A tear. A fucking tear slipped from David’s eye and tripped in the frayed stitches lacing his cheek. “Goddamnit, man.” Ignoring the pain shrieking between his shoulder blades, he splashed gas into the truck cab as more tears joined the first. He stepped away, gas can gripped hard at his side.
“Toss it in,” Doc said, his tone flat.
David slung the half-full container into the cab.
From his coat, Doc retrieved another match, flicked it with his thumbnail. The match flared.
After swiping another tear from his cheek, David folded his arms, stepped back. He heard something crash inside the warehouse, and glanced at the dock. Smoke was escaping in sheets from the door frame. And outside, the smell of smoke was already heavy on the air, chasing away the stink of death.
Flames erupted inside the Dodge dually, and David held up his hand, shielding his face from the sudden heat and brilliance of the blaze.
And in that moment, he’d never felt more helpless in his entire life. He’d managed to save no one, not even himself.
Chapter 31
“Why won’t it break?” Jessica’s raspy voice was frantic, eyes wild, fingers raking her hair.
“Storm windows,” Randy said, picking up the rolling stool for the fifth time. He cocked it, preparing to hurl it at the glass again. “Move back. I don’t want you to get cut if it shatters this time.”
“Why storm windows? There ain’t been a drop of rain in over two months.” Of course she knew better. East Texas’ notorious reputation for severe weather was widely recognized.
“Jess…” His head dropped, then a heavy sigh. “Tornado Alley. Ring a bell?”
“You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
“Jessica, I’m not. Look, I’m trying here.”
“Try harder.” She chewed at her thumbnail as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “The smell’s getting stronger. Oh god, Randy. Why ain’t the fire alarm going off? Or the sprinklers?”
“Probably not”—he heaved the stool at the window—“wired up or whatever. The place wasn’t quite finished, remember?” The small metal seat clanged to the floor. “Damnit.” He ran his forearm across his glistening forehead.
“Shit,” she muttered. Her eyes flicked to the ceiling. “I’d rather get shot than die in a fire.”
Randy scooped up the stool again. “Make some noise. Yell, beat the door, whatever you gotta do.”
“I can’t yell, Randy,” she said, pointing at her throat.
“Then you beat the door and I’ll yell. We can’t be the only ones who smell the smoke.”
“Maybe they don’t know we’re in here. Or maybe Doc—”
“Don’t think like that.”
After a deep breath, Jessica faced the door, then started kicking it, her tennis shoes making barely a sound.
He aimed at the window again, then turned and glanced at Jessica. “Find something to beat the door with.”
“I’m trying, Randy.”
Jessica was clearly in full-on freak-out mode, very unusual for her. Normally, she was the calm and collected one, and Randy the panicky one.
Instead of tossing the metal stool at the window again, Randy joined her by the door, and smashed at the wood repeatedly with it while yelling. The door was too thick to break down, but he managed to make an awful lot of noise.
“I’ve got this,” Jess said, endeavoring to quiet down her roaring fear. “Keep at the window.”
Randy returned to his previous task, prepared to launch the stool.
“Beat at it,” Jess said.
“What?”
“Like you just did with the door. Don’t throw it. Use it like a battering ram.”
Randy nodded, acknowledging he understood, then repeatedly walloped the window.
Battering ram… Battering ram… Something we can both…
“The bed frame,” she said. “Randy, the bed frame.”
But he didn’t hear her, the constant metal against glass trumping her feeble voice.
She grabbed a pillow, threw it at him.
“A pillow? Really, Jess? That’s not gonna—”
Jessica stabbed a finger at the bed. “What about using the bed frame? It’s heavier, and we could both put our weight into it.”
Above them, wisps of smoke scratched at the tiles. He studied the bed, followed by tight nods. “Could work.”
He dropped the stool, then yanked the mattress and box spring from the bed. He frowned.
“What?” she asked.
“It’s bolted together.”
“What about this part?”
He wiggled the footboard, and they heard a cracking.
“Keep doing that.”
He kept at it, frenetically moving the metal and wood piece back and forth. More cracking, steel squealing, until finally, the footboard popped off the frame, tumbled to the floor.
“Help me,” he said.
Her eyes darted to the ceiling again. “We gotta hurry, Randy.”
He glanced up, noticed the cloud above them gathering like thunderheads. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Together, they slid the weighty piece over to the window.
Randy glimpsed her, said, “On three. One, two, three.”
They hoisted, Jessica struggling to lift her side. It slipped from her sweaty grip and back to the floor. “Shit.”
“C’mon,” Randy said. “We can do this. We’ve got to.”
“Right.”
Again, they lifted. She could tell he was fighting serious pain in his left arm, where he’d been shot several days before. She guessed the adrenaline coursing through him was masking the hurt.
“On two this time,” he said.
They charged the window. The distinct snap of glass whipped the air as they recoiled, a single line streaking through the window.
“Again,” he said.
They rammed the glass again, and it webbed instantly.
“Randy! It’s working!”
He nodded tightly, sweat practically spraying from his whiskers. “Again.”
Her confidence soared.
Again, they thrust the footboard into the storm window, and this time, the corner of their makeshift battering ram pierced the barrier, the tinkle of glass rewarding their efforts.
“We’re through!”
“Two more times oughta do it,” Randy said. “Put everything you’ve got into it.”
He was right on the money. Two more times, and they were through, more shards sprinkling the sill and floor.
“C’mon, Randy.”
He was breathing hard. “Jess, you know I can’t fit through there.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You have to.”
He coughed, the smoke now bearing down on them.
“Randy, I—”
“Go,” he said. “I’ll beat at the door. Maybe Lenny or the Janitor will hear. You’ve got to figure out a way to get to Bryan and get him out.”
She could only stare, the salty surge behind her eyes threatening her vision and composure. If only tears could put out the fire. Already, the room was growing hazy. Blurry.
Randy grabbed the stool and cleared the window frame of flinders so Jessica would not cut herself on the way out. Afterward, he placed the stool beneath the window. Patting the seat, he said, “Now go.”
“Randy.” Her voice quivered.
“Go.”
She squeezed her eyes tight, pushing back the emotional flood.
“Now,” he said, placing his hand on her back.
She stepped up onto the stool as he held it steady for her. She started to climb through, then stopped.
“Jessica… why are you stopping?” he asked, a new shake in his own voice. “This ain’t up for debate.”
“Randy, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, and you will.”
“No, I can’t”
She stepped down off the stool, dipped her chin toward the gaping hole. Then swiped away a tear.
; Randy looked out the window. Just outside, the hungry dead eagerly waited, perhaps drawn by the banging. A sigh of defeat left his lungs as Jessica erupted into tears.
They embraced, sinking to the floor as smoke and sobs engulfed the room.
Chapter 32
David would probably have just stood there and let the explosion kill him had Doc not dragged him away. The blast reduced the pickup truck to a blazing carcass. He didn’t care so much about the truck. He was sure that Jimmy and Angela would have been much more upset about it, though.
No, he cared more about his own wife’s remains that he’d stowed inside the cab for safe keeping. His original plan to reunite her dismembered parts with the rest of her had literally gone up in flames. If it were possible for Doc to instill any more hatred and sadness in David, he’d just succeeded.
From the ground several yards away and still shaken by the punch of the shock wave, the two men gazed at the roaring blaze. David’s ears rang madly, his body throbbed, his head pounded. He’d absorbed so much physical abuse over the last week that he just didn’t know how much more he could possibly endure.
Doc smiled smugly, obviously pleased that he’d pierced David’s weak emotional armor with yet another sentimental spear. He pressed to his feet, brushed himself off. Looking around, he said, “Now, where are my guns? You said they were outside.”
Still on the concrete, David glanced up at Doc, his own numb smile emerging.
Unamused, Doc said, “I will not ask you again,” and aimed the purloined pistol at David.
David’s smile grew wider, until finally a light laugh pressed through his lips. Staring at the burning truck, he lifted his arm, pointed. His head swiveled again, his gaze locking with Doc’s.
He wasn’t in the know, didn’t grasp the full significance of what he’d just told Doc without a word. There may as well have been pieces of Doc’s wife in there right along with David’s. If only David had known. He could have reveled in the revelation.
“You had better be wrong about that.”
David shook his head.
“You’re a liar.”
“Go see for yourself.”
David wasn’t sure what Doc mumbled under his breath, but he thought he heard Bessie and Bertha. Whatever that meant.
“Do you realize what you’ve just done?” A new anger seethed in his tone, his words forced through grinding teeth.
Pressing to his feet with a pained grunt, David shook his head again.
Something was happening inside David, his emotional tank empty, the needle on ‘E.’ He just couldn’t feel anymore. Didn’t care anymore. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t know, didn’t care. He just knew he didn’t give a fuck anymore. He couldn’t do it all. He couldn’t save his wife, or Jessica, or Randy. Bryan. Sure, he wanted to, but a man has to eventually accept his limitations. He could only do so much. Gauging the amount of smoke now billowing from the building, he guessed they were already dead, anyway.
Doc lifted his arm, aiming David’s own weapon at him, and said, “I am going to shoot you right where—”
David cut him off. “Just shut the fuck up and do it, already. I’m tired of your threats, your melodramatic bullshit. If you’re gonna kill me, fucking kill me. Quit pussyfooting around.” He took three steps toward Doc, then leaned in until El Jefe’s barrel bolted itself to his forehead. Glaring at Doc, he said, “Point blank. Go ahead. Pull it. Drill a hole right through my fucking skull.”
Several tense moments passed.
“What are you fucking waiting for, huh? I need to change your diaper? You got a fucking vagina down there?”
Steel trembled against his forehead, and he prayed for Doc to squeeze the trigger. He almost reached up and pulled it himself. His lids lowered, palms open at his sides, as though ascending to the heavens above.
Do it. I’m ready to see Natalee. Karla. The way they used to be. I’m ready to be a family again. Please, pull it. I want to go home.
David no longer felt the kiss of metal against his forehead.
Did he do it? Was that it? Was it that painless? That quick?
“No.”
David opened his eyes. Doc was still standing in front of him; El Jefe dangled at his side.
“What?” David asked.
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re not getting off that easily.”
“I don’t know how much more easy I can make it for you.”
“I’ve got one more present for you. One I’m sure you’ll love.”
David’s mouth went dry, his throat clogged with sand.
A smile returned to Doc’s face. “I know you read my last note. You know there’s one more box.”
Doc was determined to make David’s last minutes on this earth as miserable as he possibly could.
“Santa Claus is coming… to town…” Doc sang.
David dropped to his knees, and retched.
* * *
Like June bugs to a light bulb. It was a common saying in the South, to be sure. At least in the Morris household it was. David’s father used the expression often. But that was the only way David knew to describe what he was seeing as he watched the shufflers move toward the fire.
Doc didn’t even take the time to dispatch them, in too much of a hurry to get to where they were going. Simply weaved around them like a skier through slalom cones.
David and Doc negotiated the field within two or three minutes, pressing toward the tree line and the barbed wire fence. Only God, the devil, and Doc knew for sure what was waiting there for David. Based on the last little rhyme, he suspected Natalee’s head in a box. How he wished Doc had pulled the trigger and sent him somewhere else.
Behind them, the Alamo’s roof spit flames and black smoke at the night sky. It wouldn’t be long until the facility—and everything in it—succumbed. David thought it would be appropriate to cry, but he just didn’t have it in him.
In almost no time, and with some fancy footwork, he and Doc reached the barbed wire fence separating the field from the forest.
“You first,” Doc said.
David just stood there, eyeing the toothy wire gleaming in the moon’s rays and growing glow of the distant inferno. He could almost feel the fire’s breath on his neck.
“You took Kate from me,” Doc said, a quiet quake in his voice. “You took Bertha. You took Bessie. You can take no more from me.”
“You’re right,” David said. “Because you have no soul to take.”
The explosion across David’s vision nauseated him, and he dropped to his knees, his hands clutching the wobbly fence wire and holding on for dear life. Doc had again used the butt of David’s own gun against him, cracking the back of his skull. He glimpsed the sky, cursing unwanted tears streaming down his face. But he quickly realized they weren’t tears he was cursing, but the blood from the fresh gash in his forehead, courtesy of the barbed wire he’d snagged on his way to his knees.
“Move.”
David coughed, heaved.
“I said move, goddamnit.” Doc kicked his back again, and David gritted his teeth in pain as he hit the wire like a pro-wrestler thrown into the ropes. His body was shutting down, wanting no more.
“You ain’t getting off that easy,” Doc said.
With everything he had, David pressed to his feet, and slipped through the fence, barbs catching his clothing, ripping his shirt and jeans. And skin. Tripping over the bottom wire, he rolled onto the path, ended up on his back. High above him, the susurrus of the gossiping leaves could barely be heard over the roaring blaze across the way.
Doc followed, his long coat catching in the wire’s teeth.
Now’s your chance. Jump him. Attack him. Kill him.
But Doc was too quick, freeing himself before David could even sit up. Again, David found himself on the wrong end of his own Walther P38 pistol.
“Up.”
Before plunging into the inky blackness, David glanced one last time at t
he Alamo. The flames licked heaven’s pearly gates, the vast grassland alight in the orange glow. An inordinate number of shufflers were emerging and pressing toward the inferno. But strangely, most were originating from the east, and heading west.
Just like that night out on Highway 204… the pasture at Mitch’s place… going west… why west? The fire, of course. But there are almost none coming from the west, only toward the west…
He’d picked a poor time to deliberate such trivial things, as substantial or significant as they may actually be. He wouldn’t live long enough to care.
Hell, maybe I’ll be joining them by the morning’s end… Time for a stroll. I hear it’s gorgeous out west. Let’s head west!
Doc shoved David’s shoulder, and he stumbled toward the gaping darkness. David couldn’t see very far down the trail, the foliage and blackness swallowing the parts of the path not glowing orange.
But Doc remedied that right quick. Over David’s shoulder, a brilliant white light kicked on like some superhero sky signal, a light so bright, the edges glowed blue. His own shadow walked before him, leading him. Betraying him.
Death this way, just follow me. If you dare.
He was walking death row again, heading down that final stretch. Not that he’d ever been given a reprieve…
Ahead, two shufflers ambled toward them, effectively blocking the way. David didn’t stop or hesitate. He kept right on walking, feeling no fear, inviting their bites.
But Doc would not let that happen.
David jerked at the concussion from the gun’s blast and the bullet’s breath as it screamed by his ear. Ten feet away, the lead shuffler crumpled in a heap to the trail. A second later, another blast, another downed shuffler.
Stepping over the bodies, David tripped, the light and shadow lying to his eyes. He plowed into the path like a baseball player sliding into home plate, the dirt and rocks biting his palms, his chin, his chest. That was it. He was done. Doc could just shoot him right where he lay.
“Up.”
David didn’t move. Doc kicked his heel.
“Up.”
David exhaled heavily, the dirt and dust blowing back onto his bloody face, where it stuck like dull glitter in glue.
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Page 27