Dead South Rising (Book 1)

by Sean Robert Lang

  “How soon?”

  Randy thought for a moment, then said, “Three days, maybe. That is if she stays in bed and lets the Levaquin work.”

  His pudgy face was already an unhealthy red, and he tugged his handkerchief to dry his face and neck. Tucking it back into his pants, he added, “Plus, it was such a stressful morning with Mitch running off, you running after him, those other two”—he lowered his voice—“idiots showing up. That asshole on the radio claiming you and Mitch were dead … It’s no wonder she fell out.”

  Curiosity lit David’s face. He’d already forgotten about the man on the CB. “What was that all about?”

  Randy filled him in as best he could, trying to recall all the little details like the heavy southern accent, odd pronunciations, and the fact that the man knew David’s last name.

  David listened quietly, then said, “He knew my last name?”

  “Yep. According to her, said your last name was Morris, past tense, as in rest-in-peace past tense.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how. Maybe I missed that part. We can ask her when she wakes up.”

  Waving away more flies, David said, “I don’t want to upset her, okay? Let me talk to her about it.”

  Randy nodded. “Okay.” He wiped his glasses best he could, then waved toward the festering flesh before them. “What about all this?”

  “I was hoping to leave tonight, find somewhere else to stay for a while.” He breathed a heavy sigh. “But if we can’t leave for a few days …” He shook his head “Can’t leave them here. I mean the smell alone will get too bad and we risk getting sick ourselves with whatever’s causing this.”

  “Stack ‘em and burn ‘em?”

  “Away from here.” He lifted his arm. “Over there, near the tree line.”

  David read the dread on Randy’s face, so he added, “Later, when it cools off a bit. Too hot right now. Wouldn’t be smart, anyway, in the heat of the day.”

  Randy seemed to relax a little. When the shufflers first started ambling onto the property almost a month ago, only one or two showed up at a time, and not every day. Usually, one of them—Mitch, Randy, or David—would simply bury the hapless wandering corpse in a shallow grave near the tree line, away from the house. Randy even suggested marking the graves so that when the whole thing blew over, the bodies could be exhumed and given rightful funerals.

  But the whole thing didn’t blow over in a few days, or even a few weeks. Showed no signs of getting better. Only worse.

  “You going back out?” Randy asked.

  David shook his head. “No. Not with those two here … Jessica so sick … Bryan. If something happened while I was out …”

  “I could keep an eye on ‘em.”

  “No,” David said, nodding toward the fetid pile. “Based on how efficiently they took down this pack … If things went south … two against one? I don’t think that’d be smart. Can’t risk it.”

  They heard footsteps behind them.

  “You schoolgirls done making out back here?” Sammy chuckled as Guillermo sidled up next to him.

  David and Randy turned to face the two outlaws, nerves on high alert.

  Sammy’s chuckle died off, leaving his smug smile alive and well. “We, uh, need to borrow your wheels, compadre. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

  David said, “What about your own ride? I’m sure you can get whatever dragged you out here to drag you back out. Compadre.”

  Another chuckle spilled over Sammy’s lips. “Well, you see, that’s where we have a problem.” He turned to Gills. “Ain’t that right, Gills? Ain’t that where we have a problem?”

  “Sí. Gran problema.”

  “You see,” Sammy said, “we broke down, oh, ‘bout ten miles from here. Had to hoof it the rest of the way—”

  Gills broke in, tapping a non-existent wristwatch. “And we’re on a time schedule.”

  “That’s right.” Sammy jabbed a thumb at his buddy. “A time schedule. Places to be, people to see. You know the drill. So, you, uh, let us use your fine ride out front, we can go look for Mitch, get what we need, be on our way.”

  “Comprende?” Gills said.

  David beat back another torrent of anger. Anger at these two strangers. Anger at their audacity. Anger at their attempts to emasculate him and Randy. Anger that a UTI had thwarted his plans to leave. Anger at having to kill a little boy’s dead grandpa—again. Anger at the rancor seething inside him. Anger at himself for barely being able to contain it.

  And anger was the firing pin for his impulsivity. Once anger took hold, thought followed action. A fatal flaw understood, but oft ignored. Working on it would require a concerted effort. But why spend an inordinate amount of time and energy fixing something that ain’t broke?

  He didn’t want to give up the truck, wouldn’t give up the truck. He had plans for it, their ark. Their way out. He was sure that these two with their less-than-savory intentions would further ruin his ambitions.

  David glimpsed Randy blinking sweat out of his eyes, desperately avoiding any moves that could incite another slaughter.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to find other means of transportation, fellas.” David narrowed his eyes at the men, corners of his mouth turned down. With the sun behind him, he held a slight tactical advantage.

  Sammy tightened his lips, shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that, Dave. That’s not the answer me and Gills was looking for.”

  Gills’ hands slipped behind him to the small of his back, palms on the grips of his twin pistols, his non-verbal retort.

  Randy said, “David, maybe we can just let—”

  “The truck stays,” David said flatly, crossing his arms so that his right hand dangled inconspicuously close to the gun on his left hip.

  Sammy shook his head, clucking his tongue. “David, David, David.” He splayed his fingers on his own chest, smiled wider. “It’s my fault. I take full responsibility for failing to be clear. My fault.” He cleared this throat, but the rasp remained. “What I meant to say was: we are taking your truck. We are not asking your permission—”

  Sammy’s eyes crossed, focused on the black Walther P38 pistol pressed to his forehead. Sun in his eyes, the draw was a blur, never saw it coming. He stumbled backward slightly when it happened, the barrel following, bolted to his skull.

  “Pull those pistols,” David said to Guillermo, “and he dies. Then you die. Simple as that. You may get a shot off. You may kill me. But not before I make you as dead as these rotting fucks behind me. Get it?”

  David swore he could hear the squeak of Sammy’s jaw when it dropped.

  The hammer of his anger had fired a bullet of impulsivity. No going back. No undoing the undoable. David intrinsically knew he’d just whacked the hornet’s nest with a baseball bat, feeding the growing glut of peril this new world doled out by the truckload. But he just couldn’t stop himself. Something snapped inside of him that morning, standing up to Mitch, killing his first shuffler. Saving the boy. And it both scared him and exhilarated him.

  Sammy found it difficult to say anything, his mouth moving like a fish out of water, gasping for air. David hoped Sammy would piss himself.

  “Randy.”

  The big man stood motionless, gawking.

  “Randy!”

  Snapping out of his trance, he said, “Yeah.”

  David nodded at Sammy’s holster. “His gun.”

  Randy shot David a questioning look, asking, you sure about this? David nodded again, more forcefully.

  The big man shuffled forward, gingerly pinched the weapon, lifting it out of the holster like a prize crane lifting that elusive stuffed animal, then handed it to David. David motioned toward Guillermo. “His, too.”

  Gills frowned a frown so deep it followed the extreme contours of his fu-manchu. There was a rumble in his throat as Randy reluctantly relieved him of the shiny 1911s. The big guy acted like Gills might bite him.

  Randy stepped back, holding both guns like rats by their tails.


  David nodded at Gills. “Train those on Mr. Personality there,” he commanded, his own P38 still kissing Sammy’s forehead. The heavily tattooed man growled again.

  “Now drop your belts,” David said.

  The two outlaws glanced at each other, then at David, eyes blazing with defiance.

  “I said, drop them. Then kick them over.” David thumbed back the hammer on Sammy’s Smith and Wesson, punctuating his orders.

  With lips twisted and teeth grinding, the men unclasped their gun belts, letting the leather (along with their knives and bullets) tumble to the dirt. Then half-heartedly kicked them away.

  “Nice pieces,” David said.

  The banditos just stared at him.

  David dipped his chin toward Randy, who clutched Guillermo’s Colts with unsteady hands. The chrome shone nicely in the early evening sun. “Mother of pearl grips?”

  Gills shot him a look that screamed, fuck you. Then he said it.

  David clucked his tongue, shook his head. “Now Gills—can I call you Gills?—that’s not how your mother taught you to acknowledge a compliment.” He glimpsed the Latino’s guns again. “You do have nice taste in weapons.” David twisted his own pistol against Sammy’s head. “Me? I’m partial to black. Always thought all that shiny chrome was so … gaudy, you know? And this”—he twisted and shook Sammy’s revolver—“all shiny and big? Well, I think we all know what Sammy boy here’s trying to compensate for, don’t we?” David smiled his widest smile since the apocalypse started. “Don’t we, Gills?”

  Stammering, Sammy said, “Now … now what? What are … you gonna do … huh?”

  David’s face tightened, lips thinned into a furious frown. His eyes narrowed, glowed with rage. Like some pissed-off bull about to gorge a matador, he snorted, lowering his head. Then he dragged the barrel across Sammy’s forehead. And fired.

  Chapter 11

  Sammy Thompson collapsed to his knees with a girlish scream, hand to his head, patting, searching desperately for a wound. For blood.

  Behind him, across the yard, a shuffler crumpled to the ground in a heap.

  David fired again. And again. Again. Five shots. Two shufflers. He trained the weapon back on Sammy.

  The man on his knees held a hand to his ear, the other like a white flag waving in surrender. “Are you fucking crazy?” His contorted face reeked of pain and terror.

  The other two men just stood there, shocked, neither realizing the deadly danger prowling the yard.

  “Just grazed it,” David said, nonchalantly. “Didn’t even knock your hat off.” The exponential aplomb coursing though him seemed to gush like a busted water main. Never-ending. He couldn’t stop it. Didn’t want to stop it.

  “What? Can’t fucking hear you!” Mitch’s brother rocked on his knees. “Shit!”

  David shook his head and tucked Sammy’s gun into his waistband. He held up his free hand, pinching his forefinger and thumb almost together. “Like I said, trying to compensate.”

  “Fucking pendejo! You could have killed him!” Gills muttered something else in Spanish, looking behind him at the downed corpses.

  Sammy pulled his hand away from his head, looked at the blood streaking down his palm and forearm, then quickly replaced it. “Fuck! You asshole!”

  David cocked his head. “Now Sammy, do you kiss Gills with that mouth? I’ve got some soap inside—”

  “Fuck you,” Gills said.

  Nodding, David said, “Okay, fine.” He looked around. “You’re right. Enough of this howdy-doody bullshit.” He waved his pistol at Gills. “On your knees. You know, like you do when you’re sucking his—”

  Randy hooked David’s arm. “David, do you really think—”

  David yanked his arm from Randy’s grip, stared him down. “You just keep those hand cannons on them.” Then, loud enough for at least Gills to hear, “They give you any trouble, you know what to do. I’ll be right back. Gonna grab something to tie these two up with.”

  The proud Latino stood his ground, refusing to kneel.

  David brought his Walther to Gills’ head, and the man acquiesced with gritting teeth and a growl.

  Staring up at David, he said, “You’re as dead as these dead cannibals walking around. You got nothing alive inside you.” Nodding at the firearm, he added, “Without that gun, you ain’t nothing.” He spit a wad near David’s feet. “Ain’t nothing.”

  David twisted the gun, studying the side of it. “You’re Mexican, right?”

  Gills said nothing.

  David continued, “So you can read Spanish, right?” He held the side of the gun to Guillermo. “What does that say?”

  Silence.

  “Oh, come on, Gills. Tell me what it says there on the slide.” He pointed to where he was referring to. “You know what that says? El Jefe. Know what that means?”

  Silence.

  “Of course you do. But just in case you’re of the illiterate type, it means I’m the boss. The chief. The head honcho. What I say, goes. I’m in fucking charge.”

  Sammy chimed in. “That gun don’t make you—”

  David spun and Sammy flinched.

  Randy tried interjecting again, “David, listen, what are we gonna do with them? I mean, this is getting out of hand—”

  “You leave that to me, okay? Just keep those guns on ‘em.” He started to walk back to the front, then turned and added, “And be sure Jessica and Bryan are ready to go by tonight, okay, Randy?”

  “But Jessica—”

  “Randy—” David glared again, and like a child told to go to his room, Randy dipped his head and said no more.

  * * *

  As David rounded the corner, his knees went numb. Something caught in his throat and flashes streaked across his vision. He brought the back of his wrist to his forehead, feeling for fever. Then a shudder, an uncontrollable rattle that shook every inch of him. The reality of what he’d just done hit him like a runaway semi.

  The weeds and grass grabbed at his ankles, challenging his every step. His Walther P38 dangled impotently at his side, could barely feel it in his grip. He’d knocked over the first domino that morning putting Mitch in his place and taking down Old Man Bartlett. And now, the next had fallen. More would fall. It was inevitable, nothing he could do to stop it. The laws of physics, of nature, dictated this simple truth. He’d resisted, tried to stop the toppling, but only succeeded in knocking down more towering rows in every direction. And now he would have to slog endlessly through a thickening mire to avoid dying under the imposing weight of an errant fall, crushing him.

  Years ago, he’d given up drinking but he swore he was sweating scotch, could practically taste it on his upper lip. He’d done it for Natalee, given up drinking, before their daughter Karla could understand that daddy had a family-wrecking vice. Having conquered his own demons of the drink, he’d grown impatient and intolerant of those who couldn’t. Mitch, for instance. He’d quickly forgotten his own struggles, seeing weakness in others. But even as strong as he’d just been in the back yard, he was weak. He could use that drink now. Damn Mitch for finishing the last of the whiskey.

  David rounded the front of the house, approached the steps, began to climb. And stopped. “Hey there, Bryan.” He tried to sound like nothing was wrong, that everything was business as usual. Nothing to worry about. But the tremor in his tone belied his reassuring smile.

  Bryan looked on him, curious eyes big and innocent. His gaze fell to the gun clutched at David’s side, then met the man’s gaze head-on.

  David glanced at the weapon, a prick of guilt tugging his lips back to earth. “It’s okay, Bryan. Everything’s okay.”

  “I heard a loud noise.” He seemed concerned.

  “I’m sorry. I know you were taking a nap. Didn’t mean to wake you and Charlie up.”

  “Did you kill somebody?”

  The blunt force of the question almost knocked David from the steps and back into the yard. He clenched his teeth hard, fighting his gut’s order to dispel
their contents all over the steps. Bryan had asked the question so benignly, like he was simply asking if he could go outside and play after he’d finished his homework. David never in his life had been asked such a question. Day twenty-two was a day of many firsts, a day of no turning back, a glimpse into what he had to look forward to.

  “What? No, of course not, Bryan.” He was finding it more difficult to stand up to this little boy than to the thugs behind the house.

  Bryan lifted a finger toward the edge of the yard, just at the corner. “What happened to him?”

  David glanced over his shoulder to see what Bryan was talking about. He could just barely make out the shuffler he shot moments ago, now partially obscured by the tall yellowing grass. He turned back to the boy, moved up another step, then crouched so he could be eye to eye with Bryan. After tucking his gun into its holster, he reached out, squeezed the boys arms. He felt like he did the day he gave Karla the dreaded ‘birds and bees’ speech.

  David took a deep breath and said, “Bryan, things ain’t the way they used to be. People get sick and don’t always get better.”

  “Like my grandpa?”

  David paused. “Yes, Bryan. Like your grandpa.”

  The boy regarded David for a moment, then said, “Did you kill my grandpa? To make him better?”

  He stared at Bryan, grappling for the right words, the right answer. He wanted Bryan to trust him, not fear him. “No, Bryan, I didn’t kill your grandpa. But I did help him get better.”

  “Am I going to get sick? Like my grandpa?”

  “No, Bryan. I’ll make sure you don’t get sick.”

  Scratching his chin, the boy asked, “If I do, will you make me better, too?”

  David blinked back the salty blur encroaching on his vision, and hugged Bryan. The lump in his throat clogged his words. Finally he said, “You won’t get sick, Bry. I promise.” Hugging the boy tighter, he added, “I won’t let you get sick.”

  “I believe you, David.”

  “Good. That’s good, Bry,” David said, voice cracking. “You can trust me.” You can even call me, dad, if you’d like.