"You sure about that?"
"Yeah. If I get this done today, I can do all the pipe laying tomorrow. That way, you won't lose any business over it."
She sighed. "Well, it's your call, but if you change your mind, if it gets too hot for you, I'll be inside." Loretta redid her bun and returned to the diner.
Duke took measure of her quivering rear end. A six pack or two and the offer might start looking good. He swore off beer for a while.
A half-hour later, the diner's back door opened again. This time Red from Red's Taxidermy and Mortuary and a thin, older guy in jeans walked through it.
"Howdy, Duke." Red extended his hand. "Don't know if you remember me or not . . ."
Duke took Red's withered hand in a firm, but not too firm, shake. "Sure."
"This here is Walter Hastings."
Walter tipped his baseball cap. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"Walter's been having some trouble with his cows, and I was just telling him about that trick you did with my dogs. How they're all nice and friendly now."
"I can make 'em mean again for you."
"No, that's alright. I like 'em better this way. But like I was saying, Walter's been having trouble with his cows, and I mentioned to him about your way with dogs. And he was wondering if maybe you had a way with cows, too?"
"You tried a vet?"
"Walter here don't trust vets. He thinks they're part of the . . . uh . . . what's that you're always saying there, Walt?"
"Inflated and excessive medical establishment."
"I guess I can take a look." Duke checked the burning sun hanging directly overhead. "I was about to take a break anyway."
"I surely would appreciate it. I'll pay you for your time. Say, twenty bucks?"
Duke stuck his shovel in the dirt. "Let's go."
Rather than squeeze in the cab of the pickup, he sat in the back along with Walter's dog, Betty. The mutt was a mix of two dozen breeds with notable traces of collie, Doberman, and, judging from her size, Saint Bernard. She laid her head on his lap, and Duke scratched behind her ears.
"Told'ja he had a way with animals," Red said.
The truck bounced down the road, pulling off after a few miles. The vehicle cut across Walter's land to a small herd of six thin cows. They were mostly skin and bones, their ribs showing through their sagging flesh and their deflated udders hanging limply. One lifted her head from the dry brush she was chewing to check out the approaching truck. She resumed grazing.
"So what exactly is the problem?" Duke asked as he hopped off the truck to take a look.
"Well, they aren't sick, and they're not eating any less, near as I can determine. They're just losing weight, and they stopped giving milk."
"Anything else?"
"They seem kind'a stupid." Walter pointed out a large Jersey. "Melinda here use'ta be smart as a whip. For a cow. Now she's just got this—I don't know—empty look in her eyes. Like she don't even know me."
Duke circled Melinda twice. He ran his hand along her bumpy spine and checked her tongue and teeth. He patted the cow's thin neck. Melinda snorted dryly and stirred.
"I think I see your problem here."
"Nuthin' serious, I hope."
Duke pulled his pocket knife. " 'Fraid so. What you got here is six dead cows." He stuck the blade deep into Melinda's side between her ribs. The cow didn't seem to mind. He pulled out the knife and stuck his finger in the wound. "Yep. No blood, see? It's all dried up."
Walter and Red stepped in for a closer look.
"Son of a bitch," Red remarked.
Walter pulled off his cap and scratched his tangled gray hair. "Sweet Jesus, I ain't never seen nuthin' like that. So what are we talking about here? These cows are like zombies or sumthin'?"
Duke nodded. "Yep."
"Hell. I knew Loretta was having problems, but I didn't think cows could become zombies. How's sumthin' like that happen?"
"Couldn't say, but the whole lot will have to be put down. Right now they're still eating grass, but they'll be craving flesh soon."
"But they're dead. How do you kill them?"
"Bullet in the head should work, same as any zombie."
"The whole herd?"
"Sorry."
Walter patted Melinda between her eyes. "I'm gonna miss you, old girl. I got a thirty-eight in the glove box."
"That'll do."
"Uh . . . how long do we got before they get hungry?" Red asked.
"Not long, I'll bet," Duke replied.
"How about now?"
The other men saw that the herd had surrounded them unnoticed. The cowbells should've warned them, but none had been paying close enough attention.
"Damn," Duke swore under his breath. This sort of thing would happen now.
While the sun was up he was stuck in his man form. One almost human werewolf and two unarmed geezers weren't much of a match for six walking dead Jerseys.
Melinda raised her head and uttered a low, haunting howl. The rest of the herd joined her in a bloodcurdling moan that seemed to bubble up from the sulfurous pit of Hell itself.
"Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oo."
Eyes full of unnatural hunger, loose lips smacking, the herd closed in. The clang of cowbells marked their otherwise silent advance.
The pickup was only twenty feet away, but the herd stood between the men and the truck. Duke scooped up a large rock with a pointed end. He guessed it a fair implement for smashing in a cow's skull. His best choice at the moment.
The cows licked their lips and nostrils with purple, flaking tongues.
He raised the rock over his head and charged a white-and-brown Jersey. He swung the stone with all his weight and muscle behind it. It struck with a deafening crack, tearing away fur and skin, exposing the broken skull beneath. The cow lurched clumsily to one side. Grunting, Duke struck again. The cow bawled out a muted cry as her brainpan caved in. Duke glimpsed the brains beneath. Calling on what little supernatural strength he had, he unleashed a third blow. Bone shattered beneath stone, and the hit crushed the zombie's brains. The cow fell over in a twitching heap. She took his rock with her, firmly lodged in her skull.
But he didn't need it anymore. There was a hole in the herd's line. The truck (and its glove box) was an easy dash away.
Melinda charged from his right. Her fierce head butt to his hip knocked him flat on his ass. His vision blurred, he could barely see the hooves flailing at his face. He jerked clumsily out of the way, narrowly avoiding a braining.
Walter made a run for it. He zipped past two snapping zombies, but a third slammed him. He tumbled over the cow carcass. A Jersey bit a chunk out of his leg. His face twisted as he spit out a muffled groan.
Zombies nipped at Red's arms. They ripped his sleeves but didn't draw blood.
Melinda's slavering jaws dangled over Duke's face. He launched a punch at her nose. It landed in her mouth. She bit off his index and middle fingers. Blood dripped from her sagging lips as she casually chewed.
It hurt like hell, but the fingers would grow back. If he survived this ordeal. Werewolves could die by only specific circumstances: silver, fire, decapitation, some types of magic, and certain varieties of supernatural creatures. Getting eaten alive might make the list as well. He had never bothered to check.
Melinda swallowed with a satisfied slurp.
Betty leapt from the truck's bed. The dog fearlessly sprang upon the cow, sinking her teeth into Melinda's tender flank. A human zombie would've ignored the dog, but the freshly dead cows still retained a hint of bovine instinct. Melinda kicked Betty away. Betty spat out the shreds of skin and muscle. She bared her teeth, frothing at the mouth, and barking ferociously. The confused Jerseys backed away.
Duke and Red helped Walter to his feet. Duke practically hoisted Walt's wiry frame under one arm, and they ran to the truck. Walt and Red climbed into the cab. Duke hopped onto the bed. Walter jammed his key in the ignition. Red opened the glove box and found the revolver and a box of ammo. The
bullets spilled onto the floor and across the seat. He grabbed up a handful and shoved them into the cylinder.
The cows' unnatural appetite overwhelmed their fear. Betty nipped at Melinda's ankles. A grazing kick glanced off her muzzle, sending her sprawling.
Walt started the truck and mashed the accelerator. The pickup peeled away, raising a cloud of dust.
Duke whistled. Betty jumped to her wobbly legs and dashed after the truck. Walt slowed down just enough to allow her to jump into the bed.
The zombies gave chase but quickly fell behind. Walter watched them become small dots in his rearview mirror before stopping.
"What the hell are you doing?" Red asked.
Walter took the thirty-eight and got out of the truck. He limped over to the tailgate and had a seat as the herd drew closer. He gave Duke his handkerchief.
"Sorry about your fingers there, son."
Duke wrapped his bloody hand. A red stain spread across the white cloth. "Ain't as bad as it looks."
Mooing, the ravenous zombies were almost within picking off range.
"They really were a good bunch of girls."
"I'd do it for you, but I'm left-handed."
Walt raised his revolver in two steady hands. "S'alright. I should do it. I owe 'em that much."
He squeezed off one well-aimed shot. The bullet punched a bloodless wound between a Jersey's eyes. It fell over. With single-minded determination, the rest of the herd trotted forward. Frowning, Walt put down the rest of the Jerseys. Five cows in five shots. The last zombie collapsed just six steps from her goal. Betty jumped from the bed and cautiously sniffed the corpses convulsing in the dirt.
"Is that normal?"
"Pretty much. How's your leg?"
Walter shrugged. "I've had worse. I ain't going to turn into a zombie, am I?"
"Doesn't work that way, usually, but if you wanna play it safe eat a lot of salt the next couple of days. That should clean out your system just fine."
"Don't you think we ought to get you fellas patched up?" Red shouted from the cab.
Walter dug a worn twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and threw in another twenty bucks for Duke's lost fingers. He climbed into the driver's seat.
"Betty, get your butt in gear!"
The dog snarled at one dead cow, barked at another, and ran back to the truck.
A werewolf's wounds healed according to when they were received. Once, Duke's chest had been blown open by a point-blank shotgun blast, but the damage had been done after dark during a full moon. He'd simply dusted himself off and gotten on with his evening. But his fingers had been bitten off around noon during the cycle of the new moon, and the digits were taking their sweet time in growing back.
He wiggled the knuckle-and-a-half that had regenerated so far. The loss forced him to eat his dinner with his off hand, which wasn't all that difficult, but still annoying, nonetheless.
Yawning, Earl emerged from the kitchen.
" 'Bout time you got yer ass up," Duke said between bites of chili.
The vampire fumbled around in his overalls' deep pockets and produced a comb. He took a seat on the stool beside Duke and ran the teeth through his thin hair. He combed it one way. Then another. Then another. Finally ending up with a laughable combover gracing his clearly bald head. Duke cut Earl a break. It may have been a ridiculous attempt, but at least Earl couldn't check himself in a mirror to realize how stupid it looked. Earl yawned again.
"You're teeth are out," Duke informed.
The vampire ran his tongue across his teeth and felt the bump of his extended fangs.
"Shit."
He turned away and grumbled at the undead bloodsucker's version of the embarrassing morning boner. Actually, vampires still got those as well, though not usually at the same time.
"C'mon. C'mon. That's it." Fangs retracted, he turned back. "Thanks. So you wanna tell me what happened to your fingers."
"Zombie cow."
"Longhorn?"
"Jersey."
Earl winced. "That's gotta be embarrassing. I mean, a big, badass werewolf like yourself gettin' his ass kicked by Bossie the milk cow."
"Funny."
"Or was it Bessie?"
Duke cracked his knuckles one at a time. Earl knew that to be a sign of dangerous annoyance but couldn't stop himself.
He snapped his fingers. "I got it. It had to be a Clarabell. Am I right?"
Duke's arm moved in a blur. Earl felt the sting of the spoon imbedded in his gut before he actually saw it.
"Damn it, Duke. This is my favorite shirt, you humorless prick."
He grabbed the two inches of handle sticking out and tugged with little effect. He summoned a portion of his undead strength and pulled harder. The utensil held tight, and he was reluctant to call upon more supernatural muscle for fear of accidentally tearing a bigger hole in his shirt.
A few ounces of vampire blood, dull red and thick as molasses, oozed from the wound. Earl grabbed a napkin and wiped it away.
His side began to tingle ever so slightly.
"Goddamn! That chili didn't have garlic in it, did it?"
"Just a touch," Duke replied.
The tingle grew into a light burning twinge.
Earl clutched his side and danced around in a panicky circle. "Get it out! Get it out! Get it out!" The vampire hopped from foot to foot. He grimaced.
Duke grabbed Earl by the shoulder and threw him against the counter. "Quit your twitchin'."
"Be careful. It's my favorite shirt."
The werewolf extracted the spoon with a twist of his wrist. A loud rip echoed through the diner as the overalls tore. Duke tossed the utensil on the counter.
"I licked the spoon, you puss."
Earl put his finger through the tear in his clothes. "You didn't have to do that. I loved this shirt. It makes my shoulders look wider."
"Maybe next time you'll keep your mouth shut."
"You gotta admit. It's pretty funny."
"I could've been killed. Maybe."
"That's what makes it so funny."
Duke picked up the spoon and tapped it against the bowl.
"Alright already. Damn, you lose a couple of fingers and your sense of humor with 'em. Not that you had much to begin with."
They took their seats back at the counter.
"Cows huh? How many?"
"Six."
Earl whistled. "That ain't good."
"And I don't think they were dead when they turned. They were too fresh. Whatever got into 'em, it got 'em when they were still alive."
"You don't think it's contagious, do you?"
"We burned the carcasses just to be safe, but Loretta has been burning her zombies. So that doesn't appear to be stopping it."
"Hell."
Both men knew what to expect if this continued to spread unchecked. Especially if it didn't limit itself to things already dead. Earl, being neither alive nor dead, and Duke, possessing unnatural powers of regeneration, were safely immune to zombiefication. The ordinary citizens of Rockwood were not.
"Maybe we should just move on," Earl suggested, "before things get . . . messy."
"Yep. Maybe we should."
Both knew they wouldn't. Whatever evil might be at work, only they stood a chance of stopping it. If they left now the good folks of Rockwood would surely be doomed. If not to transformation into a town of shambling zombies, then to ammunition shortages and plunging property values. Duke and Earl just couldn't do it.
Their gas tank was nearly empty, and they were flat broke.
"Guess it's time to call Hector."
Duke nodded. "Couldn't hurt."
Earl asked to use Loretta's phone. She quickly agreed when he explained it should help resolve the situation. The vampire took a seat by the phone with a notepad.
"Who's he calling?"
"Just this guy we know in El Paso," Duke replied. "He's a warlock."
"Metaphysical scholar," Earl corrected.
"Whatever. He knows all abo
ut this kind of stuff."
"That so? Then why didn't you call him before?"
"Didn't realize the seriousness of the situation."
"Don't worry about a thing. I'm sure once I explain things to Hec, he'll—Hey, Hec. It's Earl. We got a big walking corpse problem, and we were hoping maybe you could help us out."
While Earl carried out his thorough phone consultation, Loretta gave the floor a cursory mopping, and, having nothing better to do, Duke lent a hand. They worked in awkward silence broken only by the slap of brown mops against tile and Earl's half-conversation. Finally, much as Duke tried to avoid it, both wound up wringing out their mops at the same time.
Loretta wrung first. "I don't want you feeling uncomfortable about this morning. If anyone should be embarrassed about that, it's me." She chuckled. "I came on a little strong. Hell, I was worse than a two-dollar whore."
"Wasn't that bad," Duke replied.
"Yes, it was. The point is, I've got needs, but that don't give me any right to force them on you. I understand if a handsome young fella like yourself doesn't want to have anything to do with a woman of my . . . proportions."
An uncomfortable grunt rose from Duke's throat. "It ain't that."
"Now, now, I'm a grown woman. You don't gotta worry about hurting my feelings."
He dipped his mop in the bucket. She was right, of course. Somewhat. But there was more to it than that.
"Look. It ain't about that. You're a good woman, Loretta. And I'm, well, I am what I am."
She leaned closer and whispered. "You mean, you can't . . . perform?"
Duke recoiled. " 'Course I can perform. Pretty damn well, too. It's just my . . . uh . . . condition."
"Does that make it dangerous when you . . . ?"
"Yes. Yeah, see when I get too excited . . . things can get . . . risky."
It was an outright lie. He didn't transform against his will. His monstrous form was all rage and fury, designed to stalk and kill. It had nothing at all to do with carnal relations, but lying to her seemed the easiest way to get himself out of an uncomfortable situation.
"That's alright, Duke. I understand. It's no big thing." She scowled at the eternal red splotch. It always came off easy enough but never took five minutes to return.
Gil's All Fright Diner Page 4