Free Dead South Rising (Book 2): Death Row by Sean Robert Lang

told Bryan it was safe. Where you told him to go play . He could have been killed. Murdered . And it would have been your fucking fault.” David pressed his forearm to Roy’s throat. “Do you fucking understand me?”
    Roy was burning up with fever, sweat diving off his nose, his chin, his eye lids. David pulled back.
    “What the fuck is wrong with—?” And David understood what he’d walked into.
    Roy’s eyes were losing their life glow, his words harder to come by. He sounded drunk. “David, I didn’t know… I didn’t mean to… please… don’t tell Gabe… I was only trying to…” He slid down the wall and into a heap on the floor, his hand falling away from his arm—his badly bitten arm.
    “Shit,” David whispered to the dead and soon-to-be-dead. He glanced at Scotty, noticed the blood framing his mouth, his chin.
    “Fuck.”
    He knelt beside Roy, checked the wound. It was bad. Deep. Scotty had taken a nice chunk out of Roy’s arm, all the way to the bone. It was only a matter of time.
    End it. Finish it now. Gotta finish what you start.
    David stood and stepped back. He didn’t have his knife, hadn’t replaced his old one yet. Regardless, he couldn’t just leave Roy there. Or Scotty. He had to handle the situation. The problem.
    Too dangerous. It’s too dangerous to leave them here. Inside. Got to keep it safe inside. Roy’s a problem. Scotty’s a problem. Together, a big problem. Fix the fucking problem.
    He glanced around the room, saw no one else. His own breaths had shallowed, nerves firing in anticipation of a physical altercation. One that could still happen.
    Thanks, Scotty. Thanks for denying me my first real kill.  
    He raised the P38, squeezed the trigger. His ears screamed, pissed at the auditory assault inside the tightly closed quarters. Scotty’s skull rocked back as the 9mm bullet found his forehead, the blast painting a messy mural of remembrance on the wall behind him.
    David didn’t hear Roy reanimate. Didn’t need to. Roy’s arm twitched first. Then his leg. His torso. A weak hiss. His head, a slow-motion bobble, finding muscle control in death. Roy’s eyes were a dead giveaway.
    “Damnit, Roy.” Aiming his pistol, David finished it.

Chapter 7

    “Damn, home skillet. I think you nailed his ass to that tree.” Mallory laughed his wild dog laugh, slapped his knee, then slapped TJ on the shoulder.
    “Fuck yeah, I did.” TJ lowered the rifle, brought the edge of his hand to his brow. “Motherfucker better recognize.”
    “Right on, sharpshooter dude.” Mallory held his palm high, high-fived his buddy, then tried to high-five Laura.
    “I’m good,” Laura said, her arms folded.
    Pouting, Mallory said, “Aw, c’mon. Don’t leave me hanging. Gotta celebrate our boy’s superior marksmanship, dudette.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, saying, “Then we really celebrate with a ‘lil something something, know what I’m saying?” He smiled wide.
    Before she could answer, a familiar voice boomed behind the trio. “Yeah, I know what you’s saying.”
    Mallory spun on his heal, slapping his hand to his heart. “Damn, big dude. Scared the shit outta us. Again.”
    TJ rocked his head back so he could look up at Lenny. “Like a goddamned eclipse walking up on us. What are you, like ten-foot-nine or some shit?”
    Mallory nudged TJ. “Yeah, but his voice is so low can smell shit on his breath.”
    Lenny said, “Told you three to just keep an eye out. Not shoot nobody.”
    “A little late for that,” Mallory said through a giggle.
    “What you mean?”
    TJ pointed with his rifle toward the tree line. “Downed the motherfucker, right there by that big ass tree. Sumbitch won’t be bothering us no more. You can mail my reward money to Five-five-five, Bad Ass Motherfucker Boulevard, Your-Mother’s-House, Seven-five-seven-fuck-you.”
    “Fucking A,” Mallory said. Another of his high-pitched giggles scratched the quickly souring air.
    Lenny and