Rob clutched his shoulder and cringed with the pain. He pulled his hand away and watched rainwater wash the blood from his open palm. “Damn!” A gunshot startled him. He jerked around to see a woman drop face first into the soggy gravel just behind him. Another gunshot dropped a fat man in an expensive looking pinstriped suit.
“Run!” Hooper yelled over the storm, holding the front door open with his foot.
A loud crash rang out behind Rob. He spun on his heels in the gravel to see a black woman squirming on top of his bike that she had knocked into Mick’s, bringing both Harley’s smashing to the ground like dominos. “Sonofabitch!” he cried.
She moaned at him, trying to free herself from the mound of metal. Her sunset orange dress snagged on Mick’s handlebars, tearing it down the zipper in the back. She stumbled to her feet and, with a couple of unsteady steps, cleared the motorcycles. The dress pulled free of her decaying body and stayed with the bikes. Her skinny arms rose out to him. Rob stumbled backwards as she sauntered closer in a red bra and matching panties. The broken ribs poking out of her pruned flesh did nothing to impede her progress. His Saturday night special, however, was a different story. He fired three rounds into her chest. “That’s for the bikes, bitch!”
The biker turned, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, and raced for the front door but the man in the pinstripe suit had already gotten back up. The bloated thing snatched Rob’s ponytail, yanking his head back. Rob gritted his teeth and awkwardly held the gun upside down, aiming behind him. He pulled the trigger and shot Pinstripe in the face. The report echoed through the hillsides, eventually giving way to a growing symphony of death moans. He whirled in the gravel, swinging the gun from silhouette to silhouette. A teenager in a blue suit, with a large button of a family picture pinned to the lapel, wrapped his wet arms around Rob’s neck. Rob flung the boy over his shoulder and shot him twice in the stomach.
Hooper turned his handgun on an old lady in a pine green dress ambling closer to the front door in one shoe. She hobbled up and down with each shaky step, reaching for him with longing arms. A mournful groan rolled from what was left of her rotted vocal cords. Hooper squeezed the trigger and her head snapped back. Her only shoe flipped up into the air as her desiccated body flew backwards and hit the ground, splashing rain water back into the sky.
He turned back to Rob. “Come on!”
Rob swung his gun around the encircling throng and decided to run for it. The teenager sat up and reached out. Rob stutter-stepped and jumped the decaying claw, landing like a cat with his legs in motion. “Thanks, boss,” he panted, rushing through the open door with his gun in hand.
Hooper pulled the door shut and twisted the keys in the deadbolt and left them dangling in the lock. Rob bent over and rested a hand on one knee, struggling to catch his breath. Wet hair dangled limply in his face, hiding the hint of a grin. “That was a close one,” he wheezed.
The sheriff turned to the others, all of whom stood like statues, eagerly awaiting his next words, wrapped in a dismayed silence. Terror brimmed in their wide eyes. “Doc, hit the lights!” Hooper finally said.
Doc slid behind the bar and flipped off four switches on a yellowed panel. The gray light outside pushed through the glass window and front door, leaving thick shadows in its wake. Kourtney pulled the plug on the Wurlitzer, simultaneously cutting its bright lights and Boston’s Smokin in mid-chorus.
“Mick,” Hooper whispered, nodding towards the two video games.
Mick grudgingly dragged his eyes from his bloody friend and reached behind the machines and pulled their plugs, plunging the bar into a murky darkness. The silence became infectious, interrupted only by the steady hum of rainwater beating on the metal roof above.
“From now on, no one opens this door,” Hooper said, scanning the frightened faces of the seven individuals staring back at him.
“Oh, now ya tell me!” Rob laughed, clutching his shoulder.
Rory’s peripheral vision pulled his gaze to the window. More of the things were literally stumbling out of the woodwork. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the dead expressions bobbing in the lot. “They’re all over the place!”
“Holy shit-sticks!” Doc gasped, pulling a pack of Pall Malls from his vest pocket and lighting one up with shaky hands.
Kourtney didn’t try to stop him.
Hooper put his index finger to his lips and quietly eased away from the door.
Mick’s face twisted in the dim light. “Rob, you’re bleeding somethin fierce, brother!” he said, watching dark blood drip from Rob’s shoulder onto the tiled floor below.
Rob glanced down to the crimson pool forming around his boots and stood back up, swinging his wet hair over his shoulder like he had done with the teenage zombie. “It’s not that bad,” he said, between deep breaths. “Sonofabitch bit me!” he laughed. “Can you believe that? Guy wasn’t even wearing pants!”
Kourtney rushed behind the bar and grabbed a folded bar towel.
Woody stared blankly at the ring of teeth marks in Rob’s leather jacket. “Dude, that thing bit through your coat.”
Rob pulled the long box of ammo from his pocket and set it on the bar. “You should see what the fuckers did to our bikes!”
Mick’s jaw dropped further. “What?”
“Don’t worry,” Rob said, growing paler by the second. “We’ve got insurance.”
Mick blinked. “I’m more worried about you, partner.”
Rob chuckled and tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. “I’ll be fine,” he said, rubbing his shoulder and wincing with the pain.
Mick began stumbling backwards, not taking his eyes from Rob.
Rob’s brow folded. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Here, we have to stop that bleeding,” Kourtney said, helping Rob take off his coat and shirt off and applying the towel to his shoulder.
He inhaled sharply through gritted teeth the moment it made contact.
“Mom?”
Rob twisted in pain. “Shit that hurts, Kourt!”
“Just hold still for me,” she said, applying pressure to the wound.
“Mom?”
“Not now, honey. Mommy’s busy.”
Mick rolled up next to Sheriff Hooper. “He’s gonna turn into one of them things, ain’t he?” he whispered.
Hooper met Mick’s troubled gaze and turned back to watch Kourtney help Rob slide into a booth.
“Mom?”
“What, Alex?” she snapped.
Alex stared at Rob with nervous eyes. “I wanna go home now.”
Doc wrapped a hairy forearm around him and squeezed. “It’s all right, A-man. We’re going to hang out here for a bit longer. Okay?”
Alex turned back to Rob and swallowed hard, his hand glancing off his cap gun.
Rob set his .38 on the table and glared at Alex. “Don’t even say it, kid! I don’t want an angel or a cross. Not today anyhow.”
“You’re going to be fine,” Kourtney said reassuringly, gently peeling the towel back to see blood still leaking from his shoulder.
“I don’t feel so fine,” he groaned, massaging his wet face with one hand.
Hooper nonchalantly pulled his gun from its holster and held it behind his back. “Kourtney, can I talk to you for a second?”
She placed the towel back over the wound and pressed down making Rob squirm.
“Kourtney?”
“In a minute, Ryan.”
Doc noticed the sheriff’s gun and turned back to his daughter. “Kourt, come on over here for a quick minute,” he said sternly, like he used to when she had missed her curfew by two hours on a summertime Saturday night. “I need your help with something in the back.”
She turned to them, annoyance gripping her face. “What?”
Rob coughed blood up onto the table and began shivering. “Oh, that’s not good.”
Rachel inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with both hands. Woody kicked his chair back and stood up, pumping the shotgun one time with autho
rity.
Rob swung his head around and stared at Woody through drooping eyes. “What’s your problem, dude?” he asked, spitting up more blood and twitching in the narrow booth.
Hooper crossed the bar and grabbed Kourtney by the arm with a firm grip.
“Hey!” she yelled, as he yanked her away.
Confusion flickered across Rob’s pasty complexion. The towel fell from his shoulder to the floor. He glanced at his circular wound and slowly raised his eyes. “Oh wait a minute now, you don’t think…” He trailed off, grabbing his pistol and sliding out from the booth.
Rory pushed Rachel behind him and backed her closer to the front door.
“Now, just sit back down, Rob!” Hooper ordered, tightening his grip on the nine-millimeter behind his back.
“What?” Rob laughed. “I’m fine,” he said, gesturing wildly with his gun. “Don’t get so bent out of shape!” He smiled and hunched over and threw up chili dogs mixed with blood. He dry heaved a few more times and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing with the pain from his shoulder. “I’m fine!” he repeated, stumbling into the pool table with his wet hair swinging across his sinking eyes.
Alex tugged on Doc’s leather vest. “Grandpa, I wanna go home now,” he moaned, unable to look away from Rob.
Doc turned his twisted face to his grandson and quickly ushered him through the door behind the bar.
“You just sit back down and take it easy, Rob,” Kourtney tried to say calmly.
“You take it easy!” Rob barked, leaning against the pool table and spitting blood onto the floor. “I just need a little…” He paused to push himself off the table, swaying in his stance and favoring his bad arm. He studied the wide eyes staring back at him, taking no notice of the blood running from the corner of his mouth or how fast his chest was rising and falling. In an instant, he spun around towards the front door and glared at Rachel. “I just need a little of that pussy!” he cackled.
“Jesus Christ!” Rory exclaimed, pressing Rachel up against the cold glass.
Lightning flashed, revealing Rob’s cavernous eyes. Green snot ran from his nose while blood coated his wide grin like a hasty paint job on a white picket fence. The thunder rolled, shaking the pictures of boats and trophy fish on the wood paneled walls.
“I’m sponge Rob no pants!” he crowed, undoing his belt and dropping his worn out jeans to his boots.
Rachel’s eyes dropped to his tighty whities. She screamed when she saw he was peeing blood down the inside of his legs. Rob laughed harder and bent over. He groaned, clutching his stomach with both hands and threw up more blood. When he was finished, he took a labored breath, like the wind had been knocked from him and slowly righted himself. His dark eyes turned to find Rachel and when they did, the sinister grin returned to his colorless face.
“Rob, you need to sit down and rest,” Rory said, using his body to block out as much of Rachel from Rob’s view as possible.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” he snapped, pointing the gun at Rory’s face.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Hooper yelled, raising his gun.
Woody swung the shotgun around and moved across the bar so that Rory and Rachel wouldn’t be in his shot if Rob forced him to pull the trigger. Woody gripped the gun with sweaty hands, his pupils as full as the rising moon. “Just take it easy, dude!”
Rob jerked the gun to Woody in one motion and brushed hair from his beady eyes. “I just wanna…get a little action. Is that so wrong, Woody?” he asked softly, smiling rows of scarlet teeth at him.
Rory held his hands up and took a deep breath. “Rob, we’re on your side, man. Just put the gun down.”
He swung the gun back to Rory. “Gobbledly goofunk!” he screamed, choking and grunting. “Pandas! Trunks miss ark! Aghst!”
Rory frowned, his mind flipping through options at a rate of speed that made it impossible to latch onto anything substantial. When he saw Hooper creeping up behind Rob, his mind found something to hold onto. “We’re just trying to help you, Rob.” He held his hands up for Rob to see he meant him no harm and to distract him as well.
Rob hit Rory with odious eyes and turned the gun on Rachel. “Take your clothes off, bitch!”
Rachel gasped, throwing a hand over her breasts. “What?”
Rob gestured with the gun. “Go on!” he said. “Getroncho!” He laughed, glaring at Rachel with dilated pupils that looked like an old doll’s eyes. “Habenarchy! Itchinzt!”
Hooper brought the butt of his down on the back of Rob’s head. There was a loud crack and Rob, subsequently, crumpled to the floor. His .38 clattered across the cracked tile and came to rest beneath the pool table. Rory pounced on it and readied himself for Rob to get back up.
Rachel moved behind him like a shadow, staring at the heavy blood flow oozing from Rob’s shoulder. “Please tell me he’s not dead.”
“He’s not dead,” Hooper obliged, holstering his gun and grabbing at the cuffs on the back of his gun belt. “Shit!” he said, finding the compartment empty and remembering the lady whose arm had broken off down by the lake. He turned to Mick and Kourtney. “Find some rope!”
Chapter Thirteen
Rob’s legs stretched listlessly across the red tiled floor, his wrists tied to an old black pipe running vertically next to a rumbling ice-maker in the back of the bar. Long, stringy hair veiled his closed eyes while red ropes seeped from his cracked lips. Doc watched him with bated breath, his tattooed forearms folded across his broad chest with one finger resting on his lips. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so,” Hooper whispered, glancing to a sink just outside the office. Hooper walked over and grabbed a clear plastic pitcher from a silver rack stocked with straws, cocktail napkins, plastic cups and an assortment of condiments. He turned the pitcher upside down and dumped salt packets to the floor.
Doc noticed Rory watching them through the porthole window and saw Kourtney getting someone a beer in the background. Probably Mick. He turned back to Hooper and scratched a thick sideburn. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m going to try something,” he replied, kicking a yellow mop bucket out of the way and filling the pitcher with water. He turned the faucet off and came back over. “You might want to stand back.”
Doc frowned and took two reluctant steps back with heavy legs, bumping into a spiral staircase leading to the roof.
Hooper held the pitcher over Rob’s head and took a deep breath. He rotated his wrist and slowly poured a thin stream of water over Rob’s head. Hooper emptied the pitcher and waited with wide eyes. When Rob didn’t move, Hooper filled it up again and gave it another shot.
This time Rob started coughing. His body convulsed with each wet sounding hack, spraying water on Doc’s and Hooper’s legs. The convulsions gradually turned to snarls and grunts. Rob breathed deeper and began struggling against the pipe. The pipe refused to budge so he stopped. His body grew still. Slowly, he turned his insipid face and hit them with a pair of hollow eyes that made Hooper take a step back and make sure his gun was still in its holster. Rob lurched at the town sheriff, gnashing his teeth and pulling on the pipe with everything he had. Hooper took another step back, standing shoulder to shoulder with Doc.
They wore matching looks of disgust as they studied the thing that used to be good old Rob. The Rob who loved going for cruises through the rolling hillsides on the Harley Davidson that was probably worth more than his mobile home. The Rob who liked drinking beers on Sunday while cheering for the Minnesota Viking. The Rob who exaggerated every story he ever told, just to make everything sound larger than life. Whatever language Rob was speaking now Hooper and Doc didn’t speak, but they understood it just the same.
“Myer was right,” Hooper said absent-mindedly. “They’re water-based.”
Doc turned to him and narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“They can’t survive without water. The ones in the lake came out just long enough to grab someone and get back in.”
Doc gazed at Ro
b through glazed over eyes, his mind processing the information like a bogged down computer. “But they’re all over the parking lot.”
Hooper turned to meet the old man’s eyes. “They’re using the rain to go mobile.”
Doc’s eyes widened, the color draining from his face. “It’s supposed to rain like hell the next three days.”
“I know.”
“You know what that means?”
Hooper nodded glumly. “It’s probably going to flood.”
Doc swallowed dryly and turned back to Rob. “These damn things will be all over the place.”
Floodwater Zombies Page 15