Dead South Rising (Book 1)

by Sean Robert Lang

  Stay tough, my Doc. Stay tough for me.

  I will. For you.

  He willed himself back to his feet. Then remembered: he had an audience. A live one.

  Tom gathered his wits about him, wiping away any straggling tears, composing himself. He’d question these two tied to the tree, and if they didn’t cooperate, then they’d suffer the same fate as Mr. Mitch Marcus Thompson over there.

  After a deep breath (although not necessarily refreshing one) he strolled over to the men bound to the tree. He holstered one of his pistols, keeping the other palmed. Flipping the loading gate, he began ejecting spent casings one at a time while eyeballing the curious scene.

  He’d not had the chance to survey in detail what he suspected was Mitch’s doing. He had to admit, it was quite the clever set up, though he wondered what these two had done to draw Mitch’s ire.

  “You fucking killed my brother.” The man’s voice shook.

  Tom stopped ejecting brass from Bertha long enough to twist his torso and look back at Mitch’s body. Facing the man again, he jerked his head at the body behind him. “Poor Mitch there?”

  This time, it was the gravelly voiced Mexican with his slicked-back inky hair pulled into a ponytail. “You gonna kill us, too, you sick fuck?”

  These two. Quite feisty given their current circumstances, Tom thought.

  He ejected the last of the brass and plucked eight shiny new bullets from his belt. “I’ll kindly ask that you not address me with such a vulgar moniker. It’s quite distasteful and not entirely accurate. Besides, it’d behoove you to be polite, seeing as your current predicament precludes you from living much longer without my assistance.” He started pushing ammo into his pistol, his eyes glancing up after each round inserted. Sounding chipper and lighthearted, he asked, “So, pray tell, what brings you two out here on such a glorious evening? One of you sleep with Mrs. Mitch? Both of you perhaps?”

  The redneck fellow answered. “He didn’t chain us up out here, dick. Some other assholes did.”

  Tom snapped the loading gate shut, spun the cylinder, then holstered the pistol. He went to work reloading the six-shooter next. “Oh? And here I thought I’d wandered into something truly decadent and tabloid-worthy.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Now, now. I’ve already covered verbal etiquette, gentlemen. Let’s not be ugly.”

  “If you’re going to kill us, gringo, just go ahead and—”

  The Latino’s friend interrupted, saying, “Now, hang on, Gills.” Narrowing his eyes at Tom, “What’s your name, fella?”

  Tom tipped his hat to the men. “Thomas Theodore Mackey, though I go by Doc Holliday these days.”

  “Uh-huh. Right. Doc.” He shook his head with a slight, disbelieving chuckle. “Anyway, Mr. Doc Holliday here seems like a reasonable fellow, right, Gills?”

  Gills said nothing.

  “Right, Gills?”

  A heavy sigh. “Sure, Sammy. Sure he is.”

  Sammy continued. “How ‘bout you, uh, get this fence off us, these cuffs, too, and we’ll hook you up with something real nice. What do you say, huh?”

  Tom finished plunging the last of the bullets into his gun. “I would advise against it at this juncture, Sammy.”

  Sammy chuckled. “And why is that, Doc?”

  “Because of him.” Tom dipped his chin at a biter just as it grabbed at Sammy’s back, its fingers clawing at the chain-link fence surrounding him. Sammy let out a surprised scream, hugged the tree harder.

  “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

  Tom spun the cylinder in Bessie before re-holstering the piece. He crossed his arms and said calmly during the commotion, “Now, I am inclined to help you two—”

  More screams, some from Gills this time.

  “—but I have a few questions for you first.”

  Sammy let out a scream that belied his gender.

  “Sammy? Sammy!” Tom waved and snapped his fingers. “Listen to me, Sammy. Eyes over here, on me. Focus.”

  Sammy dug his boots into the tree, fruitlessly trying to climb as the biter groped harmlessly at him through the wire fence that had been wrapped twice around the two men.

  “For Chrissake,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. He pulled his pistol as he walked up to the biter, raised it to the beast’s temple, and squeezed the trigger. The blast pounded its skull into a fine mist of blood and bone, with a few steaming chunks thrown in for good measure.

  Sammy closed his eyes hard against the spray, even though his back was to the calamity. He shivered, covered in the grotesque aftermath. He turned his head slowly to glimpse the damage. The biter did not fall to the ground, its fingers stuck in the fence like hooks. It hung there like some repulsive decoration.

  Shaking his head, Sammy said rather loudly, “Goddamnit. That’s the second time today someone’s shot a gun in my ear. Can’t hear a fucking goddamn thing.”

  “Then I’ll commence our earlier conversation with your friend, Gills. And you’re welcome,” Tom said. He walked around the tree, stopping beside Gills. “May I call you Gills? Or do you prefer another name?”

  Silence.

  Tom huffed and spun, his coat flaring, the gun in his hand slapping his thigh. “Gentlemen, you try my extremely limited patience. Without your cooperation, I cannot help you, and death is certain. Cooperate, and you have at least a fifty/fifty chance. Being a betting man myself, I’d select option two.”

  Silence. No eye contact.

  “Suit yourself gentlemen. I wish I could say that it’s been a pleasure.” He started walking away.

  A frustrated grunt, then, “Guillermo.”

  Tom stopped, his back still to Guillermo, and smiled like the devil. He turned around, and approached him again.

  “Pleasure, Guillermo.” Glimpsing the man’s heavily tattooed arms, he added, “Art lover, I see.”

  Gills glared at him. “You gonna fuck with us all night or get us off this motherfucking tree?”

  “Well, you see, that all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “One moment, Guillermo.” Tom cocked back the hammer on his Ruger.

  Guillermo’s eyes widened.

  Lifting his arm and aiming into the field beyond Guillermo, Tom fired another shot, bringing down a woman biter. He exhaled heavily, a frown touching his lips for only a moment.

  Eyeing the gun in his hand, he said, “These things are quite noisy, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Gills just nodded, his face a perennial frown.

  Tom slid the piece back into its leather home and touched his finger to his chin. “Obviously, we’re going to have to move things along here. Seems with all the ruckus tonight, we’ve inadvertently sounded the dinner bell.”

  “So what do you want, vato?”

  “Information, first and foremost.”

  “Then what?”

  “Depends on what information I acquire from you fine gentlemen.”

  Guillermo narrowed his eyes at Tom. “You gonna give us a fighting chance or shoot us in the backs?”

  “Guillermo,” Tom said, hurt in his tone. He splayed his fingers on his own chest. “Why do you gentlemen insist on stepping on my already bruised feelings?” He took a step back. “Okay, enough of the friendly talk. Here’s the deal, gentlemen. We’re going to play a quick round of twenty questions. You answer honestly, thoroughly, you just might come out on the right side of that fifty/fifty I just spoke of. Now, shall we?”

  Gills stared, mouth in a tight frown, fists balled and useless against the tree.

  Tom leaned around the tree. “You with us, Sammy? Ready to play?”

  Sammy had his forehead pressed against the tree, his eyes closed. “Let’s just get this over with already.”

  “I will waste as little of your time as possible, as I would expect you to not waste mine.” He stepped back again so that he could address both men, rested his palms on his pistols. “Do either of you own or drive a dually diesel pickup? One of prodigious stature?”
r />   “That puto that chained us to this fucking tree does.”

  “I see. And what is said puto’s name that placed you in your current predicament?”

  Sammy spoke up. “Asshole named David Morris.”

  “David Morris, you say.” The name resonated with Tom.

  David Morris. David Morris. Where did … yes! The car from this morning. The rental papers. David’s name was all over them. The lady on the two-way radio today, Mitch’s wife. She knew him, seemed very concerned for him …

  “And just who is this David Morris?”

  Sammy said, “You know my brother you just killed for no fucking reason? Mitch? His wife’s cousin. Fucker pulled a gun on me and Gills twice today. Him and his fat-ass friend. Cuffed us together against this tree and wrapped a goddamn fence around our asses.”

  “The fence was a nice touch. Spared you death by doing so, I’d venture to say,” Tom said. “Delightful cuffs, by the way.”

  Sammy huffed.

  “I digress. My apologies”

  “Anyway,” Sammy said, “Fuckers didn’t stop there. Kicked a dead pig out of the back of that truck of theirs, attracting the dead cannibals over here. Then threw the handcuff keys on it.”

  “How quaint. And where is this David and obese friend now?”

  Gills said, “Fuck if we know. We were too busy trying not to get eaten alive out here.”

  “Mitch was knocking the cannibals back, trying to save our asses, when we heard the truck take off,” said Sammy. “Next thing we know, you show up and start killing folks. Live ones.” He glared straight at Tom. “And I think we’re as good as dead when this little question and answer session is over.”

  Tom ignored the comment. “You say a friend helped him. What’s his name?”

  “Yeah. Randall or Randy or something like that.”

  “Mitch’s wife. What is her name?”

  Sammy rolled his forehead against the tree, tired of answering questions. “Look, Doc, we know you’re just going to kill us.”

  “Her name. Please.”

  A heavy sigh. “Jessica.”

  “Jessica …?”

  “Thompson. Jessica Thompson, Jessica Thompson, Jessica Thompson.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Tom thumbed the hammer on his revolver, the click a dreaded death sentence on the still air, and eyes went wide.

  “No! Wait! Doc! Look, we can work something out here—”

  Tom walked up to the tree, pressed the barrel through the chain-link, and fired.

  The handcuff chain shattered in a shower of sparks.

  He walked around to the other side of the tree. “Move your hand, Sammy. A little this way.” He nudged the man’s trembling hand out of the way with the barrel, and fired another round, separating the cuffs.

  The former prisoners hesitated before breathing sighs of relief.

  Sammy spoke first, “So … so you’re going to let us go?”

  Tom smiled. “Of course not, Sammy. I need you and Guillermo to identify Mr. David Morris, Randall, and the newly widowed Mrs. Jessica Thompson. I already know Bryan’s name. And what he looks like.”

  Another disquieting grin split his lips.

  Chapter 16

  Tom leaned his shoulder against the tree that Sammy and Gills had called home for a few terror-filled hours and watched the two men dig through the pile of putrid flesh. The occasional dry heave and cough interrupted grunts of disgust and profanity-laced muttering. He pulled in another drag off his favorite vice, holding it, relishing it, before exhaling deeply.

  He raised a limp forefinger and drawled, “Perhaps you should check over there.”

  Sammy, his hands on his knees and teetering, twisted his head to look back at Tom. He scowled, but bit back any verbal retort, attempting to show at least some semblance of gratitude toward the man who had opted not to kill him and Gills. At least not yet. Besides, the look said what was on his mind, anyway.

  Tom smiled, shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful, fellas.” He took another drag off his cigarette.

  Sammy stopped what he was doing and straightened. Parking his hands on his hips, he turned to face Tom, breathing heavy as if he’d just run a marathon. “If you wanted to be helpful, Doc, you could help us find the cuff keys.”

  Tom patted the pistol at his side, smiling. “Right here.”

  “Ha fucking ha.”

  Then Tom waved him over to the tree.

  On the other side of the pile, Gills stopped what he was doing and slowly straightened. He kept a wary eye on the two men, anticipating trouble.

  Sammy cocked his head, distrust radiating from his gaze.

  Tom held his hands out to his sides. “Now, Sammy. You can trust me. If I was going to kill you, I would have done it while you were the proverbial fish in the barrel.” He gave the trunk a good slap and grinned.

  Sighing, Sammy moved cautiously toward Tom. Upon reaching him, he stood tall, staring down the man who had freed him.

  “Nice hat,” Tom said.

  Silence.

  “Not as nice as mine, but nice nonetheless.”

  Silence. And a glare.

  Tom gestured him to come closer. “Let me see your wrist.”

  Hesitantly, Sammy obliged.

  A smirk and a snicker crossed Tom’s lips as he took Sammy’s wrist into his own hand. “I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Fuzzy and pink. How bawdy.”

  Sammy rolled his eyes and sighed. “You gonna wave your hand and magically make them drop—”

  The cuff clicked off and dropped to the ground.

  Sammy stared disbelievingly from his wrist, to the opened cuff, and back.

  “Your other wrist, please, sir.”

  Tom thumbed the release lever buried in the fur adorning the cuff. It sprang open. Holding the fuzzy shackle in front of Sammy, he smiled. “Problem solved. May we go now?”

  “How did you know?”

  “An educated guess.” He took a few steps toward the pasture, then stopped to light up again. Mumbling through the cigarette, he added, “Me and the missus enjoyed a little light-hearted subjugation in the bedroom now and again.” He pinched the cigarette, smiled wide, then plugged it between his teeth with a wink.

  It was a good show for Sammy and Gills, this extrusion of self-confidence and sangfroid. But inside, his rage seethed. Mentioning his wife equated to a boiling tsunami hitting the shore. He’d need to be careful with his thoughts and words.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you take an ‘educated guess’ sooner?” Sammy turned and started walking toward Gills. Pointing to his own wrist, he said, “Fucking lever, Gills. Under the fuzzy shit.”

  Gills just shook his head, muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

  “Gentlemen,” Tom said, motioning the way back to the house. “I must insist. Time’s a wasting.” There was a restlessness in his tone that he could not hide.

  Sammy started that direction, then stopped and stared down at his brother, chin in his hand.

  Tom observed him with great vigilance. He had, after all, just killed the man’s brother. He kept his hands on the butts of his pistols, fingers tapping anxiously, ready to draw the moment things went south. He was afraid that he’d end up killing the two men before they’d have the chance to help him visually identify his wife’s killers.

  Finally, Sammy said, “You know, it should have been me.” Now that he had his hat back, his face was hard to read, hiding in the brim’s shadow.

  But Tom could see the man’s jaw clenching. Something was going on inside him, and Tom needed to be sure he maintained control of the potentially volatile situation. He needed them. But they didn’t need him. Not any longer.

  At the risk of a scalding vilification from Sammy, Tom said, “I apologize. I was quite caught up in the moment, you see.”

  Sammy twisted his head, glared at Tom. “No, you ain’t hearing me.”

  Tom blinked at him. “Why, do tell. I’m all ears.”

&n
bsp; “It should have been me. I should have been the one to pull the trigger. It should have been me punching his ticket to hell.”

  Tom played his poker face, showing no surprise either way. But he had to admit, this newfound nugget of information intrigued him, could be an ace in the hole for him. He listened, despite near unbearable impatience to get moving.

  After a heavy sigh, Sammy said, “Me and Gills. Came here to finish a job.” He palmed his cowboy hat, placing it over his heart. “Poor Mitch was in over his head.”

  Gills sidled up to Sammy.

  Sam continued. “Thought I was doing him a favor, getting him involved with our … business … when his army career hit the shitter. But me and Gills, we work … worked … for some dangerous hombres down Rio Bravo way. Should have known better. Mitch got scared for his life. Didn’t know what to do … panicked. Took off with some merchandise he had no business taking off with.”

  Gills chimed in. “Hid it somewhere out here, on his place.”

  “Buried it, most likely.” Sammy replaced his hat to his balding head.

  Gills nodded at Sammy. “Yeah. Thought we wouldn’t track him down here. Gringo estúpido.”

  Sammy said, “We were on our way when this whole dead cannibal bullshit went down. Was near Corpus when a boatload of those undead fuckers sailed up on some cruise ship. Quite a sight, we was told.”

  Gills interjected, “Live ones trying to outrun ‘em.” His chuckle was like rock on rock. “Ain’t that hard, slow as those motherfuckers move.”

  Back to Sammy, “I think so many folks caught whatever’s going around because they underestimated the cannibals. Can outrun ‘em if you walk fast enough. But get in the middle of a pack … may as well call it a life.”

  Tom said, “Sounds as though I just saved you gentlemen some work.”

  Sammy looked at him. “Not so fast, Doc. We still don’t know where the merchandise is. I’d planned on killing him after we found out where it was. We think it’s out here somewhere.” He scanned the property. “But now thanks to you …”

  “Understood. Again, my apologies for prematurely offing your brother. Now I must insist—”