Alex frowned and kicked a red Solo cup across the floor.
Rory pulled Rob’s .38 Special from his waistband and handed it to Mick.
Mick hesitated before taking it and flipping the chamber open like he had handled it before. He turned to the bar and grabbed the box of bullets Rob had brought back in with him. “Just remember, kid,” Mick said, sliding shiny bullets into his pockets. “Aim for the head.”
“Make sure it’s none of our heads,” Hooper said, glaring at Mick and his nearly empty bottle of Bud.
Alex adjusted his holster and looked up to Doc. “Did you shoot Rob in the head, Grandpa?”
Doc’s face slumped. Mick stopped stuffing bullets into his pockets and watched Doc, waiting for his answer with as much anticipation as the young boy.
“No, Alex, we didn’t.”
“Are you going to?”
Doc opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“Alex, why don’t you go behind the bar and grab a bag of chips,” Kourtney said, sliding out from the booth and walking over to the bar to survey the other weapons Doc and Hooper had rounded up.
“I’m not hungry.”
Doc pulled out another cigarette and lit up, being extra careful to conceal the lighter’s flickering flame from the spooks outside.
“Well, eat a candy bar or something. You need your energy,” she said, examining a beat up crowbar and setting it back on the bar. “We all do,” she murmured.
Mick slapped the chamber back inside the .38 and tucked it into the small of his back. “Those motherfuckers are gonna pay.”
Kourtney cast a sideways look his direction. Mick dropped his head and shuffled off behind the bar.
Hooper opened his black duffel bag and gave Woody a handful of shotgun shells while Mick grabbed another beer and disappeared into the back.
“Mick!” Doc called out after him.
“Let him go,” Hooper said, grabbing Doc’s arm to stop him. “He needs to know what we’re up against.”
“An ice scoop?” Kourtney said nonplussed, holding up an industrial-sized silver scoop. “Really? You consider this a weapon?”
Doc shrugged. “Would you prefer a plunger, Kourt? It’s all we got.”
She snorted and dropped the metal scoop onto the bar with a clang and picked up the crowbar again.
Chapter Fourteen
Mick reemerged through the wooden door and stopped behind the bar, looking white as a ghost. His chest heaved as he removed his Harley Davidson hat and ran a hand through curly brown hair that was overdue for a good haircut. “That ain’t right,” he muttered, his glassy eyes bouncing around the shadowy room.
Doc sighed and dropped his gaze to the worn out floor.
“I am not turning into one of those…things,” Mick insisted, swapping his empty beer bottle for a fifth of Jack Daniels.
Rory watched him pour a finger of amber liquid into a rocks glass. With a shaky hand, Mick knocked it back in a single gulp and slammed the glass back to the bar with a loud crack.
“We need you clear headed, Mick,” Hooper said sternly, grabbing three full clips from the duffel bag and stuffing them in his pockets.
Mick filled the glass again. “Last thing I want right now, Sheriff,” he said, pausing to burp, “is to be clear headed!” He tipped the glass back and swallowed with another grimace. The glass clanked back to the bar top as a long sigh seeped from Mick’s lips, tickling his mustache. “Damn, that burns.”
Lightning splintered the night, illuminating their frightened faces for a fraction of a second longer than they wanted. More dead people had shown up outside, oblivious – so far - to any sign of life inside the bar. The corpses stumbled aimlessly through the rain soaked lot, not sure what they were looking for but seeming certain they were close to finding it.
Mick poured another drink and lifted the short glass to his mouth. He paused and squinted out the window. “Holy shit-monkeys,” he muttered, lowering the glass to the bar. They followed his glassy gaze to a bearded man lumbering closer. Rory’s heart did a quick double take. The hulk’s suit looked like it had shrunk two sizes since they had last seen him.
“Oh my God,” Rachel whimpered. “That’s the guy from the lake.”
“Doesn’t this bastard ever give up?” Woody asked rhetorically, wrapping his fingers around the shotgun. “Sonofabitch almost killed me earlier.” He got to his red sneakers and faced the window, clutching the shotgun in both hands.
Hooper dropped a hand onto his bony shoulder. “Take it easy, Woody.”
Thunder clapped above them, rattling the racks of clean pint glasses behind the bar.
“He don’t look so bad,” Doc whispered, his eyes betraying him.
Rory tightened the holster’s black strap around his leg. “You should’ve seen him before.”
Hooper rubbed his chin with a thumb and index finger, pulling on an imaginary beard. “He’s lost his energy.”
“Probably been out of the lake too long,” Woody said, craning his neck to follow the oversized stiff as it heedlessly traipsed around the side of the wooded tavern and out of view.
Mick slammed the glass back down with a loud crack, making everyone jump. “We’re all gonna turn into those decaying sonsabitches!”
Alex pressed his face into his mother’s side.
Hooper’s eyes thinned. “We are if you don’t shut the hell up.”
Mick wiped whiskey from his whiskers with the back of his hand, not taking his puffy eyes from three flesh-eaters roaming the dimly lit parking lot. “Shit, I’d just as soon shoot myself right now!”
Hooper. “Mick!” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Mick’s eyes jerked over to Hooper. Lightning flashed, reflecting off wet trails running down Mick’s rugged cheeks. “Fuck you, Sheriff! We’re all gonna end up like Rob! For all I know, one of you is already infected!” His hand disappeared beneath his Carhartt work coat, smoothly sliding to the .38 tucked into the small of his back.
Kourtney hugged Alex and turned his face from Mick just as a five or six-year-old girl in a dingy pink dress started banging on the window. Her cheeks were spoiled holes, sporting jagged rows of gnashing teeth inside.
Rory turned from the window and inched closer to Mick. “Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself, man. Things are hard enough right now, Mick, but you don’t have to make it harder by being that guy.”
Confusion danced across Mick’s face. “What guy?” he scowled.
“The guy that always has to freak out and cause a big scene when everyone’s trying to be quiet,” he said, his black holster and blue jeans making him look like a TV cop. Just like Hooper. “The guy that gets everyone killed.”
Mick laughed sharply. “I don’t know if you’ve been keepin up on your current events or not, slick, but I’m the least of your worries!”
Rory cringed, wondering how well those things could hear and fearing the answer. Wondering how long it would take them to get inside if they banded together like a decomposing lynch mob. “Don’t make it like this, Mick,” he said softly, brushing his hand against the Magnum.
Mick dropped his eyes to Rory’s hand and blinked. “Or what, Rory?” he asked with a laugh, closing the distance between them.
“Now just hold on,” Hooper tried to say with an official tone.
“Or we’ll tie you up and throw ya in the cooler,” Rory snapped.
Mick threw his head back and howled. “Shit! I’d like to see that!” he exclaimed, stopping in front of Rory. “You a badass now, Rory?”
Rory stepped closer, smelling the strong scent of whiskey on Mick’s breath.
“Well come on then, hero,” Mick whispered, clenching his fists.
“Mick stop,” Rachel said, getting to her feet.
Mick glanced at her and turned back to Rory with a smile. “No wonder she dumped you, a woman needs a man who can protect her.”
Rory pushed him in the chest with both hands, sending Mick tumbling to his butt. The .38 clattered across the
floor and came to a stop by the worn out bathrooms in the back of the bar.
“Hey!” Hooper shouted, sprinting to them before someone’s gun went off and let the whole world know they were here.
But Rory didn’t wait. He threw Mick’s cart wheeling legs aside and pounced. Mick reached up and tried scratching Rory’s face. Before Hooper reached them, Rory grabbed Mick’s extended arm, swung a leg around and pulled the arm backwards between his legs. Mick screamed in pain as his arm hyper extended at the elbow. His body twisted, desperate to find a position on the floor to ease the tension in his arm. Hooper bulldozed Rory off Mick before the arm snapped. They tumbled to the floor and crashed against a narrow table displaying an impressive model sailboat. The boat teetered on its wooden stand, the sails fluttering with the sudden jolt. Woody caught the mast and steadied the vessel before grabbing the loose .38 and tucking it into the back of his waistband. Quickly, he returned both hands to the shotgun and glanced to the front window where a skeleton, with nothing left but loose strips of skin, began banging into the window. Kourtney snapped her head around and inhaled sharply. The thing was literally skin and bones, making it impossible to tell if it was male or female. Thunder vibrated the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar while a half a dozen festering walkers meandered around the sodden lot behind Skin and Bones.
Rory turned back to Mick with a scowl. “You’re lucky he stopped me,” he said, getting to his feet and adjusting his gun belt.
“Fuck you, Rory!” Mick cried, favoring his arm and letting Doc help him to his feet.
Hooper stepped between them. “Everyone just take it easy!”
Mick turned to Woody. “Gimme that gun back!”
Woody backed away, the hammering on the window growing louder.
Hooper shook his head. “Mick I promise you, you’ll get that gun back when you’ve sobered up and settled down. I know you can shoot and we need your shot, but if we don’t work together then you’re right…” He trailed off and looked over his shoulder at the things stumbling through the rain. The things that used to be perfectly normal dead people. The things that, for one God forsaken reason or another, had been given another chance at life. “We are going to end up like those things out there.” He spoke softly and after a few quiet seconds turned back to Mick. “But don’t write us off just yet. We’ll shoot our way to higher ground.”
Mick’s face crumpled. “And when the bullets run out? Then what, Kojak?”
Hooper’s Adam’s apple bobbed one time. “We’ll make it.”
Mick giggled like he had just received a winning lottery notification from someone in Nigeria. “Right!”
Rory pushed past Woody and Hooper and headed for the front of the bar.
“Nice arm-bar,” Woody said under his breath as Rory passed by.
“Yeah, real nice! You’ll get yours, Jean Claude Van Dam,” Mick hollered.
Air burst from Rory’s mouth, making his lips flutter. “Nice reference, Grandpa,” he said over his shoulder, not bothering to take his eyes from the deceased populace outside.
Mick shook Doc off him. “Get the hell off me, old man!”
Rachel stepped in front of Rory, her face dripping with concern.
He sighed and dropped her heavy gaze. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She took his hand and spoke softly. “He’s just upset, Rory. We all are, but you’re scaring Alex.”
His eyes found Alex in a booth across the bar, peeking over his mom’s shoulder with wide eyes. Rory turned back to the window where six or seven shambling cannibals seemed more focused on keeping their legs moving than anything else. At least the little girl in the pink dress and Skin and Bones were gone. He released another long breath and sat down at a square table, letting his unfocused eyes hover on a greasy menu tucked between a silver napkin dispenser in the middle.
Mick dropped his head and massaged his arm. “It ain’t right,” he sobbed.
“Pull yourself together, Micky,” Doc hissed. “We’re going to need you. We’re going to need all of you.” His eyes bounced from person to person, refusing to move on until he was satisfied each one understood him. “Panicking now will get you a one way ticket to the front of the meal line! You got me?” His night eyes swept across the room and returned to Mick, who nodded just as slowly as the others.
Rachel took a seat with Rory and began chewing on a pinkie. “Do you think they’re in town, too?”
Rory looked up and met her worried eyes. He saw his mom and dad in there...panicking with seven or eight walking stiffs pounding on the windows. His parents’ house was a no gun zone and the thought made him shudder. His dad, Steven, was no hunter. Not much of an athlete either. He’d never stand a chance against those things. His mom on the other hand could outrun them – as long as she wasn’t wearing heels and didn’t get cornered. But at least they had Scout. Scout would rip those wrinkled bags of bones to pieces. Rory dropped his eyes to the wood veneer running across the table. “No way those things could make it all the way to town, not at the pace they’re moving.”
“Yeah, but, what if they’re coming out of the river?”
Rachel and Rory snapped their eyes to Woody and stared at him with stoic faces, the kind of faces that had just received grave news like someone in the family didn’t survive a car accident. Rory dropped his face into both hands and began rubbing, trying to flush the horror from his mind like sleep in his eye. “You had to say that, didn’t you?”
Woody pulled a chair out with a long screech and sat down, banging his head on the small light hanging above the table. “Dammit,” he groaned, massaging his forehead with one hand while gripping the shotgun with the other. “Who hangs things so goddamn low?” he grumbled.
Mick pushed past Doc and Hooper and slid into a booth near the restrooms. Woody leaned in closer to Rachel and Rory, his tangled hair swinging across his eyes. “We have to prepare ourselves for the worst, bro. This lake feeds into the Mouse River and if...”
Rory held up a hand and stopped him. “I get it,” he said, turning to Hooper. “We’ve gotta get home.”
Chapter Fifteen
A few hours later almost everyone was asleep, or looked asleep. Mick was definitely fast asleep. His heavy snoring gave him away, but how anyone could sleep with those things out there, Rory didn’t know. The thunder had abated but the rain and lightning refused to go quietly. Each searing pulse of white light engraved a new image into his mind that no amount of time could ever buff out. In the future - if there was a future – they’d have to work hard creating new memories to ever have a chance of not waking up in the middle of the night covered in a cold sweat and screaming at the top of their lungs. Even if they made it through this madness, it would haunt them until their dying days. They were damaged goods now.
He turned from the window and stared at the dimpled ceiling, knowing he needed some sleep. Rachel stirred next to him on the pool table they had turned into a makeshift bed with old blankets to soften the heavy slate beneath. They bunched up coats for pillows and even though they were a good three feet off the ground, the smell of stale beer wafting from the floor was overwhelming.
“Can I ask you a question?” Kourtney asked.
Hooper turned from the front window and met her full pupils.
She fidgeted on the blanket they had spread across an elevated stage, where there was just enough room for a three piece country band to jam until last call on the weekends. Empty soda cans, candy bar wrappers and the crowbar sat around them like a cheap picnic. “Why haven’t you ever asked me out?”
Hooper glanced at Alex, curled up on an old blanket in a booth across from them, and leaned his head against the wood paneled wall. “I’m too old for you.”
She laughed and quickly covered her mouth. “What are you, thirty-five?” she whispered. “That’s like three years older than me.”
“I wish,” he chuckled.
“Seriously, Ryan, I know you like Alex and he idolizes you.”
Hooper sm
iled and spun a darkened flashlight on the blanket in front of him. “He’s all right. Kind of a loud mouth but what’ya gonna do?”
Kourtney grinned and lightly elbowed him in the arm. “And I know I’ve caught you stealing a glance or two when I’m busy with a customer.”
His face fell. “What?” he laughed.
“Yeah, a girl knows how to use a mirror.”
Rory glanced at the large mirror behind the bar and smiled.
Floodwater Zombies Page 17