Finally, he came to a less dense section of forest, felt like he could breathe again. He’d left the truck’s flashlight behind to avoid the temptation to use it and possibly give away his location. No telling how many Doc Hollidays were roaming these woods. Plus, his eyes were well adjusted now to the inky blackness. Using the light would only serve to handicap his irises, confusing and overworking them unnecessarily.
Then he did something dangerous. He started ruminating on the future and his place in it, with his new family. In a positive light. They could settle down, start a new community with like-minded folks. Maybe seed a new town. Maybe save the human race. Maybe. Just maybe …
Gotta have a plan. A plan of protection and hope. It could work. And it’d be the right thing to do …
The thought excited him, starting over like that. How many people really get to start over, really start over completely? They could have something good, and he could be the one to protect it. Give people hope. And life.
Which is why he was doing what he was doing.
David pressed on, the dense underbrush near impassable in spots, forcing him to wend his way, taking him off his literal straight and narrow. In some areas, he made himself skinny, moving sideways through the thicket. He kept his face protected, remembering a show he’d seen on TV about a careless fellow who ended up losing an eye to an errant branch. The man, lost for days in the wilderness, ended up with a nasty eye infection. Doctors couldn’t save his eye, and he’d barely survived the infection that spread to his brain. One of those one-in-a-million things. He’d be careful. He’d keep his eye, his brain, his life. He wasn’t done with them yet.
His internal clock ticked and tocked, and David started to wonder how long it had been since he’d left the truck. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Twenty-five, maybe? If it weren’t for the tenacious tangle of trees and bushes, he’d make much better time. But as he pushed forward, he realized the safety this wall of vegetation provided. He also began to understand why they’d been so safe at Mitch’s place, why they’d been almost immune to the initial influx of dead roamers. One had to have a working brain to navigate the challenging terrain. He figured that any shufflers that did break through managed to do so on dumb luck.
Despite the soothing sounds of an insect chorus and the smell of sweet honey suckles tickling his nostrils, he could make out the occasional groan and fetor drifting among the pines. He decided to veer slightly off track to avoid coming near the thing. Living flesh, he’d discovered, roused and excited them. Newly killed flesh interested them for a day or so. The more it decayed, though, the less interested these shuffling corpses became in a free meal. It was like they could smell death, too. Knew it was one of them. So, they didn’t bother it, usually left it alone.
Finally, just ahead, he thought he could make out the field. He couldn’t quite tell since he was still several yards away from the edge, but he could feel it, sense it. He slowed, taking special care with each foot placement. This was not the time to get sloppy and careless.
He rather wished that he’d grabbed the two-way radio out of the rental when he’d had the chance. He could update Randy, let him know his progress, his findings. But the units were noisy with beeps and static. Using them would draw unwanted attention for sure. He was not interested in broadcasting his location to every living and dead thing out there. He preferred his invisible man approach.
Brushing back a branch, he looked out on a wide-open pasture washed in dim moonlight. His eyes roved, working to determine his whereabouts, figure out just how far off course he’d wandered.
Out in the open, shadows moved. Shufflers. He was sure of it, could practically taste the rancid stench on the air. He counted six, though they were so far away they seemed to fade in and out. He narrowed his eyes, hoping that doing so would allow his vision to cut through the black. He still counted six, but he just couldn’t be certain.
He continued to scan the field until his gaze fell on a patch of trees.
There you are.
Emerging from the tree line, he realized he was maybe a couple of football fields west of where he intended. Not bad considering his weaving course. His confidence climbed. So far, so good.
Let’s make this quick.
He hinged his torso and bent his knees as he set off slinking across the field, though an unshakeable dread punctured his short-lived zeal, sending it flittering and sputtering like a pin-pricked balloon. The thought of facing Sammy and Guillermo again, after what he’d sentenced them to, shredded his insides. He actually felt ill, burning bile filling his throat. He needed to grow a thick skin and quick. He anticipated these men would be most unkind, to put it mildly.
David squeezed the P38 handle hard, flexing his fingers over and over, hoping he wouldn’t need to use the pistol. Though he couldn’t be seen easily, he stayed hunched over, his knees bent while moving across the field, slow and steady steps propelling him ever-forward. He ignored the dead roaming around him. They were too far off to be a worry right now. But he did notice that they seemed to be heading the same direction: west. Away from the trailer house and away from the island of trees.
* * *
David froze. The dead ignoring the tree could only mean that Sammy and Guillermo had escaped. Or, that the dead had gotten to them, had their fill, and were moving on. But with the metal fence wrapped around the two men, he doubted the latter, betting on the former.
He considered turning around right then and there, heading straight back the way he came. No point in endangering himself needlessly. Especially not for Sammy and Gills. Randy, Bryan, Jessica—they all needed him. He wondered if they could make it without him.
Obvious clues couldn’t be ignored, though. The shufflers passing the trees, heading away from the direction of the trailer for one. They weren’t exactly known to pass up a free meal. No shouts or screams from the prisoners. Something else was attracting them. Something alive.
Mitch, of course. He credited Mitch with freeing the outlaws. That scenario made the most sense, especially since Mitch was headed that way when David and company had tore out of there in the Dodge. David could practically see it go down in his mind: Mitch blowing the padlocks off the chain-link with his Mossberg, easily removing the cuffs using the spring-levers. Those were Mitch and Jessica’s cuffs, after all.
No, they’d been freed a long time ago. Should have known better. Listened to his gut. Now, they’d lost time. And an even worse realization hit him.
I just put everyone in terrible danger.
A multitude of horrible scenarios played out right in front of him. While he was distracted, snooping through the woods on a fool’s errand, Mitch, Sammy, and Gills were making mincemeat of his friends and family. They could be at the truck now for all he knew.
Calm down. That’s just your mind running away from you. With you.
Legs wobbly, he felt faint. He actually heaved, slapping his free hand over his mouth to shut himself up.
Check the tree. Just check the goddamn tree. If they ain’t there, your hands are clean. Now get a move on, get back to the truck before they beat you there.
Mustering everything he had, he put one foot in front of the other, slowly at first, then sped up to a jog. He didn’t care about attracting attention from the shufflers at this point. They seemed pretty dead set on making it to wherever they were going. David had been right all along. They weren’t safe there. He wasn’t sure where the wandering corpses were coming from, what was attracting them exactly, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the group would have to leave.
Up yours, Mitchy-boy. Told ya so.
At a near gallop, he rounded the pond, passing trees and an ambling shuffler, until finally he was back at the origin of his guilt.
The rotten air stung his eyes, and he pinched his nose shut, turning his back on the scene. Digestive juices knocked on the roof of his mouth, wanting to come out and play all over the ground. He didn’t fight it.
After a minute or two of ac
climation, he finally faced the mess he’d helped make.
He noticed the pig right away. Or rather what was left of it. It wasn’t quite picked clean, but he could make out bone. Lots of it. It caught the moonlight, glowed like those posable Halloween skeletons hung on classroom doors year after year.
What really surprised him, though, was the sheer number of bodies around the carcass. Had they attacked one another in a feeding frenzy? Did Mitch make it in time and blast all of them away? Did Sammy and Gills do this? He let his gaze drift to the tree, to where it had wanted to go while he was studying the pig.
As he suspected, no Sammy and no Gills—gone. With trepidation, he approached the makeshift prison, stepping around bodies, slipping on flesh—almost took a blood-and-mud bath—while trying to make out what he could in the scarce light. The section of chain-link lay useless on the ground near the trunk. He circled the tree, running his fingers along the bark, finding what he believed to be gunfire-induced trauma. He found the same thing on the other side. There was blood on the bark, too. Sticky and thick. And down by the roots, cigarette butts.
Outside help. They were freed. Mitch had blown the cuff chains apart. But why the cuff chains?
The blood and singed flesh on the tree, one side in particular, caused him to question his original theory, that both men had gotten away. Maybe one of them was bitten. Maybe both of them. Maybe they’d escaped, but not as alive as David had originally thought.
Welcome to the army of the dead, maggots. I don’t know what I been told, but there’s no way that I’ll grow old.
David scratched the backs of his fingers with his stubbled cheek. Then he spotted a couple of cuffs on the ground near the base of the tree.
Whatever happened here—whether the devil’s doing or not—was done. Nothing he could do about it. Time to get back to what really mattered—his new family. He couldn’t make the same mistakes he’d made with his first one. He promised himself, once he got back, no more foolish endeavors. He would drive them far away from here, somewhere Mitch couldn’t find them. Somewhere Sammy and Gills couldn’t find them. Somewhere they could start over anew, launch that community he’d thought about during his trek over here. A sanctuary where Bryan and Charlie could play without worry or concern.
You did what you could, Dave. You cleared your conscience—somewhat. Good for you. Time to get back, now. Pronto.
One of the dead roamers was headed straight for him, had turned around from its original course westward. Fortunately, David was paying attention. He holstered his pistol, then pulled his knife. He could probably leave the thing be, slow as it was, but he didn’t want it following him. Besides, he’d quickly come to realize it was more humane and kind to just end the misery.
Hypocrite.
He’d heard Mitch say something about trapped souls during one of his drunken tirades, which was why Mitch didn’t have any qualms about putting them down. Randy thought they were just ill, until he got up close and personal with one. Changed his tune right quick. Ascribed to Mitch’s beliefs seconds after narrowly escaping from one.
Anxious to get back, David decided to meet the thing half-way. He couldn’t believe he was actually strolling toward one. How one day, one event, could change a person. He turned the knife in his hand so that he could get a nice horizontal swing out to his side, stay out of the splash zone.
He strode up to the shuffler, cognizant of the corpses underfoot, cocked his arm across his chest, butt of the handle at his shoulder. The corpse staggered toward him, oblivious that it was about to die for the second time. As soon as it was close enough, David’s arm triggered like a spring spear trap, the blade burying itself in the shuffler’s temple with ease. It was so easy. So damn easy.
But David’s stomach turned. The feeling, the sound … they reminded him of that oversized cockroach that was especially juicy when stepped on, brimming with unidentified juices. One big puss ball. Could feel it through the soles of shoes. A shiver went through him, and he wanted to throw up again. It was such a completely different experience from Old Man Bartlett, his first kill that morning. That one had been so … cathartic. Maybe it was the circumstances at the time. If it had gone this way with Bartlett, he’d have given up all hope for sure.
The creature slumped to the ground, falling on top of another body. David tugged the knife out of its skull as its body succumbed to the whims of gravity. He stood there, watching and listening, whatever life essence remained draining from the thing through the hole in its head. He took a step back in an effort to avoid the foul-smelling ooze.
He needed to get moving. Curiosity satiated, he questioned the worth and risk of traipsing out here. Unfortunately, more questions than answers saddled his spinning mind. He’d done what he felt was the right thing, even if things didn’t turn out like he had hoped. But at least he could say he tried. He attempted to undo a wrong. And that’s all he could do.
Time to get going. As he leaned over to wipe the blood from his blade, something caught his eye. Or rather someone.
Oh my god.
Mitch stared up at him with one cloudy and lifeless eye, a grotesque pearl catching the crescent moon’s rays. Half his face was gone, a mangled mess of meat, but enough remained to identify … his remains. His right shoulder was a glistening crater, and David endeavored to stave off another round of crippling nausea.
He was shaking so badly, staring down at this man who had ignited such fury in him, who David had wanted to kill that very morning. He should have been relieved, happy even, that Karma had done the dirty work for him. He should have been.
Crouching beside the body, he reached out, needing to touch Mitch, be sure he was real. He got his answer. A mirage, this was not. No figment of his imagination. Mitch was dead. Stone … cold … dead.
A whole new round of questions now consumed him. At the forefront—just what the hell happened here? He lifted Mitch’s arms, checked his neck, his legs. No bites. None that he could make out, anyway. It appeared to David that Mitch died at the hands of the living. Unless the dead had recently learned to use firearms. Someone had shot Mitch. Twice.
He wondered who would have killed him. And why. Sammy or Guillermo had to be the culprits. Number one suspects. The South’s most wanted. They were the only other two, that he knew of, that could have done it. Maybe Mitch was bitten and Sammy put him down to spare him a rotting, listless afterlife. A bit of brotherly mercy. That made the most sense to David.
He shook his head with quick snaps, pushing back against the need to expel his insides again. It was all so overwhelming, trying to figure out what happened, the whens … whys. Regardless, it was done. And he needed to go.
Fuck it. Son of a bitch had it coming.
After wiping his blade on Mitch’s pant leg, he stood, scanning the ghostly field, planning his route out of there.
But a fusillade of gunshots up near the trailer changed his mind. He hit the ground as though he’d been struck by the barrage, and entrenched himself, hiding among the truly dead.
Chapter 18
Randy’s hand swallowed the Sig Sauer P238. As well it should. It was Jessica’s pistol, not meant for his meaty mitts. A gift from Mitch to his wife, the tiny handgun held six rounds and better fit Jessica’s petite hands. True to Mitch’s style and taste, it resembled something that should be mounted on a Harley—black handle and frame, chrome diamond-plate slide. Quite a beauty. And a reliable purveyor of defense if need be. In the right hands, of course.
The weapon was slippery in his grip, and he lifted his palm from the compact pistol residing on his thigh, wiping perspiration on his pants. Then he flipped the gun, rubbing it along his jeans to clear the moisture. He covered it again, holding it, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it on anything—dead or alive.
He hooked his collar, fanning himself. The night had cooled considerably, but his nerves radiated, lit like heating coils. Shortly after David had ventured into the woods, Randy cracked the truck windows. He hated to do it, but the
cab was so stuffy, like a sauna. Doing so allowed the slightest breeze to brush through the cab. Most often, it brought with it the fresh scent of honey suckle and pine. But every so often, he’d catch a whiff of something sinister. A smidgeon of inchoate death, not fully realized. Shufflers, as David had appropriately nicknamed them.
And along with the occasional roguish waft, a ghostly groan would tickle his fear, forcing his impatience to peak. How he wished David would hurry the hell up. He gripped the gun tighter, sweating all over it again. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Randy strained, listening, his imagination running the gamut of atrocities. Inside the cab, Jessica breathed deeply, steadily. Directly behind him, Bryan breathed more lightly, but just as steady. He couldn’t figure out how the boy could sleep in such times. He himself hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the whole living dead debacle had gone down. He wondered just how long he’d be able to keep this up. Always on other people about taking care of themselves, he should probably heed some of his own advice for a change.
He locked his lungs and listened, his ear pointed at the gap between the window and the frame. Dragging sounds. Another groan.
Where are they all coming from?
Just in the last ten minutes or so. The area seemed rife with shuffler activity. It was like they knew, were just waiting for David to leave the truck so they could make their move.
David’s gone, Randy. We’ve got you now. You’re going to pay for what you did to us.
He wanted nothing more than to start the truck and haul ass out of there. David would understand, wouldn’t he? David had told him if things got bad to take off, that he’d find them later. Randy held his spot, not moving. Still, he considered sliding over into the driver’s seat, to be ready, just in case. Always just in case. Should have learned to drive a standard when he had the chance because, well, just in case.
Dead South Rising (Book 1) Page 17