Dead South Rising: Book 1 (4 page)

“Damn it. Where’s he going?” David asked Randy, who stood where the Dodge used to.

“I’m sorry, David. I tried to stop him. He just yanked that dead shuffler out of the back and took off. Said he was going to town for supplies.”

David knew what that meant: booze, cigarettes, ammo … The Dodge was their only working vehicle since the rental died. And now, Mitch just made things personal, swiping David’s only means of searching for and rescuing his wife. Today could be the day, and Mitch, as usual, was fucking things up.

“Shit.” David spun, searching. His desperate eyes landed on Mitch’s Harley. Mitch’s very
loud
Harley. It was a work in progress, a parts project. Mitch dubbed it the ‘Franken-Harley.’ He had gotten it running just days before the world as they once knew it had ceased to exist. But just because it ran then didn’t mean it ran now. Fearful of drawing the wrong kind of attention, they left it alone, un-started and quiet.

In case of emergency, jump on bike, kill Mitch.

“… I think he’d been drinking,” Randy said. “Or at least his clothes smelled like it. Of course, Mitch always smells like beer. Breakfast of champions you know—”

“Where are the keys to the bike?”

“What?”

“The keys, Randy. To the Harley. Where are they?”

Randy jabbed a thumb toward the house. “Inside, I guess. But—”

David dashed up the steps.

“In the bowl on the bar, I believe, but it ain’t been started in—”

The screen door slammed shut behind him, and he grabbed at the bowl on the table. No keys. Just loose change, now worthless. His eyes darted over the counter, the bar top. He knocked papers, envelopes, and trinkets to the floor. He turned on his heel, eyes scouring the carpet, tables, walls. Near the door sat Mitch’s toolbox.

David crossed the room and flung the toolbox lid open and rummaged through tools and parts. “Ah,” he said to no one, dangling two small keys on a ‘Go Army’ keychain. “Gotcha.”

Jessica emerged from the hall. “What’s going on?”

He waved her off. “Things will be okay. Just going after Mitch, in case he needs help,” he lied.

Back outside, he rushed past Randy, who watched with concern.

“What are you doing?”

David threw a leg over the bike. “I’m going after him.”

“Why? Why not just wait until he comes back?”

Because, Randy, an opportunity to cure cancer has presented itself.

“Because it’s not safe to be out there by himself.” He slotted the key, pulled the choke.

“But you’ve gone everyday looking for Natalee—”

The engine coughed, sputtering a white cloud, not quite catching.

Now, he lied to himself. “I know how to handle myself out there, Randy.” He knew he’d been more lucky than anything. “Mitch has been holed up here.”

Another sputtering coughing fit and the engine ran for a few seconds before changing its mind.

“Mitch went with you on a few runs before.”

Clearly, Randy did not want to be left alone. With Jessica bedridden, protecting the homestead would be all on him.

David hesitated. His priorities had been first and foremost on his wife, then to protect Jessica. Maybe he needed to realize, to face facts, that his wife was truly gone.

Dead.

A new sense of logic and rationale pressed through his gray matter. He
was
protecting his wife and his cousin: by eliminating a
threat
. And that
threat
was getting away. An opportunity to rid their group of the malicious disease was slipping away.
 

“Which way, Randy?”

The fat man just stared at him, mouth agape.

David raised his voice, as if this would make the question clearer. “Which way? Which way did Mitch go? Toward Leeson or Jayville?”

“I … I’m not sure. He didn’t say which—”

Thumbing the start button, the V-twin whined an oscillating whine. It seemed like forever, like it would never catch, but then the pipes barked with vitality. The engine grasped and clawed at life as it lurched, sounding like it would die on the very next stroke. Or the next.

But it didn’t. The Franken-Harley vibrated, alive with vigor, and growing stronger. It began to run more steady, a consistent lope, and David eased the choke back into place. The bike held tough, undying.

He swept the kickstand up and out of the way, revved the throttle twice. The engine stumbled, but stayed alive. He blipped the throttle twice more before pulling in the clutch and engaging first gear. The bike jumped, throwing dirt against the feeble trailer house wall. The Franken-Harley fishtailed, but he wrangled the two-wheeled beast of a machine, aiming it down the drive.

Randy said something, yelled something, but David did not hear. Could not hear. Did not care to hear. He was on a mission. An important mission that Jessica would not approve of, though in time, she would understand. She would have to understand. He was doing this for them.

He started down the cratered driveway, bobbing and weaving to avoid a nasty spill. The grass had grown too tall to safely chance riding alongside it. There was no telling what awaited him, would knock him from his rumbling ride. Besides, limbs and branches protruded ahead, clawing at the path, and would knock him off anyway. He took it slow instead.

At the end of the drive, he stopped. His gaze scoured the area for a clue, a hint. He didn’t have to look long or hard. Mitch may as well have posted a sign that said,
I went that way
. Fresh ruts told on him. David knew exactly which way to go.

David had to slow down. He wasn’t sure how fast he was going, but surely bones weren’t meant to shake and shudder like this and still hold together. His eyes were tight slits, the rushing air sandblasting them into oblivion. From the corners of his eyes, tears streamed horizontally instead of vertically. His teeth chattered, but not because of temperature, while his ears rang and pleaded for mercy as the exhaust and roaring wind played a rock concert on his eardrums.

But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, to slow down. He had to catch Mitch, should have caught up to him by now. Hell, he should be rolled up into the bed of the truck. But he wasn’t. No sign of the thieving bastard.

He rolled on the throttle and the forks trembled, further numbing his arms, the burn in his neck on low heat. He still hadn’t recovered from his stunt driving the previous day.

What I wouldn’t give for a hot, steaming bath right—

The bike slipped, like he’d just rolled over a patch of slimy algae on that section of sidewalk that never dries. He tightened his grip, white-knuckling the handlebars. He managed to keep the Harley upright despite the rubber losing grip. Reluctantly, he eased off the gas, then braved a glance behind him. A shuffler. Or what was left of one. Fresh roadkill. Mitch must have plowed right over the guy—
thing
—without ever braking. And David had just ridden through part of the aftermath. Thankfully, he mostly missed the larger chunks, hitting only organs and such.

Got to pay attention. Watch the road. Or you’ll end up like John Doe back there. At least I’d know to look both ways before crossing—

He shook his head with quick snaps. A fresh kill.
 

That used to be a person back there. A
person
.

The dead walking. While not a new concept, it was a very new reality—to David, to the world. Unlike David, Mitch seemed right at home in this new paradoxical universe. To him, shooting shufflers was like plinking cans. It was natural, fun even. Like his favorite beer, Mitch was living the high life. For him,
these
were the good ‘ole days.

Wrenching the throttle, the bike spat an obnoxious noise. No telling how many of those … things … he’d attract with the racket. In his mind, he saw himself flying over the handlebars after hitting one, eating the blacktop, then exploding like a meat bomb. Game over. Shuffler—1, David—0. That’d be the final score. No best two-out-of-three in this league. All or nothing. Set, game, match. Thanks for playing.

Ante up, asshole. Not going to win in this world if you don’t.

Adrenaline surged, numbing him to dire possibilities and physical pain. He leaned into the wind, lowering himself closer to the tank, creating an aerodynamic advantage.

The road strobed randomly, rays of sunlight piercing through trees as he raced along. The fulgurant display mesmerized him, and ghosts of images danced on David’s vision, mixing up his sight. He blinked, as best he could, in the windy onslaught.
 

Mitch had messed up David’s day, his routine. His life.
 

A cauldron of hate stirred by a stick of passionate anger brewed inside him. If he couldn’t protect Natalee, he would protect Jessica, his blood. She would be his focus, his new reason for living. Surviving.
 

Then, up ahead, chugging black smoke.

His heart, already doing ninety-to-nothing, pounded harder, faster, anticipation kicking it over and over.

The Franken-Harley rattled so roughly when David twisted the throttle that he had no choice but to back off and relax his grip. He needed to reach Mitch in one piece. If David died later, so be it. But first, business to attend to. Important business. Life and death business.

David could taste the trail of diesel fumes now. Close and getting closer. He had endured a long and insufferable twenty-one days with Mitch, not to mention the years
before
the dead walked. The conversation with Jessica would be tough, but she would live. And she would come to realize it had to be done—today, on day twenty-two.

In front of him, the dually climbed the next hill, puffing clouds like a locomotive.
 

David started to wonder how to handle his self-imposed secret task. He didn’t really prepare at all. Wasn’t ready for a confrontation. He’d been so preoccupied with catching Mitch that he really hadn’t figured out what to do once he did.

Remove the cancerous tumor. That’s what you do.

He’d improvise. Just like at the office when computers broke down or employees called in sick. Devise an alternate strategy, obtain an alternate tool. Get the job done. No matter what.

David didn’t carry a gun, only the cheap hunting knife sheathed on his right hip. An
unused
hunting knife. A borrowed blade belonging to the man he intended to kill.

Kill.

He struggled to wrap his head around the idea. Best not to think too hard about it. Time to act, not think. He’d done enough thinking.
   

The Franken-Harley crept closer to the cresting monster truck. Surely Mitch could see him in the rearview mirrors, if he was even checking them. Given the sparsely populated area and lack of life, Mitch may not have bothered. Or cared. Why would he? Oblivious to David’s intentions, he’d keep right on trucking, being Mitch.

Still, David could lose the element of surprise. But perhaps surprise was a non-factor. He may not get along with the man, but Mitch trusted him, even if he didn’t respect or like him. Yes, maybe this would work out better, would make for a more believable scenario.

I’m so sorry, Jess. Mitch and I, we were rounding a corner, and out of nowhere, this shuffler (pause for dramatic effect) came at us (another pause). Mitch didn’t have a chance. (Wipe eyes) I tried, Jess. I really tried. I’m so, so sorry.

Sure, Jessica would fake toughness, refuse to cry. At first. Later, she’d blubber on and on about losing Mitch, but she’d live. Be alive. Recover. Survive. Then they could move on, find a safer spot. A new home. A home devoid of Mitch’s malignant memories. A new slice of paradise. A place that didn’t stink of booze and weed and tobacco. And death.

He rolled off the throttle and hung back.
 

* * *

David nearly missed the turnoff. Damn near rode right past it. Mitch wasn’t going to town, that much was clear. The question became: just where the hell was he going? David assumed, wrongfully so, that Mitch’s errand awaited him in Jayville. Booze, cigarettes—they’d be found there, if at all.

Within days of the shufflers showing up, those left living had taken and taken, until almost nothing remained. Residents and non-residents alike had pillaged and plundered the small town, stripping it clean to the bone. David should know. He’d taken a few things himself while looking for Natalee there day after day.

David braked and the back tire locked with a raspy squeal. He knew better than to release it at speed. A nasty spill during high school summer vacation had taught him that lesson. Laid him up for almost three weeks. Never again.

He finally came to a full stop just past the road Mitch had unexpectedly turned onto, then swung the Harley around. He revved it to keep it alive, the gait of the engine a terrible stumble. The idea of being stranded again worked his nerves and lit his fear. And he wanted to catch Mitch, end this
today
.

The country road just off highway 204 should not have been called a road. It more resembled an extra-large sidewalk in critical disrepair, more dirt and rock than original pavement remaining. He rolled the Fraken-Harley onto the side stretch, studying this potential trail. It was worse than the driveway to Mitch’s trailer house. After pulling in a deep breath, he moved forward, circumstances dictating action. And caution.