He resolved that on his way back, he would do the right thing and put the old man out of his misery. That much he deserved. Old Man Bartlett would be his first undead kill. But before that, a threat very much alive and on the move demanded his utmost attention.
* * *
The cessation of smoke alerted David that he must be at the end of the line, wherever that was. Unsure if Mitch knew that he’d tailed him, he thumbed the kill switch, silencing the Franken-Harley. Tranquility took over, the bike’s hot engine ticking and pinging, the only sound around. Why chance it? This wasn’t a movie. He wasn’t going to ride up on the Harley, guns a’blazing.
He abandoned the motorcycle, hiking the last bit of distance. He planned to leave in the Dodge, the Harley having served honorably, unlike its owner.
David didn’t recognize the place, but assumed it once belonged to Old Man Bartlett. It stood to reason, given that he’d spotted the old fellow’s corpse not far from here, caught like a fish in a net on that barbed wire fence. Posing no immediate threat, leaving Bartlett alone made the most sense.
Later. I’ll take care of him later. Focus on now.
Pushing the old man to the back of his thoughts, he padded closer, cognizant of his location relative to the century-old farmhouse. Plenty of tactical coverage existed—trees, bushes, a barn—that would allow for secretive surveillance. He sidled up to a tree at the end of the short driveway, then studied the grounds.
Something bothered David. Important pieces were out of place, missing altogether. The most obvious: no Dodge and no Mitch. He started second guessing himself. Maybe he didn’t walk far enough. Maybe there was another house just up the road a ways.
And he began doubting his mission and himself. He wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t even kill what was already dead. What made him think he could just waltz up to Mitch and take him out? Most importantly, what would he accomplish by eliminating him? What was he going to do? Pull his knife and slice his throat?
Mitch had been in the army. Sure, his short career had ended in a dishonorable discharge, but he had lasted long enough to pick up a few things. Like how to shoot at something—someone—and hit it. He’d even been in at least one knife fight that David knew about. The fact Mitch was still alive spoke volumes about his ability to defend himself.
David hadn’t considered any of this. He had let his impulsive side win again, gone after a man he couldn’t kill. Rage and hate had overcome him while he sat idly by and let them.
Then an idea came to him. It was simplistic, but genius in approach. Or at least he thought so. It would require patience, a commodity David often lacked, but his idea could work. And it would give him a goal, something to focus on other than his presumably dead wife.
He would befriend Mitch. Get close to him. Learn from him. Earn his respect. Then David would train him, like a dog. Mitch could become an asset instead of a liability, maybe even his right-hand man. Perhaps he just needed some guidance, someone to believe in him. Stroke his ego a bit. And if he was too far gone, then perhaps Karma would step in and do the dirty work for David. Or he would just buck up and do it himself.
Gunshots disrupted his musing. Two of them. Reflexively, he crouched, head swiveling, searching. The shots had originated from behind the barn. Uncertainty and hesitation pushed to the front of the line, vying for David’s attention. He felt the need to move but couldn’t. He listened intently, expecting more shots to ring out, but none came. Tidal waves crashed in his ears with every beat of his heart, disrupting his already compromised hearing.
Twenty-one days. They—the infamous they—say it takes twenty-one to twenty-eight days to form a new habit. It had taken David only one day to form the habit of fearing the nonliving. He wondered if the infamous they were forming new habits or if they themselves were dead yet. Wondered if they feared the dead as much as he did.
He grabbed quick shallow breaths through circled lips while bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was about to pounce, a track runner in the blocks. He was determined to break this newly acquired habit. He would not allow it to have him, to beat him. Not if he wanted to prevail, to do more than merely exist. Respect the dead, but not fear them.
Then it happened. He stood and drew his knife. Seeing no one, he bounded through the yard to the corner of the house. He pulled the blade flat to his chest, pressing himself against the boards of the antiquated structure. Peeling paint chips stuck to his sweat slicked palm, latched onto his shirt. More beads ran down his face, taking suicide leaps off his chin and nose, diving into the weeds below.
After another quick set of breaths, he launched from the side of the house, aimed for the front of the barn. A rock tripped him up and he stumbled, very nearly stabbing himself. A quick recovery and muttered rebuke, and he was back on target. Loose boards rattled when his back collided with the barn. He clenched his teeth, hoping he had not just announced his presence. Lungs locked, he listened intently between the crashing waves of blood in his ears. Someone—or something—was behind the building.
He eased to the corner, stealing a peek. Nothing. Whatever the source of the ruckus, it was directly behind the barn, not beside it. He stayed plastered against the building, sliding along the wall. His shirt snagged on rotted planks, infesting the fabric with splinters. He was too hyped up on adrenaline to notice.
Finally, after what seemed to take an eternity, he reached the end of the wall. The knife handle had become slick in his grip. He juggled it from hand to hand, repeatedly wiping either palm on his pants, then white-knuckled the handle again after drying it on his shirttail. Tight nerves reignited the simmering fire in his neck, and he dreamed briefly of muscle relaxers. He forced his lungs into action, to pull in large breaths, to prepare for whatever awaited around the corner. He raised his knife, the element of surprise his.
But it was David who was surprised. Shocked even.
There, hovering over a dead pig, was Mitch. He squinted at David, the savage sun pounding his sight, then straightened.
“You wanna help me with this?” Mitch asked nonchalantly, pointing at the dead animal.
David stepped forward, glancing around. Mitch had pulled the Dodge behind the barn and next to a dilapidated pen. He’d shot a pig twice in the head.
“Well?” Mitch said, looking from David, to the swine, and back.
David slid the still unused knife back into its sheath. He hinged his torso, grabbing a set of legs while Mitch grabbed the other set, and they slung dinner into the truck bed. David wiped his brow.
After surveying the scene for another moment, David said, “How’d you know about this place?”
Mitch shook a pack of smokes toward David until one popped through the tear in the top.
David took it, dipping his chin in thanks.
Mitch nodded, produced a lighter. After a long drag, he said, “Grew up in the area. Had a hunch this place was still here.” He exhaled a cloud, jabbed a thumb toward the road. “Tim’s hung on the fence down the road. Wife died a few years back.” He shrugged. “Figured the place was empty, would have a better chance of scoring some grub than in town.” Mitch moved his hand as he spoke, cigarette tucked between two knuckles, drawing smoke portraits in the air like some tobacco-toking Picasso.
David nodded and wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind, following Mitch, planning to kill him. Maybe he’d misjudged the guy. Maybe an epiphany. Or just the oppressive heat. One thing was for sure, this was not the Mitch that David had bumped heads with over the last twenty-one days. Like a cruel classmate who thrived on the kids’ attention, Mitch acted differently when away from the group.
David chanced an argument. “I don’t get it. You haven’t contributed at all. I mean, Jessica barely pulled through. And it was me”—he patted his chest—“who got the medicine she needed, and Randy who gave it to her. It should have been you, her own husband, taking care of her.”
He paused, letting this attestation hang heavy, hoping it would permeate Mitch’s thick skull.
David continued chastising Mitch. “I’ve been the one making food runs, supply runs, basically any runs we’ve needed. So what changed? Why are you suddenly doing something other than pouring liquor down your throat, plinking shufflers, and getting high?”
Mitch rubbed his sparsely whiskered chin in the ‘U’ of his hand and stared at the smoldering cigarette in his other. He took another deep drag and flicked dead ashes to the dirt. He seemed to be truly pondering the proposed concern.
Finally, in his smoke-graveled voice, he said, “Every morning you get up, hop in that piece of shit rental, and head off to who-knows-where, looking for Natalee. And while you’re out, even though you don’t find her, you do right by us, bringing back whatever we need.”
David stared intently, his palm resting comfortably on the knife handle. So far, Mitch told him nothing he didn’t already know.
Mitch exhaled, waving his hand to dissipate the stubborn cloud. “Me, I get up, reach for the bottle. It’s like my coffee. I can’t start my day—or end it—without it. If I’m not drunk within twenty minutes, well it’s a bad day.” He chuckled lightly to himself before his features hardened again. “And I try to stay that way, all day, every day.”
“So what’s different about today?”
“Today? Today I rolled over to an empty bottle. I rushed out, the only thing on my mind finding a full one.” He shook his head, sucking more fire, blowing more smoke. “But today was the first day I saw one of those undead motherfuckers while I was sober. It wandered into the road, and I creamed that fucker. On purpose.” He made a fist then splayed his fingers, mimicking an explosion. “Probably pieces of him still lodged in the brush guard,” he said, motioning with his cigarette toward the Dodge. “But it fucked with my mind, like, that used to be a person, man. A person. Then seeing Bartlett on that fence like some shish kebab … someone I knew.” He shook his head. “I thought I’d just stay drunk and high ’til this all passed, was over with. But it looks like it’s gonna be like this for a while. A long while.”
This time, Mitch paused, letting his words sink in.
David noticed for the first time the man’s hand trembling, undoubtedly due to missing his forty-proof breakfast. And he didn’t look well.
His mind spun in riotous confusion. He had followed Mitch, intending to end the thug’s life, rid them and the world of his useless soul. But now …
“Things will have to change,” David said, his features tense. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest.
Mitch’s eyes met David’s, and a slow, deliberate nod followed.
David sensed the pendulum of power swing his way, and he jumped on it. “First, I’m in charge.”
He waited for Mitch’s response, for him to buck the declaration, expected a profanity-laden objection.
But none came. Just an unflinching stare. That was it.
“What I say, goes. Got it? No more cocky bullshit that puts us at risk. You want to live with us? You contribute, you help. And you do it sober.” David stepped closer. “We pull together, we survive. We pull apart, like we have been, we die.” He took a drag from his neglected cigarette, reviving the spark and fire, tapping the long, dead ash to the ground. “We can rebuild, Mitch. We can make something from all this. But we’ve got to move. We can’t stay where we are. Or stay who we are.”
David saw Mitch’s lip twitch, like he wanted to interject, but David’s glare shut him down.
Instead, Mitch tugged a rag from his back pocket and wiped his neck. Sucking the last bit of fire from of his own cigarette, he let the filter drop to the dirt, mashed it with his boot. Extinguished.
Despite the staggering heat, David’s heart pumped a cool calm through his veins. He couldn’t believe what he was feeling, this boundless influence, and that Mitch actually acquiesced to his critical demands. The balance of power had shifted in a second, without violence, without death. It was almost too easy. But David knew that it wouldn’t always be this easy. Or without violence. Or death.
Chapter 4
Randy sat quietly on the bench rocker on the porch, an ATR long action bolt rifle in his lap. He wasn’t as good a shot as Mitch, but he did okay. Sort of. His eyes roved the large yard, the tree line, the driveway. With both Mitch and David gone to who-knows-where, and Jessica’s incapacitation, he was it. The first—and last—line of defense. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, grunting as he shifted his bulk, and wiped his face for the umpteenth time that morning. As hot as it was outside, it was even more miserable inside. To this, he said, no thanks.
He chewed his beard to pass the time, a nervous habit that started when he first grew one years ago. It comforted him and kept him, in some deep-seated psychological way, grounded in the now. It represented that baby blanket he had loved so much as a child, the one he had gnawed the edges down to frays. How he’d loved that thing.
He toyed with shaving several times since he’d grown the beard. But he just couldn’t let go. Scratchy and hot, it served only to amplify his physical discomfort. Even the others suggested he should. But it was a part of him. His baby blanket.
The rusty squeak of the screen door surprised him.
“Oh, thank god,” he whispered in a breathy exhale. He wiped his forehead again with the damp handkerchief, then fanned his pink face.
Jessica stepped onto the porch, one hand on the doorjamb, the other gripping the screen door. “I scare you?” One side of her mouth rose to the sky, the other lazy. She guided the door back to the frame, not allowing the rusty spring the chance to yank it back. No need in making noise and attracting unwanted company.
“I wouldn’t say scared, necessarily.” He smiled big for her.
She smiled back, a full one this time. She limped to the porch railing, a hand on her kidney, and half-sat, half-leaned against the wood. Picking paint chips, she shot cursory glances around the yard.
Randy started to chastise her for pulling her IV and coming outside, but he simply settled on, “Feeling better?”
She didn’t answer right away, but continued to fiddle with the flaking paint, flicking bits of it over the side. Finally, she said, “I think so. Starting to feel a little bit human again. Just had to get some fresh air.”
Randy nodded. “Good.” Then he added, “I’m sure you’ll be fine. David told me that was the last of the antibiotics in the place, so we lucked out.”
Jessica raised her brows, “Oh, yeah? Jeez, guess I am lucky, then.”
Another few awkward moments of silence slipped by before Jessica spoke again. “Do you think …”
“What’s that?”
She flicked another paint chip. It started to look like the yard had dandruff. She exhaled, looked like she was nibbling her cheeks to keep herself from speaking. “Do you think we’re safe—”
Randy cut her off. “Oh, yeah.” He nodded forcefully, his extra chins bouncing in agreement under his beard. “I think we’re safe here. I mean, we’ve got plenty of fish in the pond and water—”
“No, I don’t mean are we safe here.” She ran her fingers through her short, tangled tresses, choosing her words as though they were the combination to the conversation lock. “Do you think we’re safe … with Mitch?”
He twisted his lip.
She continued. “I know you two have been friends for years, army buddies from way back and all that. I get your loyalty to him. I’m not asking you to choose sides or anything. But, well …”
Sweat beaded on Randy’s furrowed brow while he listened intently.
“… I don’t know if the medicine’s got me talking or what, but …” She stole a large breath, holding it hostage, before finally letting it loose. “Before all this, I was planning to leave him.” She glanced at him for his reaction.
Randy’s brows raced up his forehead. The normally loquacious man sat speechless, which compelled Jessica to fill the silence.
“I had a suitcase packed and ready. I was just about to pick up the phone and call David to come get me when M
itch showed up, babbling on about … zombies … and the end of the world.” She shook her head. “I honestly thought it was some stupid juvenile trick to get me to stay, even though I hadn’t even told him I was leaving yet. I just assumed he had figured it out.”
Randy shifted, tugged at his soaked collar.
Jessica continued, like she was at Catholic confessional. “It got so bad, Randy, that at times I wanted to kill him. Kill him. Can you imagine? I was that desperate to get away. But he’d sweet talk me—baby this, baby that—and get me to change my mind.”
“Did he … hit you? I mean, you know … was he violent, and stuff?”
She shook her head sharply. “No, no, nothing physical. It was all verbal, the things he said. Those words. I’m telling you, those words stung more than any fist he could throw.”
“So … what now?”
“I can’t stay, Randy. I just can’t. Not with Mitch here.”
From behind thick glasses shot sparks of concern. “Where are you going to go? I mean, it’s not like you can just high-tail it out of here, crash at your mom’s or rent a hotel room or go to a women’s shelter. It’s dangerous out there—”
Randy was great with fixing people’s bodies, but struggled sometimes when it came to their hearts and minds.
“I know, Randy, I know. I’m telling you this because David mentioned this morning that it ain’t safe here, that we need to move on. I want to convince him to move on without Mitch. It’s no secret he doesn’t care for him. At all. He’s made that perfectly clear. I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long under the same roof.”
Dead South Rising: Book 1 Page 4