and she knew better than to try and stop him. But that didn’t keep her from trying.

David pressed past the small group, entered his room. He grabbed his gun belt, wrapped his waist. Slipped on his boots. Exited the room.

Her voice low, Jess said, “David, this was Doc’s doing, not Roy’s. Please, what you’re about to do—”

“What I’m about to do has to be done.”

Dr. Gonzalez said, “Whoa, wait, where are you—?”
 

But he brushed past the good doctor, ignoring her pleas. Another person started to come after him; Jessica stopped them.
 

Someone else had started something, and David intended to finish it.

* * *

On his way to Roy’s room and still holding his wife’s hand, the virtual wrecking ball inside David continued smashing away, exposing more and more glittering rage. He mined it readily, greedily, like so much gold or coal or diamonds. It sustained his essence, helped him…
feel
. And it was all his for the taking.

As much as it made him feel, this rage, it numbed him just as effectively. It was with the same hate he’d gone after Mitch, that same…
feeling
… that he was doing the right thing, for the right people—for Jessica, for Bryan, for himself. For the world. Except this time, that feeling had multiplied, was stronger.
 

Visions of himself, sitting inside the Dodge dually, parked on that tiny road just after putting down Old Man Bartlett. Him staring, drinking in the sight of his destiny, his identity—the ornate Walther P38 pistol,
El Jefe
. He’d accepted it, rejected it, and now welcomed it again. He’d have to, if he was going to do what he planned to do.

David believed in mind over matter, his hate-fanned heart and thoughts desensitizing him to physical pain. Sure, he hurt. He
was
human, after all. His body ached something fierce. Sammy and Guillermo had, as Dr. Gonzalez so eloquently said,
done a number on him
. He’d done the right thing that night, letting them go. He knew this, was sure of it.
Felt
… good… about it. But he also knew that if he ever saw them again, the outcome would be much, much different. With the way he was feeling, he almost hoped he’d see them again. Soon.

The hate also soothed his sadness. Hate instilled hope, because hate forced him to act, to actually
do
something. Sadness was an anchor, dragging, drowning, pulling him beneath his own tears. But
hate
… hate was buoyancy, a life preserver in sorrow’s vast ocean.

His anger management coach tritely referred to hate as a four-letter word, and therefore ugly and useless, not to be uttered inside the four walls of his office. Of course his coach had a
four-
step program to curb such tendencies. David left pissed-off more often than not. During his last visit, David told the fucker off, a fitting finish. Told him since he liked the number ‘four’ so much that maybe he should consider accounting. Or maybe a spot on Sesame Street.
 

Or better yet, take
four
of these, shove them up
four
of your holes—don’t care which—and don’t fucking call me at four in the morning.

Farther down the hall, David detoured, ducking into one of the south-side exterior rooms. Most of these outer rooms remained unoccupied, deemed less safe because of windows. A few folks resided in these rooms, but most stayed to the interior ones. Significantly less chance of being awakened in the middle of the night by a shuffler slapping the glass. Or worse, waking up dead because one broke through.

Prying the blinds, he peered through the window, seeing what he’d hoped to see—men scouring the grounds. The Janitor was out there, along with Randy, Lenny, and several others, all armed and searching. Observing for a minute or so, he noticed Roy was not among them. This bode well for David. Roy was most likely in his room, and with almost everyone outside, David would have Roy all to himself. A very valuable lesson awaited Roy, and David aimed to teach it.

Back in the hallway, David’s boots echoed off buffed floors and brimmed with an experienced killer’s calm composure. Except he wasn’t an experienced killer, had yet to kill a living soul.

A
living
soul.

But it didn’t matter that he had only dispatched the dead. They were good practice, and besides, he didn’t desire to kill. He didn’t want to kill the man he was on his way to see. To talk to. To
teach
. But he had to be ready to kill. Be
prepared
to. Just in case.

Ready or not, here I kill.

His heart beat a solid rhythm of rage, pushing out fear and sadness while powering confident forward motion. Roy’s room should be just up the hall and around the corner. David was sure he’d have plenty of time to enlighten the man.

At Roy’s door, David stood a moment, listening, thinking. Mulling over what he was seriously considering. Justifying it.

Tell him like it is. Be firm. Direct. He’d put Bryan in danger, nearly gotten him killed. Roy is a…
problem.
Fix the problem.

Despite his rush to discipline this man, David’s sudden overblown confidence collided with conscience. He believed he was doing the right thing for the right person. But was he? He told himself, convinced himself, this was for Bryan. And it was with his thought of the boy that the child’s own words echoed again:

Right, because we should always do the right thing.

“Right,” he whispered to the door, “because I’m doing the
right
thing.”

He raised his knuckles, poised to knock. Then stared blankly, frozen at the sight of his own fist, his own hand. Cuts. Scratches. Future scars. The ring on his finger. The ring that matched his wife’s.
 

Focus on what needs doing. Get your shit together. Cry later. Better yet, no more crying…
 

Sound and stink emanated from the room. Roy wasn’t alone. Something was going on behind that door. Not a struggle, but not something of mutual agreement, either. Didn’t matter to David, though. He had a lesson plan prepared, and if he had to ask others to leave, so be it. No one else would get in his way today.

His hand fell to the butt of his pistol as he considered the weapon’s necessity. To pull or not to pull. Before entering, or after. He wanted to make an everlasting impression. Roy answering the door, eyes finding David with a gun in one hand, a soulmate’s decomposing body part in the other? The vision would certainly ingrain a memorable message into the man’s brain. Permanent remembrance, a tattoo of terror.