Dead South Rising: Book 1

by Lang, Sean Robert

  “I’m sure it has a lot to do with dead people walking around trying to take bites out of us.”

  Jessica nodded, the ghost of a smile turning her pale lip. For some reason, the comment struck her as funny. Randy never failed to make her laugh, to feel better, even if it was by accident half the time. She quickly got serious again. “I’m sure it does. But I’m telling you all this because … well, I want you to come with us.”

  Randy began rocking in the bench rocker, and weathered boards creaked angrily under his weight.

  Sensing his nervousness, she added, “Mitch can take care of himself. He doesn’t need us. And we don’t need him.”

  He twitched a nervous finger on the gun, mulling over Jessica’s proposal of dumping Mitch. He dreaded this day, this moment. Mitch treated him well, for the most part. Sure, he razzed him about his weight, his beard, his goofy glasses from time to time. But he’d been a good friend, like a big brother. Mitch could tease him, but dared anyone else to. If some jackass hurled hurtful sentiments, Mitch stepped in, shielded him. And if telling that person to go to hell and leave Randy alone didn’t work, his fists got involved, effectively ending it.

  “Well?” Jessica asked.

  He didn’t realize he’d not said anything for quite a while. “Can’t we wait until this whole thing blows over? I mean, David seems to think all this is temporary, that the government will get things sorted out—”

  Jessica huffed, slapping her thigh. “Randy, take a look around. I’ve been stuck in the bed and bathroom for most of this, and even I can see that things ain’t going back to the way they were. Not any time soon, anyway. This is the way it is. If the government was going to do anything, they would have done it by now. It ain’t happening.” She crossed her arms, wobbling on her precarious perch, then settled her blank gaze on nothing. “We’re shooting … walking dead people, for Chrissake. How can we ever go back? How can things ever be the same again?”

  Randy, too, had just assumed things were temporary. But Jessica was affirming what his heavy gut had been telling him all along—get used to it. Get used to the new norm. Get used to dead people shuffling around trying to bite you like oversized mosquitos. Mosquitos that just happen to require flyswatters in the form of a shotgun to squash them. Get used to no power, no grocery stores, no modern conveniences. Get used to fearing for your life every time you step out of the house, if you can stand to stay in the house. He already missed air conditioning and air freshener something fierce.

  “Randy,” Jessica said, her shivering finger pointed at the tree line. Something scary lit her tone.

  Then Randy saw why. He pressed to his feet, the rocker sliding backwards out from under him. He squeezed the rifle, holding it to his chest, dreading the inevitable. Squinting, he tried to confirm what he was actually seeing. He counted. Two of them, aimed straight for the trailer house.

  “Jess—”

  She was already off the railing and beside Randy.

  He swallowed hard. The first and last line of defense. In that moment, he remembered watching monster movies featuring dead humans ambling about. The movies made it look easy. People knocking those things down with one shot while spinning in the air kung-fu style, or slashing them to bits with some fancy Japanese sword or crazy custom hatchet. How he wished this was all a movie.

  The two figures moved closer.

  Jessica nudged him. “Randy.” She plugged her ears with her fingers, ready for the bang.

  He lifted the rifle, shouldering it, taking aim. Mitch had taken the nice one, the one with the fancy scope, but Randy didn’t think it would make a difference. This rifle held more bullets, and he figured he’d need every one.

  He sighted one of the figures, the barrel wavering slightly, his breathing shallow and shaky. He recalled what Mitch had told him about controlled respiration to steady a weapon—inhale, exhale partially, hold, sight, squeeze …

  He fired off a round, and both figures dropped into the high grass.

  Jessica’s head darted back and forth. “Did you get him? I don’t see them. Did you hit them both?”

  Randy shifted his glasses on his face. He couldn’t believe he had shot one of them, let alone both.

  “I … I don’t see them.”

  “There!” Jessica practically climbed his arm, pointing toward the dropped beings.

  Randy saw a head peeking above the grass, and he aimed again. Not wanting to miss the figure or his chance, he quickly fired again. The shot echoed across the field, ricocheting off the trees. Jessica stood so close to Randy that the gun recoil nearly shoved her finger into her eardrum. The head disappeared, but Randy still couldn’t tell if he’d hit his mark.

  Jessica pulled her fingers from her ears, her brows furrowed, her eyes narrowed. “Did you hear …?”

  Randy’s ears rang, Jessica’s words a muffled mess. “What?”

  She leaned closer rather than raise her voice. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That.”

  “I can’t …” Randy lowered the gun, stuck his pinky in his ear and wiggled it wildly, trying to clear the whistling in his head.

  “Voices,” Jessica said. “I think they’re yelling something.”

  * * *

  Randy strained to hear, thought he heard something, but guessed it his imagination. Jessica would have to be his ears for a while, until the incessant ringing subsided.

  Jessica pointed again, as if pointing would help him hear. “There! Do you hear it?”

  “What is it?”

  “Someone shouting.” She squinted against the harsh morning rays pummeling her vision.

  In the distance, someone screamed, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  “Those ain’t shufflers, Randy. Someone’s out there. Someone alive.” She started toward the steps.

  Randy hooked her arm, “Are you crazy? You can’t go out there.”

  “They may need help.”

  “They could be dangerous.” His eyes pleaded. “And you ain’t well enough to be going out there.”

  She seemed to seriously consider this, then nodded. “Yeah … You’re right.”

  More yelling from the field. Then a hand peeking from the tall grass like a periscope. “Truce! We just want to talk!”

  “What do we do?” Randy asked, his voice a near whisper. His nerves fired on all cylinders, sweat overflowed his brow, spilling into his eyes. He pulled his already soaked hank from his pocket, plucked his glasses from his face, and cleared the salty, stinging pools.

  “They know we’re here.” She blew a breath, antsy fingers running through her hair. “Keep the gun aimed at them, let’s see what they want.”

  When he could see again, he replaced his spectacles and his handkerchief, then re-shouldered the gun. He gave a quick nod.

  Jessica cupped her hands around her mouth. “What do you want?”

  The far-off voice said, “Just want to talk.”

  “About what?” Her drawl seemed more pronounced the louder she yelled.

  Whoever it was did not answer right away, and this concerned Jessica. She waited before hollering again. “I said, about what?”

  “Mitch there?”

  Randy and Jessica traded glances.

  Jessica called out, “Who are you?”

  Another brief moment of silence followed. More nervous glances, Randy gripping and re-gripping the gun.

  “I said, who are you?”

  “Sammy. Sammy Thompson.”

  Jessica’s head rode a slow swivel, her jaw slack, her eyes tense. She burned a disbelieving stare straight into Randy. “Sammy Thompson? I thought …”

  Randy let the barrel dip. “Mitch said Sammy died a couple years back.”

  Jessica had only heard stories about Mitch’s older brother, Sammy. And they often involved women, weapons, drugs, and ultimately death. Hesitation and apprehension gripped them both, not sure whether to believe this man purporting to be Sammy Thompson.

  “Hello
? Cat got your tongue?” Sammy said, his voice drifting over the stillness.

  Jessica thought she heard a chuckle.

  The impatient voice knocked on her ears again. “We just want to talk to Mitch for a sec.” A man started to rise slowly out of the grass, his hands high. “Y’all ain’t gonna shoot us now, are ya? You wouldn’t shoot at blood, would ya?” Sammy, or the man claiming to be Sammy, looked beside him, nodding, encouraging someone else to stand with him. Another set of hands pressed skyward, a man inching up and out of the grass. “We just wanna talk. No trouble.”

  The two men stood fully upright, their palms pressed to the cloudless sky. Neither made a move.

  Randy swam in sweat while he fought an undertow of self-doubt, not knowing what to do, not wanting to make a mistake. A costly mistake. A mistake that could get them killed. Circumstances changed people, made them untrustworthy. Dangerous. Circumstances like the end of the world. Randy’s heart lodged in his throat, choking him.

  Jessica made the next decision. “Walk to the edge of the yard.”

  The two men looked at each other, then started walking, relaxing their arms.

  “Keep your hands up,” Jessica commanded.

  They immediately grabbed for the sun. “Easy. Like I said, we just want to talk.”

  Randy’s fingers curled over and over on the rifle, praying he wouldn’t have to use it.

  The two newcomers stopped short of the yard, just as Jessica instructed.

  The one claiming to be Sammy stared at them from under his straw-colored cowboy hat. “Can we put our hands down now? Please?”

  Jessica nodded, then said, “Yeah, but first, throw your weapons this way.”

  Sammy’s shoulders slumped. “Lady, we ain’t here to—”

  “Do you want to talk or not?”

  He blew a long, exasperated breath. He dipped his chin at his partner, giving him the okay, then unbuckled his own gun belt, tossing the rig in front of him. His buddy did the same, and they raised their hands again.

  Sammy’s friend said, “You don’t have to be pointing that thing at us, pendejo.”

  “You don’t worry about him,” Jessica said. “Now, what do you want to talk about?”

  “May we?” he asked.

  Jessica nodded, and they dropped their arms.

  Sammy swiveled his head, looking around, then trained his gaze on Jessica. He smiled a wide smile, teeth looking like a picket fence with slats randomly kicked out. His voice sounded like he’d chewed and swallowed the missing boards. “Like I said, just want to talk to my brother, Mitch.”

  Randy and Jessica glimpsed each other, then focused again on the strangers in the yard. Jessica shook her head hesitantly. “Um … No. Mitch ain’t here.”

  Sammy lifted his hands out to his sides as though he were conjuring a spirit before letting them drop again. “Well … Where is he?”

  “Gone on a run,” Jess said, carefully observing the man claiming to be blood-related to her soon-to-be ex.

  “A run?” He chuckled. “And just what the hell’s a run?”

  “Supplies,” Randy said.

  Sammy cocked his granite chin toward the man with the rifle. “I don’t believe we’ve met, slim.”

  Boards creaked beneath Randy as he shifted his feet, his beard obscuring his twisted lips. “Randy.”

  The man with the hat wagged a finger, a wider smile crossing his face. “Ah, yeah. You’re Randy. Mitch’s old army BFF.” He crossed his arms and rolled up on the balls of his feet. “Ain’t you two just the cutest couple.”

  “He’s married to me, dick.” Jessica said, tapping into her family’s famous temper.

  Sammy’s brows jumped. “Oh? You don’t say? So you would be the missus?” He made a guttural noise and nudged his buddy. “Mmm, mmm. You are one fine piece of ass, missy.” His friend smiled and nodded in agreement.

  She swallowed hard, crossing her arms tight over her chest, and slid closer to Randy. She immediately regretted poking this uncaged animal. If he was anything remotely like his brother, they were in for a tense and volatile morning. She now wished very badly for Mitch to show up, despite wanting him gone only moments before.

  “She got quite a mouth on her, too,” said Sammy’s friend. His dark eyes told on his darker thoughts.

  Sammy slapped a hand to his chest. “How rude of me. I didn’t introduce you all.” He planted a palm on his friend’s shoulder. “This here’s Guillermo Torres. Goes by ‘Gills.’”

  Guillermo brushed a thumb on either cheek, pointing out three distinct scars on each, the stripes evoking faded warpaint. A smug smile spread beneath his fu-manchu as he crossed his tattoo-wrapped pythons across his thick chest.

  “Guillermo led a boys club of sorts down in Rio Bravo. Admission to his little brotherhood required a tiny test of toughness.” Sammy drew his finger across his cheek, as though he were slicing it with a knife. “If you could stick your tongue through, you’d cut deep enough, and you could call yourself a Piranha.” He laughed, and shook his head. “Crazy Mexican, this one is.”

  Jessica thought better of a verbal ambush, and instead simply said, “Interesting story, but you two are a long ways from Rio Bravo.”

  His hands out to his sides again, he twisted his neck, letting his jaw return like a typewriter carriage. “Like I said, here to see Mitch.” Something deep emerged in his tone. “Not to say I’m not enjoying conversing with you fine people, but when’s he gonna get his ass back here?”

  “Any minute,” she said, and hoped.

  Sammy nodded, tugged off his hat, then squinted at the sun. “Sure could use a drink.” He fanned himself, turned to Guillermo. “Gills? You thirsty, amigo?”

  Gills nodded, his slicked-back pony tail sliding up and down his leather-clad back. His words rose out of his gravel quarry throat. “Sí. Muy thirsty,” he said, eyes not letting go of Jessica. Another smug smile crawled out from under his inky mustache.

  Sammy replaced his cowboy hat, clapped his hands, rubbed them together. “So whatcha got? Cold beer? Tequila?” His eyes darted to Randy. “Some fruity umbrella drink?”

  Gills chuckled.

  Jessica hesitated, then said, “I’ll get you some water.”

  “Can we at least come in? It’s got to be a hundred and ten out here.”

  “You two stay put.” She patted Randy on the shoulder as she turned and whispered, “Watch ‘em. Don’t let them on the porch. My Sig’s inside.”

  “Got it.” Randy tightened his grip on the rifle, aiming from his hip near the two strangers.

  Jessica disappeared into the trailer, doing her best to disguise the pain in her back.

  Sammy rocked on his boot-clad heels, arms crossed over his stained wife-beater shirt. “So … Brandy, was it?” He and Gills laughed softly, two schoolyard bullies picking on the fat kid.

  Randy ignored them, stayed quiet. His lids fluttered, trying to clear the salty tide rolling into his eyes. He kept a blurry watch on the two strangers, the rifle slick in his grip. How he hoped no one made a move, including himself.

  Chapter 5

  David and Mitch leaned against the Dodge dually parked in the middle of the quilt-patched road. A few yards away, tangled and tugging against his barbed wire snare, an undead Tim Bartlett rasped at the rubberneckers, sensing a meal. He had yet to feast on flesh, to taste it, if the dead could indeed taste. The buffet just out of reach teased him with the chance to find out.

  David let the pads of his fingers run up and down the knife’s cord-wrapped handle while the weapon resided peacefully in its sheath. He’d drawn the cheap weapon several times, the black symmetrical blade inconspicuous, never glinting or giving away his location. Or intent.

  “We gonna do this or what?” Mitch asked, a sour impatience floating his tone, his face pallid.

  David glanced at him. “Need a drink?”

  “Ha fucking ha.”

  “I’m being serious. As heavily as you’ve been hitting the bottle lately, I’m surprised you�
�re not puking your guts out all over the road right now.”

  Mitch hinged, hands on his thighs. “I’m about to if we don’t get this show on the road. Let’s fucking get this over with, alright?”

  David swallowed a golfball, anticipating the inevitable. If he’d been completely honest, he would have admitted to wanting to retch, too. The thought of plunging the blade into Old Man Bartlett turned his insides, and he considered letting the old man be.

  Just then, Mitch dry heaved.

  “He doesn’t smell very good, does he?” David said.

  Mitch simply shook his head, breathing deep. He spat a stubborn string of saliva. “Ain’t the smell.”

  David enjoyed seeing Mitch suffer, the control Karma had over him.

  Mitch rolled his wrist, hand fanned, urging David to get on with it.

  After a heavy breath, David yanked the blade from its sheath. He started toward the growling ghoul, knife twisting in the sunlight without a twinkle, the dull matte blade honing in on its victim.

  This is merciful. What I’m about to do, I’d want someone to do for me.

  He crossed the shallow ditch, stopping just out of reach of the decaying and the dead. Their eyes met, David’s glimmering with true life, Bartlett’s glazed and hazy. The stench, though pungent, wasn’t as bad up close as David thought it should be. He had no way of knowing how long ago the farmer had died, but his skin seemed to be dying slowly, as if delayed or prolonged.

  Preserved?

  “In the head,” Mitch said.

  David jumped, startled.

  Mitch said again, “In the head. Stab him in the head.”

  Turning his own head to volley Mitch’s stare, he asked, “The head? Why not the heart?”

  “He ain’t a fucking vampire.” Then under his breath, he muttered something about sparkles and stakes. He coughed, heaved again.

  With clenched teeth, David turned back to Tim Bartlett, gripping the knife so hard his hand was numbing. He stood there for what seemed like forever, second thoughts ricocheting through his mind.

  Mitch came up behind him, his hand landing on David’s shoulder. “Damn pussy. Here, I’ll fucking do—”

  David rolled his shoulder fiercely and spun. He grabbed Mitch’s collar, throwing a forearm into his throat, and pushed until the man’s back slammed into the dually. Mitch twisted his head, expecting a punch. David held his grip, and hissed through still-clenched teeth, “If you ever fucking touch me again, I will gut you and feed you to those things. Got it?”