Dead South Rising: Book 1

by Lang, Sean Robert

  Bryan turned to look back at David, an apologetic frown on his face.

  David waved him on. “It’s okay. Just don’t want you to slip and fall.”

  As Bryan reached for the familiar door knob, David grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

  “What’s the matter, David?”

  David stood there on the porch, listening, his head pivoting. He thought he heard something, but then dismissed it. “Nothing, Bry. But I think it’d be a good idea if I went in first, okay?”

  The boy nodded, stepping back.

  Twisting the old brass knob slowly, the door opened with barely a creak or any effort. This surprised David, given the humidity and age of the house. Old Man Bartlett must have kept the place tip-top. Any other wood-framed homestead would be swelled and bulging, with windows frozen in their frames, doors jammed in their jambs.

  A shadowy darkness oozed out. The two-story house didn’t have windows on the sides, only four in the front with maybe a couple in the back, from what he could recall. It wouldn’t be as well lit inside. He craned his neck, trying to garner a preview of what awaited them beyond the threshold. Given that the boy was okay and in good health, he suspected nothing.

  “Were you by yourself, Bryan?”

  He shook his head.

  “No? Who was with you?”

  Bryan’s lip twisted. “Grandpa.”

  David felt like an ass. “Of course, right.” He rubbed his neck, the whiplash fire mere embers now. “I meant to say, was anybody else with you and your grandpa?”

  Another head shake.

  “Okay.” He drew his knife.

  Bryan’s eyes widened.

  “It’s okay, Bry. It’s for ‘just in case.’ I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

  “Why is it for ‘just in case’? Aren’t you a policeman?”

  David volleyed Bryan’s quizzical gaze. “What makes you say that, Bry?”

  The boy pointed to the freshly donned pistol on David’s hip. “Wouldn’t you use your gun instead? I thought the bad guys used knives. To stab people with.” He blinked inquisitively.

  Another smile turned David’s lips. “No, Bryan, I’m not a policeman. But I’m not a bad guy, either.”

  “So what are you?”

  Well, you see, Bry, I’m just a normal guy trying to make it in this crazy, fucked up world we now share with the dead. “Just a normal guy, Bryan. Nothing special.”

  The boy nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. Or tired of the conversation. David couldn’t be sure which.

  David adjusted his grip on the handle, preparing himself for the unexpected. For the boogeyman to burst out of the coat closet. For a shuffler to hurtle itself down the staircase, bowling them over.

  But as he pressed through the doorway and into the small foyer, nothing came. Nothing jumped out to scare them. Nothing came barreling down the stairs. The stuffy house held silent, the last of its secrets now dead with the man on the fence.

  “Where’s your clothes, Bryan?”

  He pointed upstairs.

  Figures. David nodded. “Alright. You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Upstairs, the boy packed his backpack, trying to stuff in as much as he could. His grandfather advocated playing outside, not inside with a bunch of electronic gadgets and gizmos, so Bryan didn’t have much in the way of toys or distractions. David wondered if he even knew what a smartphone was.

  If a smartphone would ever be again.

  The thought sparked memories of arguments with his daughter, Karla. She wanted the latest, demanded the greatest. And that wife of his had spoiled their kid beyond rotten. There was simply no talking her out of anything.

  While Bryan packed, David peeked out the bedroom window and into the back. He could see the pen where Mitch had killed the pig earlier. He wondered if Bryan had seen him do it.

  “You ready?”

  “Almost.” He was stuffing his backpack to near bursting.

  After another minute of coercing the zipper along its track, Bryan finally said, “Whew. Got it.”

  “Good deal.”

  As they descended the stairs, David wondered if the farmhouse would make a good relocation spot. Tim had obviously kept the place in great condition, despite the decades of wear and erosion. And he hadn’t noticed any shufflers other than Timothy himself. It was quiet, secluded—

  “Just one more thing,” Bryan said when they’d reached the bottom. “I need to get Charlie.”

  David’s brow arched. “Charlie?”

  “Yeah,” he said, turning, instead of going straight out the front door.

  Their eyes had adjusted well to the poorly lit interior, and David had no problem following Bryan, despite not knowing the lay of the land. He guessed they were headed to a back bedroom, and his hand fell to the handle of the knife. Twenty-one days of paranoia had kept him alive, and he damn sure wanted to make it through day twenty-two that way.

  Bryan stopped short of a doorway. “Charlie? You ready, Charlie?”

  David narrowed his eyes, looking past Bryan and into the room. He tried to put a smile in his voice. “Bry? Is Charlie one of your pretend friends? You know, like a stuffed animal you sleep with?”

  Bryan actually chuckled. “No silly. He’s a real friend.”

  Concern and fear claimed David as their own. He reached out, clutching the boy’s shoulder. His mind spun like a portable county fair ride operated by half-baked carnies. He pulled his knife, readying himself for Charlie, preparing for his second undead kill.

  David whispered, “Where is … Charlie?”

  Bryan lifted his arm, pointed at the closet door.

  Childhood memories filled with closets and the monsters inside them gave David serious pause. If this … Charlie … was in there, perhaps it was best just to leave him be. Why put the boy, or himself, in unnecessary danger?

  “Bryan, I’m not so sure—”

  But the boy had already wriggled free from David’s grasp, and he strode proudly to the closet door. His hand was on the doorknob before David could process it.

  David lunged into the room. “Bryan, no—”

  The door swung open as quietly and easily as the front door had.

  Bryan dropped to his knees, arms wide. “Charlie!”

  From between two ancient cowboy boots, a puppy pressed through and waddled toward the boy, tail tucked but wagging between shaky legs. The animal couldn’t have been more than six weeks old.

  He scooped the canine, hugging him hard.

  David’s lungs deflated, sending all his fear and anxiety into the stuffy room. Itching to replace them with relief, he pulled in a deep breath. He found it soothing, despite the old-person smell that dominated the residence.

  “So that’s Charlie.”

  “Yep.” He held the puppy for David to see, its rigid legs and tail dangling helplessly in midair. He hugged Charlie again and said, “Okay, we can go.”

  David replaced his knife, shaking his head, happy that Charlie was harmless. But as he and the boy exited the antiquated farmhouse, concerns arose. Charlie was another mouth to feed and water, another member to watch out for. He dreaded, with a passion, the day a shuffler decided to make a meal of Charlie. How would he explain that to Bryan, why another person would do such a thing? And what if Charlie liked to bark? Shufflers loved noise, moths to a flame. But he tried to stay somewhat positive. If Charlie grew up, maybe he could actually be a protective member, a living alarm system.

  Inside the truck cab, he worked on clearing his mind. Too many demands on his fragile emotions. He woke up this morning prepared to kill a living man. But things had changed. Leaving Bryan here by himself never once crossed his mind, a reassurance that the dead didn’t own his humanity. He still retained it, albeit not as much as before. Constant survival mode took a lot out of him. Constant protection mode took even more. Together, it was the old sum of the parts adage he’d heard so many times over the years at the office. He was sick of the saying, but it applied so well.
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br />   He had gotten Bryan and Charlie squared away inside the Dodge with no issues. The truck itself cooperated, starting on the first twist of the key. He remembered the clutch this time, so that helped. Within minutes, they left the narrow and bumpy excuse for a road and were cruising along nicely down Highway 204.

  David felt like he should talk to Bryan, get to know him a little better, but the boy seemed preoccupied tending to Charlie for the moment. And David was okay with it. He let his mind wander, but not too far, tried not to think too long or too hard on anything. His emotions needed a vacation. Even if only for fifteen minutes or so.

  Ahead, the rental car came into view, still disabled in the ditch, right where he’d left it. But the closer they got, the more things seemed off. Something wasn’t right.

  He fought his curious urge, decided he would drive right by. There was nothing of value left in the car, at least nothing for a world like this. He’d taken the medication with him, the only thing that looters would probably have wanted. Even then, he doubted they’d get very high on antibiotics. Would probably have just given them the runs.

  But something else caught his eye, demanding he pull over and investigate. There in the ditch, lying on its side like fresh roadkill, was Mitch’s Franken-Hog. David’s features tightened, his teeth came together. His apprehension and tension fanned the once dwindling fire in his injured neck. And he thought immediately of Karma. Maybe Karma had done the job for him, after all.

  He pressed the brakes harder than he intended and the dually shuddered violently, rubber clawing road, neither wanting to give up. Instinctively, he held out his arm to protect Bryan and Charlie from flying headlong into the dash, through the windshield. But the seatbelt held strong, and Bryan’s death-hug on Charlie had not ceased since they had left the farmhouse.

  They stopped just past the car, and David parked the dually in the ditch, setting up an expeditious exit should one become necessary. With four-wheel drive and crazy clearance, David figured the vehicle could crawl over just about anything, even the abandoned rental if need be. He mentally thanked Jimmy for his monster truck fetish.

  Unbuckling his seatbelt, David said, “I need to check something out and I need you to stay here for me, okay?”

  Bryan’s eyes glimmered with concern. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s okay. It will just take a second. I’ll be right back, okay, Bryan?”

  “My grandpa said he would come right back, but he didn’t.” The corners of his mouth dipped, then his head.

  David stopped wrestling his seatbelt, watched Bryan for a minute. He reached over, summoning a smile, and gripped the boy’s shoulder, giving it a good squeeze. With careful and deliberate articulation, David said, “Keep the doors locked. Don’t let anyone in. Only me. Got it?”

  Bryan’s breathing had sped up, and he looked like he wanted to cry.

  “Bryan, I need you to take care of Charlie, okay? You gotta be strong for Charlie.”

  This seemed to infuse a new sense of trust, and he nodded a strong nod, his eyes stern.

  “Good boy. I’m going to drop the windows a little bit, so you don’t burn up in here. I won’t be long.” He paused a beat, then added, “Bryan, I will be back.”

  After pulling the key, David tugged the lever and pushed open the door. He turned, gave the boy a reassuring smile and a nod, then slipped off the seat and down onto the road. He glanced around before easing the door shut, pressing it into the latch with a click. Another nudge with his shoulder, and it was completely closed. Fingering the remote locked Bryan and Charlie safe and sound inside the pickup.

  David’s eyes darted over the scene, a terrible anxiousness pumping through his veins, his muscles, his being. Dread tailgated anxiety. He just knew he would find Mitch dead in that ditch. Despite wanting the man dead only hours ago, despite planning to do it himself, he wasn’t prepared for this.

  Deep breath.

  Crouching, he inspected the motorcycle first. From the truck, it had reminded him of an unlucky animal that had met its demise during an ill-timed highway crossing. But the evidence suggested nothing of the sort. No clods of grass and dirt. No ruts. No divots. Not even a skid mark on the road. Plus, the bike looked fine. It appeared to David that the motorcycle had simply been laid on its side, or at worst, fallen over after being propped on its kickstand.

  He straightened, arms akimbo, head rotating, eyes scouring. He felt confident that Mitch did not die in a bike accident. He couldn’t be sure Mitch was still alive, but he gleaned enough from the scene to know he’d walked away from whatever happened here.

  The rental car snagged his attention next. Something was different, though he quickly figured it out: the trunk lid was open. He didn’t remember popping the trunk. But last night was a blur, and it could have happened when the car hit the embankment. He chalked it up to uncertainty.

  With renewed caution, he rounded the rear of the car. The passenger door still ajar, he ducked his head inside. The glovebox stood open, his rental agreement strewn about. It was clear someone had rifled through the auto since he’d abandoned it. A violated feeling pricked him. Someone, some stranger, had gone through his stuff, taken what wasn’t theirs.

  Hypocrite.

  Glimpsing the Dodge nipped this new feeling in the bud. He’d made out much better than this petty thief, by far. His hand fell to the butt of the gun, rested it there, relaxed. It felt good on his hip, his guardian angel.

  El Jefe.

  He flipped papers over, looking underneath. He really didn’t know what he was looking for, what he expected to find. There was nothing new to be found. Every day, for twenty-one days, he had driven this very vehicle to and from town, practically living in it. He knew it well.

  He gave one last cursory glance into the crippled car, noticed the handheld CB radio missing from its spot in the cup holder. Another quick search turned up nothing. Didn’t matter. It had started out as a good idea, carrying the radio on runs in order to maintain contact with the group. But the reception of that electronic lifeline was spotty at best, given the dense woods and the quality of the product itself. Anyway, Mitch never seemed to take using the radios seriously. Maybe he’d pick up another set of walkies later. Changes were coming.

  The crack of a branch behind him pricked the hairs on David’s neck and arms, and he spun on his heel. He stared into the dense underbrush and trees, trying to hear with his eyes.

  Mitch?

  He let his mouth fall open, preparing to call out. But his voice clogged, never making it past his lips. His heart spewed child-like terror, throwing him back in time. He was five years old again, trembling beneath his blankets, too scared to look under his bed, praying for a morning that never came fast enough.

  David reached across his body, drawing his pistol. He realized, too late, that in his initial ardent worship of the piece, he had failed to verify that it was actually loaded. A simple oversight with a scary consequence.

  He turned it over, found the handle hollow, the magazine missing. Tenderly, he pulled the slide. No bullet in the chamber. The weapon silently screamed: brand new, never fired.

  Another snap from the dense woods.

  His heart stomped his sternum, and his hearing turned into the deep thumps of a bass drum. He had to consciously breathe, his lungs checking out on him, jumping ship. He’d cursed God plenty the last twenty-one days, but now he hoped the man in the sky would forget his rants of rage, and do him a solid.

  You hear a noise in the woods. Is it: A.) A critter; B.) A shuffler; C.) Mitch; D.) Other.

  He forced his lungs to grab deep calming breaths as he fought to wrangle his fear. Without tearing his gaze from the trees, he reached behind him, unsnapped a pouch on his gun belt, and retrieved a magazine. He held it up to his face so he could keep his eyes trained in the direction of the noise; shiny bullets lined up at attention, awaiting orders. He mouthed a silent thank you to the invisible man in the sky, then eased the mag into the pistol. He racked the slide as
quietly as he could, though it still sounded like a slamming door to his ears. He clenched his teeth, as if doing so would somehow erase the noise he had just made.

  David gripped the gun tightly, barrel pointed at the ground in front of him. He stood motionless, listening. He began to think that he was hearing things, that he hadn’t heard anything at all. Deceitful mind and lying ears. He waited. Wondered. Second-guessed himself. No more noise.

  You fucking pussy.

  He couldn’t leave it at that. Couldn’t just turn and walk away. Mitch obviously had not made it back, and he needed to find out why. But he had Bryan to think about now. What if David ended up getting hurt or killed? Then what would the kid do? Bryan couldn’t drive the dually, hop on the Harley. The rental was toast. The boy would be shuffler bait. Dead for sure. And if the dead didn’t get him, the living would.

  And then David heard movement, rustling. And he couldn’t let it be.

  Chapter 8

  Jessica practically punched through the screen door, ripping metal mesh from the frame. On all fours, she scrambled through the doorway to get to the porch. She sat, legs sprawled, and reached behind her, tugged the tiny pistol free. But there was no one to aim at. Sammy and Guillermo were gone, and Randy was gone, too.

  More gunshots rang, the cracks and pops ricocheting over the property.

  “Randy!” She could barely choke out the scream as more shots exploded. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a struggling scream when she noticed a body face down in the yard. And then another.

  Bile rose in her throat.

  Then she glimpsed shadows to her right.

  She pushed up on shaky legs like a newborn calf, barely made it down the steps without falling. Around the corner and behind the trailer, she found the missing men. Sammy and Guillermo, along with Randy—all shooting at a group of shufflers.

  The banditos yelled in glee, enjoying the mini-massacre, while Randy’s face was taut with terror.

  She couldn’t believe it, how many there were. There had to be … fourteen, fifteen at least.