Dead South | Book 4 | Dead Love

by Bohannon, Zach

  A couple more shots went off before Malcolm stopped, the echo of the final shot ringing through the church. Jon breathed heavily, looking at the hole in the pew from the bullet which had narrowly missed him.

  "I can do this all morning," Malcolm said. "But I can tell you that, one way or the other, you aren't leaving this church alive."

  Jon had to think of something else. He couldn't just sit there behind the pew, going back and forth with Malcolm. Not only was there the possibility that someone from Black Hill would storm through the front doors, which seemed more likely than the entrance of one of Jon's friends who were busy fighting from the front of the camp, but Malcolm also had the advantage of being up on the stage. The position offered him leverage, giving him a better angle than Jon had.

  He poked his head up, but then Malcolm fired a few more shots. Jon cursed under his breath, careful not to be too loud. He didn't want Malcolm knowing he was frustrated.

  As Jon considered his options, he looked down and remembered the bag he had on his shoulder. It had remained open, the flap folded over to reveal the inside of the bag and the one remaining grenade. The grenade was his ticket to taking out Malcolm, he realized. Even if the grenade itself didn't kill the Black Hill leader—although killing him was entirely possible if Jon could time the toss correctly—it could do enough to distract Malcolm and, more than that, force him to change positions. Jon could then rush the stage and have a chance at killing the man. And even if the grenade didn't kill Malcolm, the blast might injure him.

  He pulled the grenade out of the bag, holding it tight in his hand.

  Jon only had one shot at this.

  He took three quick breaths, and then he pulled the pin.

  1…2…3!

  Jon got up on his knees, looking over the pew. Malcolm was hiding behind the piano, giving Jon an opportunity to toss the grenade. He arched an almost perfect toss of the weapon to the middle of the stage. The grenade bounced a few times and then rolled, landing on the right side of the piano.

  Malcolm came from behind the piano on that side, and his eyes went wide as he saw it lying there.

  Jon took cover behind the pew, tucking his body and closing his eyes.

  The grenade exploded, the sounds of wood blowing up echoing throughout the sanctuary.

  Jon didn't hesitate. He looked over the pew to check on the damage. The piano was gone, shards of it spread all across the stage. The blast had painted the back wall black, and there was a hole in the wooden stage where the grenade had gone off.

  He saw no sign of Malcolm.

  Jon stood all the way up and moved into the center aisle, staring down the sights of the gun. Making his way to the side of the stage, he found the stairs. Never did Jon let his guard down, keeping the gun aimed up toward the back of the stage in case Malcolm appeared.

  He climbed the stairs, feeling his heartbeat quickening. Now that he had a view full of the stage, he still didn't see Malcolm. The leader wasn't near the piano, and it didn't appear as if he'd gone to the far side of the stage. He must have dived toward the door to his living quarters when the grenade had gone off.

  Continuing to focus on his breathing, Jon moved against the wall. On the other side was a short hallway that led back to Malcolm's room. Jon moved to the edge of the wall, ready to peek around the corner.

  But before he had the chance, Malcolm appeared on the stage. It startled Jon as Malcolm pointed a pistol at his face, but Jon had the instinct to knock Malcolm's arm out of the way just as the man pulled the trigger. The bullet, which would have blown through Jon's skull, instead put a hole in the wall next to him. The blow also knocked the gun out of Malcolm's hand, but before Jon could shoot, Malcolm grabbed the assault rifle in Jon's hands and pointed it away from him.

  Jon fired off a couple of shots, but they went off to the left. After a moment, his hand came off the trigger and the two men struggled for the gun. Malcolm gritted his teeth, moving closer to Jon's face. Then, Malcolm head-butted him. The impact sent Jon backward so that he landed on his side, dropping the rifle behind him in the process.

  Malcolm made a run for the weapon, but Jon tripped him up as he ran by.

  Malcolm landed on his stomach a few feet away from Jon, his glasses falling off of his face. Jon turned and saw the man reaching for the rifle, but it was out of his reach. Rolling over, Jon landed a couple of punches into Malcolm's back. Realizing he had to defend himself and fight back, Malcolm rolled over onto his back. Jon jumped at the opportunity, throwing his body on top of Malcolm's.

  "Get off me!" Malcolm screamed, his hands up.

  With Malcolm's hands guarding him, Jon had trouble landing a punch. He had the leverage and was at least ten years younger than Malcolm, but Malcolm showed immense strength. The man caught Jon’s wrists and pushed up, trying to get Jon's weight off of him. But Jon remained firm, pushing back against Malcolm.

  As he struggled to free his hands from Malcolm's enormous grip strength, Jon thought of what his next move could be. He not only had a pistol on his hip, but he also had the bat and the hatchet still on his back—if he could get to one of them, he could finish Malcolm off.

  But it was Malcolm who made the next move, letting go of one of Jon's arms and reaching for the pistol. Malcolm swiped the gun out of Jon's holster, but then fumbled with the sidearm as Jon threw punches with his now free hand. The gun slipped out of Malcolm's hand before he could even get a hold of it properly, and Jon watched as it slid off the stage and down the stairs.

  With his hand free, Jon reached for the weapons on his back. He had just gotten his hand on the grip of the hatchet when Malcolm's fist came up and cracked Jon in the nose. Another punch in succession, finding Jon's cheek. The blow was hard enough to give Malcolm a chance to push Jon off the top of him.

  Jon rolled off of Malcolm and landed on his side. Before he could get back on top of the Black Hill leader, though, Malcolm had already gotten up and moved on top of Jon. He put Jon on his back, and with the weapons mounted there, Jon felt a sharp pain in his spine. He gritted his teeth and kept his hands up to block Malcolm's oncoming blows. But his back was bent at a weird angle, with the weapons there pressing against his spine.

  The two men had their arms locked, each doing what they could to gain an advantage. Then, Malcolm's hand slipped down to where the still-healing wound on Jon's arm was. His long-sleeved shirt covered the injury, but as Malcolm squeezed, Jon cried out in pain. Malcolm knew he'd found a weakness even though he couldn't see it, and he squeezed harder, digging his nails in. Jon resisted the pain for several more moments before he lost his grip.

  Able to feel the momentum shift, Malcolm brought his right fist down into Jon's face. Jon felt his nose crack on the second punch and thought he felt a couple of teeth loosen with the following blows. Blood pooled in his mouth and ran down from his nose as Malcolm continued his onslaught for several more punches.

  When Malcolm's weight finally came up off of Jon, he lay there in the middle of the stage with his arms and legs spread. The awkwardness of the weapons pinned between him and the wooden flooring was no longer much of an issue as he tried not to choke on his own blood or teeth, spitting the red liquid onto his chest and the ground. His vision was a little blurry, but he'd managed to stay conscious. The real question on his mind now was, where was Malcolm?

  "Get up."

  Jon looked up and around, searching for the voice. He found Malcolm moving in a semi-circle around him, near the front of the stage. The man had retrieved Jon's pistol and was aiming down at him.

  "I refuse to shoot you while you're down," Malcolm said. "I want to watch you fall. Now, stand up!"

  Wheezing as he breathed, Jon could barely move. He didn't know how many times Malcolm had punched him, but it had been a lot. He was lucky to be awake, though things might have gone better for him if he'd just been knocked out.

  After several more moments, Jon found the strength to roll onto his side. He wasn't trying to get up because of Malcolm's orders�
��he could give a shit about what this man wanted him to do. But if Jon was going to die, he was going to do so with dignity. He wouldn't be lying down on the ground, defeated, with blood stains surrounding his mouth. Rolling onto his stomach, he felt relief come from his no longer lying on the bat and hatchet. He then pushed himself up onto all-fours and staggered to his feet. From facing the back of the stage, he turned around to Malcolm.

  The Black Hill leader stood there with Jon's pistol still aimed at his head.

  "I wish I could take you out there and give you the proper death you deserve," Malcolm said. "Tie you up to a pole and burn you alive in front of all my people and whichever unfortunate souls have survived from your group. But I won't make the same mistake I did last time and let this carry on. You're going to die here like you should have last time."

  "Then, do it," Jon said, his voice weak. He spit more blood from his mouth.

  Malcolm laughed, but a cough interrupted it. Jon had gotten a piece of him, though obviously not enough. Tilting his head, Malcolm smiled at Jon.

  "Did you really think you could win? I want to know before I do this."

  Jon said nothing. Instead, he coughed and spit up more blood. Then, still refusing to respond, he raised his hands to cup the back of his head. He swallowed and stared Malcolm right in the eyes. He'd look right into the man's eyes as he pulled the trigger, never allowing Malcolm to have the satisfaction of knowing he was scared. If there was one thing Jon South didn't fear, it was death.

  Again, Malcolm laughed. "I guess you're not going to answer because you think you're a tough guy." He scoffed. "We'll see how tough you are with a bullet between your eyes. Good luck in hell, Savage."

  As he had promised himself, Jon didn't take his eyes off of Malcolm's as the man pulled the trigger.

  There was a click, but nothing happened.

  Malcolm pulled the trigger a few more times, the pleasure on his face turning to disdain. He stared at the gun in confusion.

  Jon laughed in relief, beads of sweat rolling down his cheeks. "I guess we lost track of how many bullets were left in that thing."

  Malcolm gawked at Jon, his jaw slack with his mouth open.

  With some of his strength coming back, Jon gathered enough of it to grab the handle of his hatchet with both his hands. He raised it over his head and, as he had done so many times while practicing throwing the hatchet at trees out in the woods, flung it through the air with every last bit of strength he had. Jon threw it so hard and was so weak that, after he released the hatchet from his hands, he fell forward and down to one knee.

  Catching himself with his hand, Jon looked up just in time to see the hatchet hit Malcolm in the chest. The blade buried itself into him, immediately sending blood out from the wound. Malcolm let out a scream of pain, and then he looked down at the hatchet in shock. He grabbed the handle as he stepped backward, the pain and the reality of the situation obviously setting in.

  Pushing himself up, Jon got to his feet. Malcolm didn't have the strength to pull the hatchet from his sternum, and his eyes raised up and stared at Jon. Losing his balance then, Malcolm stumbled backward. He fell off the stage, and though Jon couldn't see him land, he heard the sickening thud of the man hitting the floor below.

  Jon lumbered to the edge of the stage, holding the pulsating wound on his arm where Malcolm had squeezed him so hard. He looked over the edge to see Malcolm lying there, his arms spread and the hatchet protruding from his chest. Blood pooled behind his head from the impact.

  The leader of Black Hill, and the man who’d killed Jon South’s family, was dead.

  35

  Jon found the strength to stay on his feet, though all he wanted to do was crash on the stage. But even though Malcolm was dead, he still had to make sure his friends were okay.

  He picked up the assault rifle and made his way to the stairs, gingerly stepping down to the aisle. He didn't know how much good he was going to be trying to fight, but he'd head out there after taking a moment to recover and do a couple of things that needed to come first.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Jon went to Malcolm's body. He stood over him and looked into his brown eyes as they stared up aimlessly at the sanctuary's tall ceiling. Jon had killed several people since the end of the world, but this felt different. Though, it wasn't the sort of different he'd expected.

  Jon had expected to feel some sort of closure once he killed Malcolm. He'd looked forward to getting justice for his family, anticipating how good he would feel after he'd killed him. But he felt none of that. Instead, he felt nothing. Killing Malcolm had only made Jon South feel empty.

  But that was something he was going to have to reflect upon later.

  Putting his foot on Malcolm's stomach, Jon reached down and grabbed the hatchet with both hands. He moved it back and forth a few times, finally wedging it out of Malcolm's chest—an act which came with a grotesque sound as the blade was released from bone and flesh.

  As he held the hatchet, he heard something hit the ground. Jon squinted his eyes and then kneeled down.

  The object had fallen into some of the blood, but Jon picked it up. He wiped the object off on Malcolm's pants and then held it up to examine it.

  A piece of the pendulum—Carrie's jewel that Malcolm had stolen off her body when he'd killed her—looked back at him. But it was only a small piece of it. He looked down and saw the rest of the jewel still dangling at the end of the necklace, which had broken. The hatchet had hit the necklace and the pendulum, breaking it.

  Jon stood up, not letting go of the piece he held. This was his last physical reminder of Carrie. The last time he'd seen Malcolm, he'd vowed to take the pendulum back. It was meant to be symbolic, and as a way for him to have gained further justice for his slain wife and son.

  But, instead, it had broken.

  The door to the church opened, startling Jon. It caused him to drop the piece of the pendulum as he took his assault rifle into both hands, pointing it toward the double doors at the back of the sanctuary. People entered with their guns raised, as well, but put them down when they saw Jon.

  It was Brooke, Terrence, and Raylon.

  Jon lowered his gun and stood still next to Malcolm's body as Brooke ran down the center aisle toward him. She threw her arms around him, hugging him tight. When they pulled away from each other, she put her hands on his face. It stung, and he grimaced. She pulled her palms away, but Jon grabbed one of her hands and put it back on his face.

  "It's alright." Jon noticed blood on Brooke, as well, including a bit on her face and more on her clothes. "Are you okay?"

  She nodded. "I'm fine. Are you?"

  Jon nodded. He wanted to kiss her, but wasn't going to do so now, considering how much blood was on him. He hadn't seen himself yet, but he could feel it on his face, along with throbbing pain.

  Raylon approached while Terrence sat down in a pew near the door.

  "It's over," Raylon said. "There's a group outside who surrendered."

  "What about that psycho Malcolm kept around him?" Jon asked.

  Raylon glanced over at Brooke, raising his eyebrows.

  "He's dead," Brooke said.

  She averted her eyes, and Jon made the connection. He now knew whose blood was on her.

  "But the question remains," Raylon said. "What do we do with them?"

  Jon glanced down at the dead body at his feet, looking at Malcolm's corpse one last time before shifting his eyes to the broken pendulum. Just like with his wife and son, there'd be no bringing it back, no mending it. He had to let it go. He raised his head.

  "I'll go talk to them."

  Jon stepped out of the church with the morning sun shining brightly into the camp. There were some clouds off in the distance, signaling that it might rain, but for now, the sun illuminated Black Hill.

  Smoke remained from the fight, what with several explosives having gone off and all the rounds of ammunition that had been fired from weapons. But more than that, dozens of bodies lay scattered al
ong the ground.

  It pained Jon to see them. He knew the deaths had been inevitable, but still wished they could have avoided it. That hadn't been the case, though. He just hoped to avoid more killing now.

  Jon walked to the middle of the camp where the remaining Freedom Ridge and Hope's Dawn survivors stood with those from Black Hill who'd surrendered. Rosa stood in front of the others, her assault rifle fixed on the Black Hill people who sat on the ground awaiting their fate. Many of them were women and children, some of them crying. Jon could see in Rosa's face that she was uncomfortable pointing a gun at them, but it was the right thing to do at the moment. They couldn't take any chances, and had to keep the people of Freedom Ridge and Hope's Dawn safe.

  "Thanks, Rosa," Jon said. He acknowledged the others in his group, too. "You can all lower your guns."

  They did, and Jon turned his attention to the "prisoners" from Black Hill.

  "Malcolm is dead." Jon let that statement hang in the air for a few moments as he scanned the people's faces. He pointed to the church. "His body is lying in the middle of that church. He deserved to die, but I don't think the rest of you do. I know that man was evil, and all he cared about was himself. He didn't give a shit about any of you. And I can see in your eyes that you know that.

  "Now, I'm sorry about what had to happen here today. I'm sure some of you lost friends, loved ones, just like we all have." Jon pointed his index finger down at the ground. "But the killing can stop right here, right now." He next pointed outside the camp. "The enemies aren't inside here; they're out there. They're those mindless freaks walking around, unable to think about anything but trying to eat us. But us… we have a choice. We can choose to look after one another. We can choose not to kill.