Floodwater Zombies

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  “Something’s…afoot, but I’m sure the sheriff will clear everything up.” She smiled at them and gave Rachel’s hand one last squeeze. “Of course, he’ll blame the whole damn thing on a drunken boating accident or Mad Cow Disease, just like the government always does when the supernatural comes around.”

  One of Woody’s eyebrows rose into his forehead, disappearing beneath his shaggy locks.

  “Bird flu my ass!” Laura scoffed, rising from the chair and heading for the stairs. “Help yourselves to anything you want in the kitchen. There’s plenty of food in there.” She paused, staring at them with sorrowful eyes. “Try to get some sleep,” she said softly, disappearing upstairs.

  The three sat on the couch without speaking for the next minute or two, each cornered by their own gruesome thoughts. Off in the distance, a dog started barking and Rory wondered if those…things had made it to town. He waited for other dogs in the neighborhood to join in, like some Disney movie gone horribly wrong. If that happened, it was game over. No, not if, but when that happened. At this point, it was only a matter of time. He wished his dad had a gun in the house before wondering if his softball bat was in the basement or out in the garage. A bat wouldn’t get them far and neither would his Honda Accord. The gas light was on. He shook his head, kicking himself for not filling up on his way home from McDonald’s the other day. But he had been too hungry and hadn’t felt like messing with it and now that lazy decision just might get them all killed.

  Rory took a deep breath and released it, realizing they had plenty of cars to choose from and he was just being paranoid. Another dog joined in the yelping, this one closer. He prayed the dog was simply answering the other to let it know it wasn’t alone in the night, like a claustrophobic prisoner would do from cell block six. But what if those things had made it to town?

  “I feel so bad for talking about Mark like that,” Rachel said faintly, jerking Rory from his thoughts. “You must think I’m a horrible person.”

  He swapped a glance with Woody and took another deep breath. “You had no idea that was going to happen,” he whispered.

  Woody nodded slowly. “None of us did.”

  “I feel like I can’t breathe. I mean, I just can’t believe…they’re gone.” She dropped her face into her hands and broke down crying again.

  Rory put an arm around her and squeezed, her tears staining his shoulder. “We’re going to be okay. We just need to get some sleep and figure things out tomorrow.” He smiled weakly. “Together.”

  “What if those things make it to town?”

  Rory’s eyes snapped over to Woody and held his tense gaze. “They’re not going to make it this far. They couldn’t even follow us into the woods.”

  Woody glanced at Rachel’s pale face and dropped his eyes to his sneakers. “Yeah, you’re probably right. They were in pretty bad shape.”

  The quiet resumed its place and the dogs stopped barking. Silent relief washed over Rory as he got up.

  Rachel grabbed his hand. “Where are you going?”

  He stopped and turned. “I’m just gonna grab some blankets and pillows from the basement,” he replied, trying to remember the last time he had seen his aluminum bat. “I’ll be right back and we’ll head upstairs and get some sleep.”

  Woody snorted. “I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rory shuffled his bare feet across the living room floor, rubbing sleep from his puffy eyes and grumbling along the way. He wasn’t sure which was worse: Woody’s heavy snoring or the incessant doorbell. Probably Woody’s snoring, which had joined forces with Rory’s intrusive thoughts to keep him up most the night. There was an hour or two where he may have fallen asleep but he wasn’t completely sure, and figured if he couldn’t remember he must have nodded off. Either way, he spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, checking the clock and listening to Woody sawing logs. That much he did recall as it seemed like he was the only one on the planet for a very long time.

  The doorbell sang out again, injecting high anxiety straight into his veins that nearly made him go back upstairs. Seeing Deputy Myer’s face again so soon was the last thing he wanted. Rory didn’t have the capacity for aligning any type of defense against the deputy’s – aggressive, yet understandable - barrage of rebuttals. Not this morning.

  Rory gripped the doorknob and hesitated, feeling that whatever was on the other side of that door was going to change his life forever. It was overwhelming. Maybe they had found Kate or Clutch, washed up on some rocks. Maybe there were too many of those things and it was time to evacuate. Maybe they were here to arrest him for murder. Rory had seen weirder things happen on Dateline. The doorbell rang again, startling him as its hollow chime tailed off into a thick silence. With a gentle click, he pulled the large door open and squinted into the bright sunshine.

  “Mornin, Rory.”

  Rory held a hand up to block out the sunlight, barely able to make out the silhouette of a man wearing sunglasses and a black ball cap, his thumbs hanging from his front belt loops. “Sheriff Hooper?”

  “Welcome back to town,” he said as a formality, without the hint of a smile.

  Rory paused, dying to ask his next question but afraid of the answer. “Did you find them?”

  “Not yet,” Hooper replied matter-of-factly, obviously already knowing exactly who Rory was referring to.

  Rory’s heart sank. Gruesome images from the night before flickered through his foggy mind making him shrink.

  “You okay?”

  Rory squinted over the sheriff’s shoulder into the sun splashed front yard. “What time is it?”

  “Almost noon,” Hooper replied without checking his watch. He moved one hand to rest on a nine-millimeter tucked inside a black nylon holster, firmly strapped to his right thigh. It wasn’t a threatening gesture, but more like a habit. “Mind if I come inside?”

  Once again, grim thoughts began bouncing around inside Rory’s skull like ping-pong balls. Does the sheriff think they actually had something to do with it? Is it happening everywhere? Should he get his bat? “Sure, come on in,” he replied, stepping aside and attempting to smooth out his tussled bed head.

  “Ran into your parents down at the station this morning,” Hooper said, stepping inside and surveying the spacious room. “Said you guys were pretty beat up and wanted to let you get some sleep.”

  “So you didn’t find the others?” Rory asked again, shutting the door.

  The sheriff opened his mouth but nothing came out. “That’s why I’m here. After Myer’s story about last night, I checked up on em but they still haven’t come home. Now normally, I’d guess they’d had too much to drink and ended up on someone’s boat or couch…”

  Rory stared at him expectantly. “But?”

  “But we’ve had two – unrelated - missing persons reports called in this morning.”

  The color slowly drained from Rory’s weary face. “What? Who?”

  “Stu Redfield and Tonya Hall,” he replied. “Know em?”

  Rory shook his head.

  Hooper took a seat on the leather couch and crossed his legs. “Stu worked for Allied Insurance and Tonya was new to town. We located both of their cars out at the lake and found Stu’s cell phone in the sand, but other than that, there’s no sign of either one of em, or their respective dogs.”

  “Holy shit,” Rory said, sliding into an oversized armchair that matched the couch.

  Hooper removed his shades and narrowed his eyes. “My thoughts exactly, and, to top it all off, Myer’s big mouth has got everyone in town talkin about ghosts and monsters.”

  Rory stared blankly at the darkened flat-screen on the wall, trying to process a response.

  “Last thing I need around here is a goddamn serial killer on the loose.”

  Rory’s eyes shot over to the sheriff. “It’s not a serial killer.”

  Hooper tilted his head to the left and casually stretched an arm out across the back of the couch. �
��Well then, Rory, why don’t you tell me what it is.”

  Rory snorted and began massaging his face with both hands. “You’ll never believe it.”

  Hooper’s chiseled features remained tight, his gaze unwavering. “Try me.”

  Rory sat back and sighed. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Why don’t you start with Jake Fletcher.”

  Dark clouds rolled in and blotted out the bright sun above, causing small whiteheads to ripple across Lake Darling like icing on a cake. Sheriff Hooper kept his sunglasses on anyway and stared out over the gray water with a hand resting on his butt of his gun. His black t-shirt was so tight the brisk breeze barely ruffled the word “POLICE” stretched in white letters across his back. The sheriff’s lean stomach and designer blue jeans played into the rumors floating around town that he was a bit of a player in the small downtown bar scene.

  For a man in his late forties Hooper could’ve passed for thirty-five and Rory had always liked him. The few times their paths had crossed (usually at the bars), Hooper had always been friendly and easy to talk with. He seemed like the kind of cop who genuinely had the best interest of the people at heart, but Rory never understood why he had moved back six years ago. Rough divorce or not, his Minneapolis zing didn’t mesh well with Minot.

  Rory still remembered the uproar Hooper had caused when he switched the brown polyester police uniforms to black t-shirts, ball caps and blue jeans. They could even wear sneakers if they wanted, just as long as they were black. Old Mayor Redding about had a heart attack over it, saying the sheriff was inviting too casual a presence to an official agency. Nevertheless, Hooper stuck to his guns and freshened up an outdated police force with comfortable uniforms, two black Dodge Chargers and even a Ward County Facebook page. He definitely didn’t fit the Minot mold, but looking at him now Rory finally understood. Sometimes when things went south, you just had to come back home.

  “You guys had quite the party last night,” Deputy Johnson grinned, holding up a long beer-bong and admiring it from top to bottom. “Thanks for the invite.”

  Hooper turned around and pushed past Deputy Myer. “I just wanna make absolutely sure we’re sticking with this whole…zombie story before I call in the dive team from Garrison.”

  Rory, Rachel and Woody stared back at him with blank expressions.

  “Rory?”

  Rory cleared his throat, holding the cop’s discerning gaze. “You know we wouldn’t take something this far.”

  The sheriff quietly evaluated the response from behind dark sunglasses.

  Rory held his hands out, flabbergasted that anyone could still doubt him. “You said it yourself, there are two other people missing who were last known to be out here.”

  Hooper nodded slowly, acknowledging the validity of the point, and turned to Rachel.

  Her eyes dropped to the running shoes on her feet Rory had taken from his mom’s walk-in closet. “I don’t see why I have to be here,” she said softly, shivering even though it had to be at least eighty degrees out.

  Hooper’s eyebrows dipped beneath his shades. “Because you were witness to a missing persons case, is why. Now, I know you’re scared, Rachel, but we’re here now,” he said, glancing to his two deputies. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  She turned to the deputies. Skepticism flickered across her grazed face. Myer was out of shape and Johnson’s red hair and freckles made him look like he was still in high school. He probably weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet and if he ever pulled the trigger on his station-issued sidearm, he would undoubtedly wind up flat on his back.

  Hooper cocked his head. “Now, are you sure about last night?”

  Her eyes jerked back to him, hitting him with a cold stare. “Do I look like I was kidding?” she whispered, literally afraid to wake the dead.

  He swallowed hard and then swung his eyes to Woody.

  “I’m sure.”

  The deputies snickered under their breath while Sheriff Hooper released a defeated sigh. “Zombies it is,” he mumbled, turning to look out over the lake. “Boys are going to have a field day with this one.”

  Logan Dixon gently broke the water’s surface thirty yards from shore. His red wetsuit glistened with the water, making it look brand new. He pulled the regulator from his mouth and took a deep breath of the fresh country air. “I don’t see anything unusual down there!”

  Hooper stood with a black boot propped up on a large rock, an elbow resting on his knee. Deputy Myer stood next to him, striking the exact same pose. Rory wondered if he even realized he was mimicking the sheriff.

  “What about Hudson?” Hooper yelled back.

  “What about him?” Logan replied, staring at them through a bulky scuba-diving mask.

  Hooper took his boot off the rock and crossed his arms, causing Myer to do the same. “He hasn’t come up in awhile.”

  Logan glanced around the lake, his bobbing red head resembling a floating buoy. “I haven’t seen him for awhile but it’s dark as hell down there. I’ll bring him up,” he said, wrapping his lips around the regulator and jerking beneath the water with a violent splash.

  Hooper stepped up onto the rock with both feet and sharpened his gaze across the rippling water. “What the hell was that?” A hawk screeched off in the distance, cutting through the silence like razor wire.

  “Oh shit,” Woody mumbled, taking a step back.

  Myer and Johnson turned to him with spooked eyes. Rory remained focused on the water without responding, his heart picking up the pace. A fish jumped out of the lake several yards to the right and splashed back down, disappearing beneath the murky water. An eerie stillness swept across the lake that made the hairs on his arms stand at attention. It felt like spiders were crawling over his entire body.

  Hooper turned to him. “What the hell was that?”

  Myer and Johnson turned to Rory with anxious eyes.

  Rory joined Woody and Rachel in their gradual retreat. “It’s them.”

  Hooper yanked his glasses from his suntanned face and stared at Rory through slits. “It’s who?”

  Logan surfaced, at least twenty yards to the right of where he’d gone under, his arms and legs flapping like crazy. He spit the regulator from his mouth and swam for shore. “Help!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Hooper muttered, jumping down from the rock.

  Logan thrashed through the water, inching closer to shore with a panic-stricken look filling his diving mask. He choked and gasped, his heavy gear bogging him down.

  Hooper’s shades slipped from his fingers and fell to the sand. He sprinted into the water with Myer and Johnson right behind him. “What is it?” Hooper yelled.

  Logan responded with a long scream, frantically scooping both arms through the water like the devil himself was after him. Hooper and Myer rushed in up to their waists and grabbed the diver’s arms. Logan screamed bloody murder as they towed him to shore. The water pulling on his body and oxygen tank caused Hooper and Myer to struggle finding traction. Johnson looked like he was going to help but decided to stay out of the way at the last second. When they finally cleared the water, Rory’s eyes widened and Rachel inhaled sharply.

  “What the fuck, man!” Woody shrieked, his eyes as big as a barn.

  Logan screamed as the old lady hanging onto his ankle bit down into his calf muscle. Mossy blotches stained her once yellow dress – now riddled with jagged holes and leaches. Hooper and Myer gasped, dropping Logan’s arms like they were poisonous snakes.

  Rachel tugged on Rory’s arm, pulling him closer to the tree line behind them. Woody subconsciously followed, passing the picnic table and tents, unable to tear his eyes from the grizzly scene.

  Hooper stumbled backwards and stepped on his shades, crushing them into the sand. “What in God’s name?”

  Logan wailed loudly, kicking at the woman’s head with a flipper. “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

  Her cracked skin and long fingernails paralyzed Ho
oper. Bare spots in her scalp where patches of gray hair were missing only added to the horror. Like everyone else, the sheriff tried to breathe and register the impossibility of it all at the same time to no avail. The old lady’s curled toes dug into the sand, giving her better leverage on the howling diver.

  “Holy shit!” Deputy Johnson panted, finally yanking his sidearm from its holster and drawing a bead on the rotting corpse.

  Hooper stuck his hand out, his chest rising and falling. “Don’t shoot!”

  Johnson shifted from one foot to the other, pointing the gun with shaking arms. “What? Why not?”