Deadrise (Book 3): Savage Blood

by Brandt, Siara

  He’d just gotten a promotion, which meant more money. A lot more money. He had a new, impressive-sounding title. He should be content with those things. He should be grateful. So why was he feeling like there was something missing in his life?

  He was where he was supposed to be. This was what had been expected of him. In his family, there was no such thing as too much money. Money was power. Money bought prestige, possessions, influence. It bought friends. It even bought happiness. At least in the Southwell family that was written in stone somewhere. If you didn’t have money, you were labeled a loser. A nobody. And with the government squeezing the lifeblood out of the economy drop by drop, it just made sense to hold onto a good job. They were getting scarcer and scarcer.

  So in light of that, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to tell his boss to go take a flying leap. But that’s just what he had done. It wasn’t one of his better days, but it wasn’t the worst of things that had happened to him since he had returned from overseas. He’d come back from one war zone to find himself in another one. A corporate one. A dog-eat-dog existence. And it didn’t take him too long to learn that sometimes the corporate bigwigs were more lethal and more ruthless than any enemy combatant could ever be. All too often, when faced with their own greed, people rejected the old rules and made new ones up as they went along. All too often, doing the right thing fell by the wayside.

  He tossed some butter in a pan, turned on the burner and waited.

  Somewhere along the line, he’d have to reckon with Colys Grimm and apologize for calling him a greedy sonofabitch. But first Bresh needed a weekend of rest. Maybe by Monday Colys would cool down. He knew the old bastard wasn’t going to fire him. He was too valuable an employee.

  He stared down at the pan for a few seconds, realizing he’d let it get too hot. He cooled it down a little, added the eggs, then deftly flipped the omelet. He added some ham and sprinkled a little cheese on top. Looked perfect.

  Shit.

  He smelled something burning, turned and saw smoke rolling out of the toaster. He should have thrown the damned thing out the window a long time ago and gotten a new one. Yeah, and he’d do just that. Tomorrow. After he allowed himself to sleep in for a change.

  As he pulled the plug out of the wall and carefully pried the smoking, charred pieces of bread out of the toaster, he told himself that he needed to quit whining. He had it good. He should be grateful. There were a lot of people that didn’t have it nearly as good as he did. In fact life sucked pretty badly for some of the people he knew. For most of them probably. And what was he whining about? A good job and too much money? The fact that people weren’t as ethical as he thought they should be?

  “This is the real world, Bresh. Not a fairy tale where everything ends in a happily-ever-after.” That’s what Macy had told him not two hours ago.

  He heard sirens in the distance. Again. He’d heard them earlier, too. Even before the accident.

  “Full moon must be having an effect on the crazies,” he muttered under his breath.

  He turned to frown at the TV screen, stunned to hear a report about a grisly murder at Bedlow’s Bakery.

  “Hell.”

  It was a shame because the Bedlow’s, Ina and Olen, had seemed like decent people the few times he had talked to them. And their jelly donuts were worth a trip into town.

  There was breaking news report about a series of murders in the next county, too. The killers hadn’t been caught yet. The authorities were warning people to keep their doors locked.

  Bresh was still frowning as he set his plate of steaming eggs on the counter. People had been talking about the news all day long at the office. Like the officer had said earlier, there apparently was a lot going on. But he’d been secluded in his office most of the day, too busy to pay much attention to the news reports or to the ensuing gossip.

  He glanced over at the TV. They were talking about riots. Everywhere. If there really was something happening, people needed to be thinking about taking care of themselves and their families, not getting angry at the wrong people. But then, he knew that getting angry was a way of life for some people. It surely had been for Macy. He pulled his chair out and sat down.

  In the middle of his dinner, he paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. He remained like that, squinting hard as he stared past the droplets of rain that clung to the window. In a flash of lightning, he realized that there was something standing outside at the very edge of his yard.

  He’d only gotten a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye. It was just a darker lump in the shadows, but it was something that shouldn’t be there. And though it was gone now, whatever it was, it had been big.

  The woods around his house were a perfect haven for every kind of creature imaginable. Raccoons, possums, coyotes, fox. Even wild dogs. Bresh was hoping it was one of those or some other small predator because the only two alternatives he could think of were something he didn’t want to have to deal with tonight. Bears and humans.

  He walked across the room and pulled his Smith and Wesson from the drawer. It didn’t hurt to take precautions. Officially, there weren’t supposed to be any bears around here, but occasionally someone reported seeing one. The other possibility had his survival instincts kicking into high gear. People had been murdered just a few miles from here, and for all he knew the killer was still out there. Maybe looking to kill again. Maybe looking for a place to hole up. And he hadn’t locked his doors.

  He walked through the house and locked the front and side doors. Then he pulled on his boots and a shirt. Without stopping to button the shirt, he pushed the sliding glass door open and stepped out onto the deck.

  He ran the palm of his hand across his beard-roughened jaw and listened. He hadn’t imagined the shadow. His gut was telling him that something was wrong. His instincts, honed fine by years of military experience, were telling him that something was out there.

  As if to confirm it, he heard a crash. It sounded like one of the garbage cans on the other side of the house. With his gun held at the ready, Bresh made his way along the narrow stone path that led to the other side of the house. Hard to tell what was out there.

  There was the garbage can lying on its side. Obviously knocked over by something looking for an easy meal. That something that was gone now, but Bresh still felt a nagging sense of unease. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time, but right then he felt just like a soldier in unfriendly territory who was being stalked by an unseen enemy. Maybe a man never lost that heightened awareness. Maybe that was a permanent part of who he was now.

  He scanned the darkness. It started raining again, though lightly. He could hear the soft ticking on the leaves around him. The pole light was on and by its light the grass was sparkling with moisture. So were the leaves of the trees.

  But nothing moved out there. Not even the overturned garbage can. It could have been nothing more than a stray dog or a raccoon looking for dinner. Then again, it could have been a bear. Whatever was out there, even though he had gotten only a brief glance, it surely hadn’t looked human. But then, he wasn’t sure it had looked like a human, either.

  A dead white mist floated out of the void of darkness. A faint breeze stirred the dripping foliage, but the mist seemed to muffle all other sounds. It was eerie. Damned eerie. And in spite of the silence, his instincts were still telling him that something was out there.

  And then he heard a wheezing moan. It put him on instant high alert. His muscles tensed, ready to deal with whatever it was. He’d never heard a sound like that before. Things were getting beyond eerie.

  And then something detached itself from the fog. Something dark. Something big. It would have been a far walk from the highway, but Bresh thought right off that it could be Hance Degroot who had wandered away from the wreck looking for help. But he couldn’t be sure. The face was all messed up. The gaping mouth was hanging wide open, maybe from a broken jaw. The open cavity was black and dripping with blood.

  The more he loo
ked, the more Bresh thought it was Hance Degroot. And who else would look like that except someone who had been through a bad accident?

  Blood was dripping from Hance’s nose, which was probably broken, too. One eye looked like it was completely gone.

  Bresh had to steel himself to keep from showing any reaction and alarming the man. “Hey, Hance,” he began. “People have been looking for- ”

  He stopped when Hance leaned over and vomited a rush of what looked like chunks of black blood.

  This was looking bad, Bresh thought. Real bad.

  Hance staggered towards him a few steps. His wheezing breaths rattled as he drew them into his lungs. Probably filled with blood from internal injuries, Bresh thought.

  “Hance, let’s get you inside. I’m going to call for he- ”

  But Hance didn’t seem to hear him. And despite his horrifying injuries, Hance didn’t react or slow down. He made his way straight for Bresh.

  Hance was staggering like a drunken sailor, but he didn’t look as disoriented as he should, given his injuries. He looked like he wanted to kill. His head was lowered, and his one eye was fixed on Bresh like a bull on a matador. Maybe Hance had been driving while under the influence. Hance had a reputation for being a mean drunk. Maybe he was still intoxicated.

  Bresh tried once more. “Hance?”

  There wasn’t the slightest glimmer of recognition in the man’s eyes. There was only the steady, unrelenting burn of feral aggression. And as Bresh stared back, he could have sworn that Hance’s nostrils flared like a wild beast on the scent of prey.

  Hance Degroot was a big man and he plowed right through some dripping wet bushes as he staggered towards Bresh. As he got closer, Hance still didn’t show any signs of recognition. He kept coming. With that terrible wheezing groan.

  He didn’t have to find the gate. Hance’s massive bulk crashed headlong into the picket fence that surrounded the patio. He busted right through the wooden slats, taking out an entire section and flattening it. It barely slowed him down. With his eye still fixed on Bresh, he lurched forward like a crazed madman.

  Bresh leapt over the railing behind him, trying to put something between them, at least until he could get through to the injured man. But Hance was in some kind of deranged state and Bresh didn’t know if there was any getting through.

  A bear was nothing compared to this, Bresh thought. A bear might be preferable to this. Hance pressed his weight against the remaining section of fence that was separating them. The wooden slats creaked badly but they didn’t give. At least not yet. But Bresh knew it was only a matter of time.

  Hance gave a deep growl. It sounded like he was pissed off. Really pissed off. Whatever was wrong with Hance, Bresh knew he was the one in danger now. He needed to do something, and do it fast. But Hance was between him and the house. He thought about making a run for the side door or the front door but, hell, he’d locked both of them. And his car keys were sitting on the kitchen counter.

  What had Hance in such a murderous rage, Bresh didn’t know. Some form of trauma-induced dementia maybe. It didn’t matter at the moment. First things first. He needed to save his own ass, then find answers. He still had his gun, but there was no way he was going to shoot the man.

  He backed up, tripped over the garden hose and went down in the wet grass. He didn’t stay down long. Seconds later, he was up and sprinting around to the front of the house. But he heard the fence give way and Hance was soon closing in on him.

  Part of the reason Bresh had bought his house was for the view. His front yard dropped off sharply to a deep ravine. There was a ledge halfway down. The ledge was narrow and the way down was thick with brush. Beyond that? It was a sheer drop to the creek far below.

  Right now? There wasn’t much time to plan anything. He needed to do something fast.

  Hesitating at the edge of the drop-off, Bresh looked down. He’d have to land right on the ledge or-

  Hell, he didn’t have any choice. He had to land on the ledge. It was a far drop, but heights didn’t bother him. They never had.

  Hance was right on his heels. Without taking time to utter even a last prayer, Bresh went over the edge.

  It was not a controlled drop. He scraped his hands badly on rock and brush on the way down. Branches stabbed at his exposed chest. Pain seared a path from his chest to his belly, definitely doing damage.

  He landed hard. He let out a groan, gritting his teeth against the agony of rock impacting against bone. He felt the wetness of blood, realizing he’d misjudged that last projection of rocks. He set his jaw and forced himself to straighten. Ignore the pain, he ordered himself. He was through the worst of it. He quickly assessed his injuries. They hurt like a sonofabitch, but once he climbed out of here he knew he’d be okay. That is, if Hance let him climb back up.

  He was at least securely on the ledge for now. He could see the creek down below him. He could hear it, too. It was loud and overflowing its banks. He looked up.

  As he pressed a hand gingerly against his injured ribs, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Hance Degroot came soaring over the edge above him. Snarling all the way down, he somersaulted right past him. Bresh looked down and heard the far-away splash as Hance hit the water. He saw Hance’s motionless body bobbing around on the surface of the water. Except Hance didn’t stay motionless. As he floated downstream, he began to twitch and flail about like a broken puppet, his limbs at odd angles. Bresh could only watch helplessly as Hance was washed downstream in the rushing floodwater.

  He’d had been one hell of a bad day, Bresh thought as he watched the place where Hance had disappeared. But Hance’s day had been a whole lot worse.

  Chapter 4

  He reached the gaping doorway of the barn just as the first heavy drops of rain started pelting the woods all around him. He would shelter here until the storm was over. He wasn’t that far from home and he knew these woods like the back of his hand. He had spent a lot of time in them, could find his way home even in the darkness. But he wasn’t in a hurry to get home. The more he stayed away, the less fighting there would be. Only a few more days, he reminded himself, until they left this all behind them. The more he was away, the more peaceful those days would be. As Mead grew more and more confrontational, as he became more aggressively hostile, this is where Elan came to be alone. It was the only place he could clear his mind. There was no condemnation here, no criticism, no blame.

  It was early October so the storm had brought a chill with it. Elan shivered as he watched the rain falling over the edge of the roof. It was coming down so hard now that it was like a grey curtain backlit by intermittent flashes of lightning. He zipped up the front of his jacket, shoved his hand deep in his pocket and searched for his hitter.

  He’d have to go back home sometime during the weekend, he knew. His father was coming for a visit. He didn’t know how he felt about that. The last thing Elan had expected was to get a call a week ago with some vague references about the two of them renewing their father-son relationship. A non-existent relationship as far as Elan was concerned. And to make matters worse, Mead would probably try to insinuate himself into the middle of it. Either way, this was not going to be a relaxed kind of weekend. In fact, if all hell broke loose, Elan wouldn’t be surprised. He kind of expected it.

  It was dark inside the barn, but dry. When rain started blowing inside, he stepped back from the doorway. A cobweb got stuck on his face and he brushed it away, hoping a spider wasn’t caught in his hair or his clothing somewhere. When he didn’t feel anything crawling on him, he fished out his hitter and then dug for his lighter. The lighter hissed. The flame flared. He inhaled and held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could.

  Things had been getting worse with Mead. The fake civility that had kept things minimally tolerable was fading until there was open antagonism between them almost all of the time. But he didn’t have to think about Mead Landis here, Elan reminded himself as rain drummed loudly on the tin roof above him. And he would
n’t have to deal with him ever again after Wednesday. That was enough to make things a lot more bearable.

  He drew more smoke deeply into his lungs and soon felt the tension leave his body. It wasn’t long before he was drifting into a peaceful, trance-like state where he felt like he was floating above it all. He breathed the night air in and it became a part of him. In spite of the rain, it was quiet here. Peaceful. The way it was supposed to be.

  He put his hand into his pocket again and felt the tiny flashlight on his keychain. He took it out of his pocket and flashed it into the rain to see what it would look like. The beam of light was red and, yeah, it was pretty cool-looking shining through the rain like that. Everything looked like sparkling jewels. A whole sky full of them. He also heard the rain on the tin roof in a new way. A deeper, more insightful way. The sound seemed to touch all his senses, giving him a more profound awareness of his surroundings.

  He heard another sound, too. Something he could not identify right away. He turned around and stared into the darkness. He could barely hear it over the drumming of the rain, but the sound came again. It was a kind of tearing, sucking sound. With the red beam of his flashlight leading the way, he was drawn to the big wooden door at the end of the aisle.

  There were side stalls. Most of them were empty, except for the ones that were filled with straw bales. The strange, slurping sound got louder.

  Elan stopped before the wooden door. He imagined that the sound had come from the other side. But it was silent now. He reached for the latch. His hand drew back sharply. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure that he should open the door. He wavered back and forth, then decided that if he was going to stay here, he needed to know if there was something else in here with him. How bad could it be?