Dead South Rising: Book 1 by Sean Robert Lang

aimed again. Not wanting to miss the figure or his chance, he quickly fired again. The shot echoed across the field, ricocheting off the trees. Jessica stood so close to Randy that the gun recoil nearly shoved her finger into her eardrum. The head disappeared, but Randy still couldn’t tell if he’d hit his mark.
    Jessica pulled her fingers from her ears, her brows furrowed, her eyes narrowed. “Did you hear …?”
    Randy’s ears rang, Jessica’s words a muffled mess. “What?”
    She leaned closer rather than raise her voice. “Did you hear that?”
    “Hear what?”
    “That.”
    “I can’t …” Randy lowered the gun, stuck his pinky in his ear and wiggled it wildly, trying to clear the whistling in his head.
    “Voices,” Jessica said. “I think they’re yelling something.”
    * * *
    Randy strained to hear, thought he heard something, but guessed it his imagination. Jessica would have to be his ears for a while, until the incessant ringing subsided.
    Jessica pointed again, as if pointing would help him hear. “There! Do you hear it?”
    “What is it?”
    “Someone shouting.” She squinted against the harsh morning rays pummeling her vision.
    In the distance, someone screamed, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
    “Those ain’t shufflers, Randy. Someone’s out there. Someone alive .” She started toward the steps.
    Randy hooked her arm, “Are you crazy? You can’t go out there.”
    “They may need help.”
    “They could be dangerous.”   His eyes pleaded. “And you ain’t well enough to be going out there.”
    She seemed to seriously consider this, then nodded. “Yeah … You’re right.”
    More yelling from the field. Then a hand peeking from the tall grass like a periscope. “Truce! We just want to talk!”
    “What do we do?” Randy asked, his voice a near whisper. His nerves fired on all cylinders, sweat overflowed his brow, spilling into his eyes. He pulled his already soaked hank from his pocket, plucked his glasses from his face, and cleared the salty, stinging pools.
    “They know we’re here.” She blew a breath, antsy fingers running through her hair. “Keep the gun aimed at them, let’s see what they want.”
    When he could see again, he replaced his spectacles and his handkerchief, then re-shouldered the gun. He gave a quick nod.
    Jessica cupped her hands around her mouth. “What do you want?”
    The far-off voice said, “Just want to talk.”
    “About what?” Her drawl seemed more pronounced the louder she yelled.
    Whoever it was did not answer right away, and this concerned Jessica. She waited before hollering again. “I said, about what ?”
    “Mitch there?”
    Randy and Jessica traded glances.
    Jessica called out, “Who are you?”
    Another brief moment of silence followed. More nervous glances, Randy gripping and re-gripping the gun.
    “I said, who are you?”
      “Sammy. Sammy Thompson.”
    Jessica’s head rode a slow swivel, her jaw slack, her eyes tense. She burned a disbelieving stare straight into Randy. “Sammy Thompson? I thought …”
    Randy let the barrel dip. “Mitch said Sammy died a couple years back.”
    Jessica had only heard stories about Mitch’s older brother, Sammy. And they often involved women, weapons, drugs, and ultimately death. Hesitation and apprehension gripped them both, not sure whether to believe this man purporting to be Sammy Thompson.
    “Hello? Cat got your tongue?” Sammy said, his voice drifting over the stillness.
    Jessica thought she heard a chuckle.
    The impatient voice knocked on her ears again. “We just want to talk to Mitch for a sec.” A man started to rise slowly out of the grass, his hands high. “Y’all ain’t gonna shoot us now, are ya? You wouldn’t shoot at blood, would ya?” Sammy, or the man claiming to be Sammy, looked beside him, nodding, encouraging someone else to stand with him. Another set of hands pressed skyward, a man inching up and out of the grass. “We just wanna talk. No