Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row

by Lang, Sean Robert

  Fuck yeah, I’m gonna kill him. This motherfucker is not a benefit to mankind. His absence, his death, will be a positive mark on the world, not a negative one. I’m saving the future of mankind by killing this dirtbag.

  His heart thumped his sternum, an intense game of racquetball underway in his chest. Doc was not just any random man. This ‘man’ butchered David’s wife. Sliced and diced her. Then heckled him. Mocked him. Hurt him. Tortured him. David was only reciprocating, dressed in Karma’s garb.

  But as David Morris stood there, convincing himself he was a martyr, he couldn’t help but wonder about the man he planned to execute. Why did this stranger assume the persona of a long-dead gunslinger? Why call himself, ‘Doc Holliday’? What was his real name? Obviously, this ‘Doc’ truly believed that David had killed Mrs. Holliday.

  And David could only figure that the wannabe outlaw had expended his supply of whatever psychotropic drug kept him stable and sane pre-apocalypse. No one in their right mind would chop up a human being, pack her pieces into cardboard boxes, and terrorize another by delivering them like Christmas presents. Nobody of sound mind did that. No one with a human soul, anyway.

  Now David wondered if he wasn’t losing his own mind and soul, preparing to do unto Doc as Doc had done unto David’s wife.

  Time to stop thinking. Time to act. Get this freak show on the road. Now or never.

  He stood at the end of the cot, behind Doc’s head, and reached under Doc’s arms. Unfortunately, the end of the world occurred before wheelchairs could be delivered to Alamo Assisted Living and Retirement. So, David would have to drag his captive down the hall. Oh, he supposed he could swipe a rolling office chair out of one of the conference rooms. But why provide his enemy such a luxury? Besides, should Doc begin to stir again, David could simply drop him to the floor, which would most likely render him unconscious. And even if the blow didn’t knock him out, he’d have a hard time defending himself on the ground, blinded by the stars that would be exploding across his vision.

  David had just started to lift when the doorknob twisted.

  Fuck. Who the hell—

  The door swung in slowly, and Jess peeked in.

  “Jessica!” David hissed in a harsh whisper. He eased Doc back down, then quickly crossed the room as though walking across hot coals. He practically shoved her back into the hallway, where she collided with someone behind her.

  Jesus Christ. Randy, too? Should have locked the fucking door.

  He tossed a quick glance into the room, then pulled the door to behind him. In the same coarse whisper, “What the hell are you two doing?” He hooked his hands on his hips, angry eyes flicking back and forth between the two.

  Jess said, “What the hell are we doing?” She jabbed her finger in his chest. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m guarding the goddamned prisoner. What the fuck does it look like?”

  “Looks to me like you were about to take him somewhere.”

  Guilt and anger splashed his face red. “I was just shifting him. Sounded like he was having trouble breathing.”

  She sneered at him. “Oh, bullshit. You were about to take him somewhere. Where were you gonna take him, David? Huh? Where?”

  He drew his lips into a thin line, averting his gaze from hers.

  “Well?”

  “Randy,” David hissed fiercely, his brows drawn into a vicious ‘V,’ “take her back to her room. She’s obviously still out of it.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Out of it? Out of it?” Her head seemed to spin three-hundred and sixty degrees, then she latched her angry gaze on him. “Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  The conversation was quickly going to shit, picking up right where they’d left off earlier that day. Unresolved feelings fueled hurtful, retaliatory jabs. He honestly didn’t want to fight with her, didn’t have time to fight with her, especially not now. Doc consumed his mind, but his fury was shifting to his pseudo-sibling.

  “Now’s not the time, Jess.”

  “Then when?”

  Randy, ever the peacemaker, tried chiming in. “Hey, y’all. Look—”

  Jess snapped at him to shut up, and he backpedaled, his palms to the quarreling duo.

  “Don’t talk to him like that,” David told her.

  “Like you’ve treated him any better. At least I treat him like a human being.”

  David dropped his face into his palms. “Jess… can we do this later, please?”

  “Later? When is ‘later,’ David? Why not now?”

  “Because. I’ve got to keep an eye on Doc.”

  “You gonna run off in the middle of the night with him? Take him somewhere and kill him?”

  The accusation stung unexpectedly. It was like she could read his mind, though he knew that wasn’t possible, just a lucky guess. But still, hearing it aloud punched a hole in the dam that held back his surging guilt.

  More calmly, he said, “Go back to bed, Jess.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Randy, take her back to her room, okay? Give her something to relax her and help her sleep.”

  The order only succeeded in winding Jessica up tighter. She rolled her shoulder, knocking his hand off of her. “Relax me? Relax me? Wanna see me excited?” Her voice started cracking despite conversing in a loud whisper.

  Randy remained quiet and neutral, tossing embarrassed glances down the hall.

  “We’re going to start drawing attention out here,” David said.

  “So what if we do? Who cares?” She coughed, her throat going dry. “Maybe it’d give these people something else to gawk at other than the dead walking around.”

  “You’re tired, Jess. You’ve had a long day. Go to bed.” He turned on his heel, dismissing her, and reached for the doorknob, twisting the cool steel.

  Another cough. “I’m not going until I see Doc.”

  David stopped, releasing the knob, then turned back around to face his cousin. “And why do you need to see Doc?”

  She glimpsed Randy, then reached into her pocket, pulled out a billfold. Practically shoving it up David’s nose, she said, “I want to know where he got this.”

  David eyed it dismissively. “A wallet?”

  “Not just a wallet. Mitch’s wallet.”

  The realization was immediate, the brown leather pinched in her fingers an admission, proof. Doc killed Mitch. Why else would he have the man’s billfold? The scary scene played out a few different ways in his head, but each one ended with Doc blowing Mitch away. That night, while hiding in the pond, David heard Doc conversing with the two banditos. So he knew he’d been there. But now, puzzle pieces seemed to fit.

  To Randy, David said, “You found Mitch’s wallet on him?”

  A nod.

  “You think he did it?”

  Hesitation, then another nod.

  David snatched the billfold from Jessica’s hand, flipped it open. There was Mitch, staring right back at him, the man’s head whole again. The sight pricked his skin, seeing Mitch’s face. He didn’t miss the guy, but the last time he laid eyes on him, half his face was gone… It was almost like Mitch was still razzing him from the grave.

  Bull’s-eye, bitches! Now where’s my beer. And my joint.

  “You think Doc killed Mitch?” David asked Jessica, knowing that she believed so, too.

  “Who else could have done it?” Jess said. “I doubt that Sammy or Gills would have shot him.”

  David stared at the wallet for a long moment, the pad of his thumb massaging the worn leather, then said, “Well, what does it matter, anyway? Mitch is dead, and—”

  “What does it matter? That… murderer… in there killed my husband, that’s why it matters. Jesus Christ, David. You of all people… How can you even say—”

  “You were going to leave him, anyway, Jess. Or did you forget that minor detail?”

  “Yeah? Well, Natalee actually left you. Or did you forget that minor detail?”

  David couldn’t dodge it, Jessica’s aim too accurat
e, too close to home. She hurled a huge stone of hurt that landed right on his chest, crushing his heart.

  Randy stepped in between them. “Y’all, please. Can’t we just…”

  Hard stares impaled him.

  Finally, Jessica broke the boiling silence. “Whatever.” She plucked the billfold from David’s hand, started to push through the two men. “I’m going in there, and I’m not leaving until I get answers.”

  David grabbed her by the arm and started towing her back down the hall. “No you’re not, Jess. Not tonight.”

  “Let go of me.”

  She yanked free, and marched toward Doc’s room. David hooked her arm again, spinning her to face him. “Jess, the guy’s out cold.”

  “Then I’ll wait in there with you.”

  David sighed deeply, his limited patience draining. “There’s no telling when he’ll wake up. I’m keeping an eye on him. When he finally does come to, I’ll come get you, okay?” He was prepared to say anything to get her to go back to bed and leave him to his business.

  She glared at him. Obviously, she didn’t believe him and was dissatisfied with the dictated compromise. “If he’s even still here when he wakes up.”

  David didn’t reply, just stared at her.

  “Where are you taking him?” she asked.

  “I’m… nowhere.”

  She rolled her eyes, slapped her thigh. “I’m not an idiot, David.” Her voice was giving out, and she rubbed her throat. “I just… I need to know about Mitch, alright? I need… I need closure, David. Will you at least give me that much?”

  Jessica’s emotional closure was not high on his agenda. Nowhere near the top, actually. But he’d let her believe it was, and ask for forgiveness later.

  “Sure,” he lied. Again.

  Chapter 28

  Thomas Theodore Mackey thought David Morris would never leave. He was beginning to suspect he would have to lie there on that wretched cot all night, feigning unconsciousness until the morning. Or however long it took. David couldn’t stand over him, hovering indefinitely. Then again, maybe he could.

  Tom cracked open one curious eye first. He deduced he was alone, but extreme caution promised a longer life. Seeing no one, he slowly opened both eyes fully, allowing his sight to adjust to the dim light while he strained to hear. His head throbbed madly.

  Whispers. In the hallway, just on the other side of the door. Though ghosts of gunfire haunted his hearing, he was sure of it. They were vicious, breathy whispers, propelled by anger and emotion. Dissension in the ranks, perhaps. Or a disagreement of proposed actions. He recalled the arguing men he observed during his earlier stakeout. A house divided was a house easily conquered.

  He smiled.

  After pausing another few moments, he shifted slightly on the rickety cot. The creaking of the flimsy metal beneath him thundered on his ears, and he froze, grimacing. He glued his gaze back onto the door, expecting it to blow open. He held still for several seconds, observing the animated shadows in the sliver of space between the door and floor. When no one barged in or checked on him, he again tried to sit up. The cheap cot groaned, trying to tell on him. He just knew David would burst through the doorway, a mighty Ah-ha! launching from his lips at catching Doc wide awake and attempting to escape.

  His stiff joints popped, and he swallowed hard, a powerful thirst now awakened. Feigning unconsciousness convincingly while imprisoned by the enemy demanded a disciplined, practiced exertion over his mind and body. The fight-or-flight response was not something easily suppressed. For the majority of his short captivity, Tom had remained genuinely unconscious, having been awake for maybe the last ten minutes. Thankfully, this required ‘faking it’ for a very short time.

  Time to get moving, Doc. No telling how long Kate’s killer will be MIA.

  I’m moving, I’m moving.

  Well, fucking move faster.

  No time to argue with inner voices. And why bother? They spoke the truth, for once.

  Tom scanned the room, searching for a weapon, any weapon. Nothing. The space was as empty as David’s heartless soul. He didn’t expect to find Bertha and Bessie, but he thought maybe, just maybe…

  His wrists were bound by boot laces, and a sudden shiver racked him. His long coat was gone, as was his wide-brimmed hat. These assholes stripped him of his identity, who he was. And what kept him alive. His coat—his armor—had spared him from many an overzealous biter’s rotting teeth. Now he’d have to practice extreme caution.

  No time now. Find them later.

  He didn’t count to three or anything before pressing to his feet. The cot scooted beneath him, scratching noisily across the floor before bumping the wall. He winced, stood completely still.

  Then the doorknob spun.

  Shit fire.

  He launched himself, rocketing toward the door, hoping to get the jump on whomever passed over the threshold.

  But the door remained closed.

  The knob spun back into place, and he slid to a stop, knees bent and hands clasped together in one super-sized fist. He froze, waiting.

  Still, no one entered.

  More harsh whispers permeated the wood. Now nearer the door, he could better hear the heated discussion underway.

  Mitch. They’re discussing Mitch.

  The voices in the hall were conversing about Mitch, alright. And blaming Doc for his murder. Good for them. They’d figured it out. Finally.

  Have a goddamned cookie.

  They’d discovered the dead man’s wallet. Old news. They’d be adding their own wallets to the collection soon enough. And besides, maybe the newfound knowledge would anger them further, rile up emotions, make them sloppy, careless. Easier to kill.

  Now the voices were moving away, down the hall.

  Now’s your chance! Get the fuck outta here!

  Wait…

  Wait? For what, Doc? Them to come back and kill you?

  They think I’m out cold.

  Do you wanna be? Again?

  A sparkling opportunity just presented itself.

  Stars sparkle, Doc. You ain’t no star. And you ain’t no Doc Holliday, Thomas Theodore Mackey.

  In a sense, his inner critic was right on the money, as usual. He didn’t have his long leather duster. He didn’t have his wide-brimmed hat. And most importantly, his Ruger Vaqueros—Bertha and Bessie—were MIA. But it wasn’t about the clothes and accessories making the man, it was about the man inside making the man. He was the man. And he’d continue to be the man. Dead or alive, he was the man, and would always be the man.

  Heavy steps emanated from the other side of the door. The knob twisted. It was time to show David Morris just who Thomas Theodore Mackey—the man—really was.

  * * *

  To ensure Jessica returned promptly to her room, David accompanied her and Randy to the nurses’ station. She wouldn’t stay put, of course. Tenacity was a trait buried deep in the Morris family line. It was the mantle of their world. Their tempers, the core.

  David tried covertly signaling Randy. But he wasn’t positive that Randy had gotten the gist of the nonverbal request. Rather than outright tell him in front of Jessica, chancing yet another escalating argument, he decided on a different course of action.

  “Randy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “Watch Doc for a few while I try and talk some sense into Jess.”

  His comment was met with another round of eye-rolling, huffy breaths, and pursed lips—his cousin not hiding any feelings.

  “I’m right here, ya know,” she said.

  Ignoring Jessica, David dipped his chin at Randy, urging him on.

  “Um, sure. Yeah,” Randy said.

  “I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  Randy left, headed back to Doc’s makeshift cell.

  With a gentle hand, David guided Jessica back into her room, closing the door quietly behind them. Now, he forced himself to fo
cus on her. He planned to make his points quickly, intent upon getting back to his prisoner. Crossing to the nightstand, he twisted the lantern’s knob, bringing more light to the faintly lit room.

  “What, David? What more is there to say? You made it perfectly clear that—”

  “Jess, look, I didn’t come in here to fight.”

  “Then why in the hell are you here, David? You’ve already made it clear you don’t want me talking to Doc.”

  “I’m trying to make you understand.”

  “You can’t make me do anything. And I don’t appreciate you trying to.” She crossed the room, collapsed onto the bed. Her hand went to her throat, and she coughed.

  David exhaled an exhausted breath. “It’s been a long day, Jess. A long fucking day.”

  “Well, that’s one thing we actually agree on.” Her natural voice eluded her, lost in the rasp and rawness. She swigged water in an effort to soothe the scratchiness and stay in the conversation.

  Jessica didn’t know it, but David made a vow on the short jaunt back to her room. He intended to start shooting straight with her. No more lies, no more secrets. No more cryptic explanations or elusive answers. If he was going to nurture and grow a meaningful relationship in their garden of trust, then he had to quit dousing it in a deadly pesticide of deception.

  “I was going to kill him.”

  Jessica stared at David blankly. “I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to him. Before I couldn’t—”

  “No… I was going to… kill Mitch.”

  Her gaze simmered, processing what he’d just confessed. “What did you just say?”

  David brushed his hands across his lips, then rubbed his razor-neglected cheek. “I… I was going to kill Mitch. The morning I took off after him on the Harley.”

  Her eyes darted around the room, landing on everything and nothing. Finally, “Did you?”

  “Jess—”

  “Did you, David? Did you kill him? Were you the one?”

  “No.”

  “Are you lying to me? Again?”

  “What’s that supposed to—”

  “Oh, cut the crap.” She coughed, then said, “You and I both know you’re a chronic liar. And you hated him.” A tear zipped down her cheek. “Just answer the goddamned question already.” She sipped more water, wiping away stray drops with the back of her hand. “Truthfully. No more lies, no more bullshit.”