Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row (8 page)

David tugged the Walther—El Jefe—from the crossdraw holster on his left hip. Hands full, he kicked the door with the toe of his boot.
 

“Roy.” David waited a moment, then kicked the door a second time. Louder, “Roy.”

Shuffling, frantic whispers. A growl?

The door cracked open. A crazed eye peered through it. Heavy breathing.

“Roy, we need to talk.”

The eye disappeared, then reappeared. “David. I’m, uh, kind of… busy in here. At the moment. We’ll talk later. Okay?”

The door closed.

David breathed a deep breath, wincing at the pain in his core, then kicked the door again.

It cracked open. The same eye. “David, I’m—”

“Open up, Roy.”

Hesitation, reluctance. “I… I can’t right now—”

“Yes, you can. And you will.”

“I’m sorry, David, but—”

“Open it. Or I will.” He held the gun for Roy’s eye to see.

Silence. Unwavering stares. Noise from the room. A guttural, chesty growl, like someone gagged, unable to speak. A tang on the air.

“Now, Roy.”

“Please, David, don’t take him.”

“Take him?” David furrowed his brow. “Take who?”

“Just, just please go away.”

David tapped the wood with the butt of his pistol. “Open up, Roy. Now.”

After a trembling sigh, Roy swung open the door, then immediately clasped his own forearm. “David, it’s not what it looks like. The Janitor said I could—”

“What the hell?” Jaw unhinged, David stopped midway through the door. His instinct was to shoot it, stab it. Kill it.

“Gabriel knows. He knows Scotty’s here. He told me I could.”

Rivulets ran from Roy’s eyes, almost indistinguishable from copious sweat. “I couldn’t leave him out there, David. I couldn’t. He’s my boy. I couldn’t leave my poor, sick boy out there with the rest of them. You understand, right? You understand?”

In the room’s corner, tied loosely to a chair, was Roy’s adult son. His undead son. The same son that had wandered up to the fences a week ago. The sole reason David’s plan to run down the shufflers with the soil compactor was postponed.
 

Aborted.

The Infirmaries had won that decision. All because of this squirming, writhing, stinking dead man.

We can’t kill them. They’re sick, that’s all. They’re just sick. We’ll find another way.

“Roy, I can’t believe Gabe agreed to this,” he said, pointing his gun at Scotty.

A twinge of anger touched Roy’s tone. “Don’t point your gun at my son.”

“He can’t stay in here.”

“He can, and he will.”

Scotty growled, the duct tape blocking a bilious breath. Didn’t matter. David could smell the zest of death just the same.

“He’s gotta go, Roy,” David said, moving toward Scotty.

Roy moved in front of his boy. “No.” He shook his head. “I can’t let you.” He was sweating profusely, breaths shallow.

David wagged his pistol at Roy. “Why are you holding your arm?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.”

More anger and impatience in Roy’s voice. “I’m fine, I said. Now go, leave before—”

“Let me see it.”

Roy hesitated. “David, if you don’t leave now, I’m going to have to—”

“Look me in the eye and tell me, Roy.”

“Gabriel said—”

“I don’t give a shit what Gabe said.”

“What do you want from me, David? Huh? Just what the hell are you doing here?”

David crossed the room, stood nose-to-nose with Roy. He held his dead wife’s hand to his face. “This, Roy.
This
is why I’m here.”

Roy flinched. “What is that?”

“What the fuck do you
think
it is?”

“Looks like a… a hand…”

“Goddamned right, Roy. Right on the fucking money. Now, for the million-fucking-dollar question,
whose
hand is this?”

Roy twisted his head away from the hand, eyes closed tight.

“Whose hand, Roy? Clock’s ticking.”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“
I don’t know.
”

“It’s my wife’s hand, Roy.
My wife’s
. She’s dead, just like your boy over there. And you know something else? You damn near killed another boy.”

Roy opened his eyes, not understanding. “I don’t… I didn’t hurt anyone.” He tried to move away.

“Yes, Roy. Yes you did.” David shoved him, and Roy bumped the wall. “A
child,
Roy. How’s
that
feel on your conscience? Huh? That you’d sacrifice a young, living child for your own dead one?”

“I didn’t—”

David fumed. This conversation was going nothing like he’d planned. He was succeeding only in making himself angrier with every word. He’d lost focus, lost direction. He gripped his gun hard.

“It’s your fault, Roy. You told my boy to go outside.
Outside
.” He pointed the barrel to the window. “To go… play. While your dead boy,
dead
, Roy… stays
inside.
”

“The little kid? I told him to stay inside the fence.”

“Oh, you told him to stay
inside
the fence. Well, not only did you risk his precious young life by subjecting him to that pit full of rotting monsters, another fucking monster found him and found
me
.”

“I don’t under—”

“Some lunatic murderer, Roy. Thinks he’s Doc Holliday, roaming the countryside. He got inside the fence, where
you
told Bryan it was safe. Where you told him to
go play
. He could have been killed.
Murdered
. And it would have been
your
fucking fault.” David pressed his forearm to Roy’s throat. “Do you fucking understand me?”

Roy was burning up with fever, sweat diving off his nose, his chin, his eye lids. David pulled back.

“What the fuck is wrong with—?” And David understood what he’d walked into.

Roy’s eyes were losing their life glow, his words harder to come by. He sounded drunk. “David, I didn’t know… I didn’t mean to… please… don’t tell Gabe… I was only trying to…” He slid down the wall and into a heap on the floor, his hand falling away from his arm—his badly bitten arm.

“Shit,” David whispered to the dead and soon-to-be-dead. He glanced at Scotty, noticed the blood framing his mouth, his chin.

“Fuck.”

He knelt beside Roy, checked the wound. It was bad. Deep. Scotty had taken a nice chunk out of Roy’s arm, all the way to the bone. It was only a matter of time.

End it. Finish it now. Gotta finish what you start.

David stood and stepped back. He didn’t have his knife, hadn’t replaced his old one yet. Regardless, he couldn’t just leave Roy there. Or Scotty. He had to handle the situation. The problem.

Too dangerous. It’s too dangerous to leave them here. Inside. Got to keep it safe inside. Roy’s a problem. Scotty’s a problem. Together, a big problem. Fix the fucking problem.

He glanced around the room, saw no one else. His own breaths had shallowed, nerves firing in anticipation of a physical altercation. One that could still happen.

Thanks, Scotty. Thanks for denying me my first
real
kill.
 

He raised the P38, squeezed the trigger. His ears screamed, pissed at the auditory assault inside the tightly closed quarters. Scotty’s skull rocked back as the 9mm bullet found his forehead, the blast painting a messy mural of remembrance on the wall behind him.

David didn’t hear Roy reanimate. Didn’t need to. Roy’s arm twitched first. Then his leg. His torso. A weak hiss. His head, a slow-motion bobble, finding muscle control in death. Roy’s eyes were a dead giveaway.

“Damnit, Roy.” Aiming his pistol, David finished it.

“Damn, home skillet. I think you nailed his ass to that tree.” Mallory laughed his wild dog laugh, slapped his knee, then slapped TJ on the shoulder.

“Fuck yeah, I did.” TJ lowered the rifle, brought the edge of his hand to his brow. “Motherfucker better recognize.”

“Right on, sharpshooter dude.” Mallory held his palm high, high-fived his buddy, then tried to high-five Laura.

“I’m good,” Laura said, her arms folded.

Pouting, Mallory said, “Aw, c’mon. Don’t leave me hanging. Gotta celebrate our boy’s superior marksmanship, dudette.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, saying, “Then we
really
celebrate with a ‘lil something something, know what I’m saying?” He smiled wide.

Before she could answer, a familiar voice boomed behind the trio. “Yeah, I know what you’s saying.”

Mallory spun on his heal, slapping his hand to his heart. “Damn, big dude. Scared the shit outta us. Again.”

TJ rocked his head back so he could look up at Lenny. “Like a goddamned eclipse walking up on us. What are you, like ten-foot-nine or some shit?”

Mallory nudged TJ. “Yeah, but his voice is so low can smell shit on his breath.”

Lenny said, “Told you three to just keep an eye out. Not shoot nobody.”

“A little late for that,” Mallory said through a giggle.

“What you mean?”

TJ pointed with his rifle toward the tree line. “Downed the motherfucker, right there by that big ass tree. Sumbitch won’t be bothering us no more. You can mail my reward money to Five-five-five, Bad Ass Motherfucker Boulevard, Your-Mother’s-House, Seven-five-seven-fuck-you.”

“Fucking A,” Mallory said. Another of his high-pitched giggles scratched the quickly souring air.

Lenny and Randy exchanged glances.

Randy said, “Janitor ain’t gonna like this.”

The group could see the Janitor coming around the corner, leading another cluster of men.

To Randy, Lenny said, “Better go check.”

“Right.”

“You three,” Lenny said, “Stay.”

TJ said, “Hey, we ain’t no fucking dogs, man. Better show us some—”

Lenny flashed a feint and a growl, and the three misfits flinched. TJ fumbled his rifle. Mallory stumbled into the wrought iron fence.

Randy snickered.

“Asshole,” TJ said. He waved a finger. “Both of you. Assholes.”

Laura said, “This whole place is fucked up. I mean, shit. You people have deadies in the pool, deadies in the tennis courts. You weird fucks probably sleep with those damn things.” Throwing her hands up, she started toward the building. “We’re so outta here. C’mon y’all.”

Mallory started after her, making a show of widely circumventing Lenny.

“Don’t let the rattlers bite ya on the way out,” Lenny said.

TJ didn’t move. “No, we ain’t going nowhere. The old man said we could stay.” His hand grasping the barrel, he thrust his rifle butt-first into the grass, as if planting a flag and staking a claim. “So we stay.”

Lenny shrugged. “Whatever. It’s your funerals.”

The trio looked around at one another. Finally, Laura said, “And just what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“When Janitor finds out you killed a man, you gonna be just as dead.”

Laura, TJ, and Mallory traded more nervous glances.

TJ spoke up, pointing to the tree line. “But that dude, I mean… y’all was gonna shoot him, anyway. Wasn’t ya? Shit, man. We did you fuckers a favor. You fucking
owe
us.”

“Let see what the Janitor has to say about that.”
 

* * *

Gabriel Jones had his chin parked in its usual spot—in the ‘U’ of his tan hand. He stood there, staring down at the facedown body TJ had sniped from behind the wrought iron fence. After the third heavy sigh, he asked. “Sure that’s not him?”

Lenny shook his head. “Don’t know, Janitor. Not for sure.”

“Randy?”

Randy stroked his beard, kneeling, pistol clutched at his side. “No, I don’t think so.” With the gun’s barrel, he poked at the downed corpse, just on the other side of the barbed wire. “This one’s been, well,
undead
for a while. See here? The texture? Color? Probably been wandering around for two or three weeks like this, I’d say.”

The Janitor sighed his fourth sigh. More to himself, he said, “Wish Luz could see. Quit ignoring the facts…” He trailed off.

Randy hesitated a moment, then continued. “Plus, Bryan said he was wearing a long, black leather coat and a cowboy hat, one with a wide brim. And this guy doesn’t have two pistols or a mustache and goatee, either. Bryan said it looked like one the devil would have.” He shuddered. “Creepy sounding guy.”

“He calls hisself Doc Holliday?” Lenny asked, hand resting on his hatchet.

Randy nodded, then twirled his forefinger near his temple.

“Probably lit out a while ago,” the Janitor said, then spit a wad of chew. “Ain’t a stupid fella.”

“Sure ain’t,” Randy echoed.

Leonard started to pry at the barbed wire fence.

“Whoa, hang on there, Lenny.”

Looking back over his shoulder, the muscle man said, “He’s getting away. We gots to catch him. Iron’s hot, baby, and—”

“We can’t risk it, big guy.” The Janitor rubbed his leathery chin. “Them three igits shooting at him, spooking him. If it
was
him. Ain’t no telling how much of a head start he’s got on us. Anyway, he could be waiting in there, ready to ambush us. Pick us off real easy-like. Could be his plan.”

Lenny seemed to consider this, then looked beyond the fence like a caged dog aching to get out of the yard. He exhaled heavily, then straightened. “We could split up, go around. Catch him on the other side.”

Randy chimed in, “Or we could send said igits after him. They seem gung ho on killing him.”

The Janitor chuckled, then waved his hand dismissively. “I imagine it’d turn out badly for those three. And as much as they probably deserve it, I don’t want it on my conscience when they finally do grab the lion’s tail.” Gabe stared into the underbrush for a moment, then added, “ Anyway, take too long. And we ain’t got the manpower. Don’t see any blood trail, so he’s probably not wounded. Besides, don’t know where he’s headed. Or if he even left. Hell, he could be watching us right now.”

The old man’s observations made Randy’s arms prickle, and he gripped his gun tighter. He had no desire to die any time soon, and knowing a potential killer was stalking one of them—maybe
all
of them—fanned the embers of that self-preservation fire. Nerves alight, he said, “Maybe we oughta go back inside, get a game plan together.”