Read Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row Online
Authors: Sean Robert Lang
Tags: #Texas, #Thriller, #zombie, #United States, #apocalypse, #Horror, #Post-Apocalyptic, #Deep South, #Zombies, #suspense, #South
Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row
Part One - The Uninvited and The Unwelcome
The South is rising. Again…
Deep in the heart of a dying Texas is a place. A place that promises safety. Survival. Hope.
But this is no ordinary place. It’s a place where the dead want in, and the living want out.
Because after all, promises are made to be broken…
Welcome to the South. Where the dead are dangerous, and the living are deadly.
Be the first to hear about upcoming releases as well as exclusive offers available only to subscribers. I will not clog your inbox with crap, nor will I share your email with anyone... no matter how much they torture me.
Many thanks for signing up, and thanks for trusting me!
Website:
On Facebook:
www.facebook.com/seanrobertlang
On Twitter:
www.twitter.com/seanrobertlang1
This is a work of fiction. That’s right, I made it all up. All of the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed within are either products of my messed up imagination or are used fictitiously.
So relax. It ain’t real, folks.
Dead South Rising: Death Row (Book 2)
Copyright © 2014 by Shawn Langley
All rights reserved.
Sean Robert Lang
PO Box 312
Cushing, TX 75760
Book cover designed by Adrijus G. from Rocking Book Covers
For Cass. My everything.
PART ONE
The Uninvited and The Unwelcome
The smiling young boy sat at the unfinished pool’s edge, legs crossed beneath him. He gripped the stick tightly, playing tug of war with his decaying friends that roamed the smooth concrete below. He yanked hard and won yet another round. He was beginning to think he was invincible, unbeatable. And he was loving this game he seemed guaranteed to win.
But a growing frustration seeped into him, because not all of his ‘friends’ were getting to play, and that just wasn’t fair. If he was going to declare himself the tug-o-war champion, he had to beat
all
the players, not just the ones who kept offering to play with him. He did enjoy and appreciate their enthusiasm. They were more than willing to play, and many of them wanted to play at the same time.
“We’ve got to take turns. That’s how the game works,” he told the rotting, writhing mob below.
They answered with snapping jaws, hisses, and snarls. And groping hands. Strong hands. Still strong, even in death.
The boy stood easily, setting the stick down as he pressed to his feet. He brushed his hands together, then wiped them against the dirty denim that adorned his legs. He was eager to get back to his game, to include those who’d been left out.
But he’d been careless, left his stick hanging over the concrete’s tiled edge, and one of his overly eager friends grabbed it.
“Uh! No fair! No fair!”
The boy’s shoulders slumped in disappointment and defeat, and a frown dug its way deep into his face. How could he have let this happen? He couldn’t be champion this way.
He stomped his foot once. “Okay, give it back.”
Then he waited. But his friends continued to hog the stick, refusing to hand it back. They seemed happy being the champions.
He huffed. “I said give it back.” After another beat, he added, “Please? Please give it back.”
He waited, hoping they’d hear his desperate plea, hoping it would work just as well on his playmates as it had once worked on his parents. But they ignored his demand, instead groping at him as though
he
were the stick. To play with. To take.
The young child shrugged. “I don’t have one right here. I have to go get another one.” He sighed.
More hisses. More snarls. Growls.
He ignored these as he ignored the stench of death wafting from that putrid pit and focused on finding another stick. He wanted to continue his game, wanted to be a winner, not a loser. Can’t lose a game he made up. This was
his
game, a game
he
was supposed to win.
Looking around, he spotted no other sticks. This disappointed him, as he desperately wanted to get back to playing tug of war, not searching for another stick.
He almost said a bad word in front of his new friends. He was glad he didn’t, though, because they might tell on him. Didn’t want to get into trouble. He’d already promised the adults inside he wouldn’t play near the pool.
“I’m going to find another stick, okay?”
The decomposing group growled encouragingly.
Hurry back to us. Hurry back now. We’re not done playing with you, yet.
The boy rather wished one of his new friends would go fetch another stick so that he could continue playing. He actually held off for a moment to see if one of them would crawl out of that slippery hole and help him find another tug of war tool. But no one offered, instead choosing to play without him, using the stolen stick.
Finally giving up on them, the child scanned the area, half expecting a new branch to magically appear so that he could get back to business. He had a game to win, after all. He didn’t have time for such nonsense as replacing his tug of war stick. Not when there was a perfectly good one right in front of him.
He brought the edge of his small hand to his glistening brow, shielding the rude sun that insisted on making his eyes hurt, making everything too bright and too hot. He had left his plastic Batman sunglasses inside the Alamo, tucked away in his backpack. He didn’t have time to go inside and get them, though. He had a game to get back to.
But then he stopped looking, turned back to the pool. Why should
he
have to go and get another stick? Why couldn’t he just reach into the pool and grab
his
stick back? It was
his
stick, after all, not
theirs.
The boy started to tell them that they were being impolite, not playing fair. Being
disrespectful.
He liked that word: disrespectful. It was one of the last words his grandpa had taught him, and it was one of the big words that he understood and enjoyed saying. He especially loved emphasizing the ‘p.’
Dis-res-
PECT
-ful.
“You’re being dis—”
But he didn’t finish saying it, didn’t want to upset his squirming, slithering playmates. What if they told on him? Surely telling them that they were dis-res-
PECT
-ful would make them mad. Then they’d tell on
him
for sure. Would say that
he
was being dis-res-
PECT
-ful. And he wasn’t done playing. Not yet.
He shuffled to the edge of the pool, which excited his friends like so many dogs ready for a game of fetch. Except the boy was the ball, and they had no intention of letting go once they sunk their teeth into him.
“Don’t you want to play anymore?” He seemed oblivious to the fetor clogging the afternoon air.
He crossed his arms, ballooning his cheeks, pouting. His friends had dropped the stick and were now stepping on it. He leaned over, tipping on the balls of his feet, trying to get a closer look, to find the stick.
Crack.
“No,” he said, except with two syllables, dragging out the word. Like
Noah.
“Ah, man.”
They’d broken his stick, walked all over it. Now he had no choice. He’d have to find another.
He considered punishing them, stopping the game. Not playing anymore.
You broke it, so no more tug-o-war.
The idea made him feel powerful, in control. Like an adult. He’d heard how David had punished those bad men, taught them a lesson. He liked David, wanted to be just like him. He could punish his playmates, like David would, then he could be like him.
But if he
really
wanted to punish them, he’d take the stick away. Go in there and snatch it right out from under them. Then they’d have nothing to play with, couldn’t play without him.
Bryan scanned the area, his hand slicing his brow again, blocking the battering-ram rays from above. His shirt was starting to stick to his back, sweat tickling his tummy. But he didn’t care, hardly noticed. He was having too much fun in spite of these swimming pool friends playing a brand new game with him.
Keep away.
“I don’t want to play keep away,” he muttered to himself, still glancing around. “I want to play tug-o-war.”
He eyed the shallow end, but the steps hadn’t been built yet. Anyway, his stick wasn’t at that end of the pool.
Then he spotted the ladder that led down into the pool. His playmates hadn’t tried to climb out. The bottom rung was too high up, and they couldn’t raise their legs high enough. And they didn’t seem strong enough to pull themselves up. Bryan minced around the concrete’s edge, arms out like wings. Hazy, milky eyes below followed him closely.
On the other side, he grasped the two gleaming aluminum rails atop the ladder, then immediately pulled his hands away.
“Ow.” He waved his hands wildly, blowing on them. “Hot, hot, hot.” He hopped on his foot as though he’d burned it, too.
He reached out again, cautiously this time. His playmates had mostly migrated to the end of the pool by the ladder, where he was. Their hands were raised, clawing at the air and catching it. A few of them had hold of the ladder and were desperately trying to pull themselves up.
“I wish you’d just give me my stick,” Bryan told all of them. “It’s not fair that you get to play with it and I don’t. I got it for all of us, now I want it back. Anyways, you already broke it. So why do you want to keep it?” There was a touch of anger churning his tone.
Bryan eyed the ladder, studying, figuring. Planning. He wanted his stick—which had actually become two sticks—and he was going to get it. He was a big kid, after all. His grandpa had told him so, before the old man had gotten sick and before David had helped the old man ‘get better’ with that knife.
David promised that neither Bryan nor Charlie would get sick. Bryan trusted David. The man was his hero, because he was like a policeman, carried a gun like one. Punished bad men. Didn’t let people get sick. He wanted to be just like David.
That’s when Bryan felt the tug on his pants’ leg, felt his foot slip out from underneath him. His playmates weren’t done playing with him, stick or no stick.
Bryan’s poor little heart slammed into his sternum like a bird that had unwittingly flown into a closed window. But he didn’t scream, didn’t yell. His body got very heavy, very quickly. One of his friends in the pool had hold of his pants’ leg and wouldn’t release him.
“Let go!” Bryan ordered in a harsh whisper. He tried pulling his leg up but couldn’t. “I said let go! We’re going to get in trouble!”
He was losing this round of tug-o-war, and he slid, hands squeaking along the ladder rails. He landed hard on his backside, his calf dangling over the side wall. They had more than just his jeans, now.
Before he could chastise his playmates with a scream, sure hands hooked his armpits from behind and yanked him up and away from the groping ghouls. The boy’s shoe soared into the air, clonking a corpse on the head. The group grasped at the sneaker as though it were alive, could still smell life on it.
The man swung Bryan around and away from the pungent death pit, holding him out like a baby with a dirty diaper.
Bryan trembled. But it wasn’t with fear of the dead that had just tried to eat him. It was with fear of the living, of the stranger who had just saved his life. He just knew he was in trouble, didn’t dare twist his head to look over his shoulder at the man who’d just scooped him up. Strong words were in store, and he’d avoid them for as long as possible, if even for only a few more seconds.