“Did you get a flu shot this season?”
“Hell no, that stuff only makes ya sicker. Why?”
Paul shook his head as Curtis studied him through thin eyes.
They passed a woman’s body lying beneath a colorful beach umbrella and Curtis pushed in a CD and turned it up, joining Garth Brooks for a slow one in a twangy voice that was anything but in tune. “You know a dream is like a river, ever-changin as it flows. And a dreamer’s just a vessel, that must follow where it goes…”
Paul glanced over his shoulder at Wendy, who looked even more frightened than when the shark was circling them. He couldn’t stop the smile he felt playing on his lips and turned back around while Curtis sang loud and proud. It was an awkward moment and Paul chose to suffer through it, just like Dan did when Sophia died.
Slowing the pickup down, Wavy Gravy appeared off in the distance, leaning to the left and half in the ocean. Paul sat up straighter in the front seat as memories came back on an angry wave: last night’s margarita’s, Wendy’s kiss, and those things after the anchor came loose. Bodies littered the sand and water around the expensive fishing vessel and Paul released a drained breath. The last thing he wanted to do was step back onboard that boat but they needed the bag of guns hiding under the couch. Brock went out of his way to give them to Paul and he wouldn’t turn away from a gesture that just might save their lives, Cora included.
Curtis turned off the stereo and listened to the surf. “How long did it take anyway?” he asked, staring at the boat. “For your wife to turn?”
“A few days, but my buddy, Dan, turned in a matter of minutes, if not seconds. That’s why we need to get back to the house.”
“We will.” Curtis put it in park and looked at Wendy in the mirror. “How much bud ya got anyway?”
“I don’t know. A half a pound or so.”
His eyes gravitated to the plump breasts trying to escape her red bikini top. “It’s not schwag, is it?”
“No, Curtis, it’s not schwag. And my eyes are up here.”
He smiled and got out.
Paul shook his head and followed, drawing the gun from the holster strapped around his wet board shorts. Cautiously, they approached the boat, scaring away some birds picking at the bodies in the sand that he half expected to reanimate at any second. It was a bloody massacre that smelled like death warmed over. Inside Wavy Gravy it was even worse. Piles of bodies, warmed by the sun, blocked the narrow walkways. Holding his breath, Paul scaled a few stiff corpses and grabbed the black duffel bag from under the folding couch seat while Wendy bagged up the food in the kitchen.
“What the hell?” Curtis picked a DVD case up off the coffee table. “Were you guys watching Fools Gold?” He held the movie up, folding his brow.
Wendy snatched it from his hand. “Yeah, and we’re going to watch it again. You got a problem with that?”
“Actually, I…”
“Good! It’s settled then,” she said, bagging up the other DVDs and somebody else’s iPod she danced with Paul to the night before.
Carefully stepping over more bodies in the tiny living room, Paul headed for the broken sliding glass door with the duffel bag hanging from a shoulder and his face turning purple from lack of oxygen. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Back beneath the sun, he drew a deep breath and holstered his weapon, clearing his lungs of the rot inside. Hopping down into the sand, he hiked the bag up his shoulder and stared at the bloated people lying in the sand, wondering who they were and where they came from when a man in a torn tuxedo came slashing around the front of the boat and seized Paul’s arm. His heart jumped. The duffel bag slipped to the beach as he backed into the boat. Balling the tux into his fists, Paul held the man at bay while Curtis put a gun to the side of the groom’s head and dropped him with a deafening blow, spraying Paul with cold blood.
Curtis stared down at the man, a black Glock hanging in his hand and the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “Told you I was going to kill someone if I didn’t get high soon.”
Paul stretched his jaw, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. “If you don’t stop shooting right by my head I’m going to kill you next.”
“Oh, that’s the thanks I get for saving your life again, princess?”
“I had it under control!”
“Didn’t look that way to me.”
Paul’s eyes rose over Curtis’ shoulder and widened as a mangled bride in a bloody wedding dress shambled out from the back of the boat. A bloody veil hid her face and before Paul could warn him, she wrapped Curtis in a cold embrace and buried her hidden sneer in his neck. Sprinting over, Paul stuck the barrel of his gun against her forehead. The bride shrieked so loud he saw stars before squeezing the trigger and covering Curtis in blood and brains.
Curtis staggered back in the sand, cupping his ear. “Motherfucker!”
“Now we’re even!” Paul snatched up the duffel bag and headed for the truck with Wendy right behind him.
“Even? You still owe me two more saves!”
The black F-150 flew down the sandy shoreline, spraying water back into the ocean on one side of the racing pickup like a Ford commercial where everything is puppy dogs and rainbows. Curtis passed a smoking joint to Paul in the seat next to him.
Paul waved him off and Curtis handed it to Wendy, who wet one side before bringing it to her lips.
Curtis exhaled a rolling plume that made him cough. “Damn, girl, you weren’t kidding. That’s some good shit.”
Paul put on his seatbelt. “Hey, how about slowing down a little before you kill us? Last time I checked the hospitals are all closed.”
“Relax, grandma, I’m a professional driver. Remember?” Curtis gave it even more gas, stepping on Paul’s last nerve.
“Wait. Doesn’t NASCAR test for weed? How can you get baked all the time?”
“I buy someone else’s urine,” he replied as if Paul were a complete idiot. “They don’t search you during a test.” He cracked his window and took the joint from Wendy. “God, I miss it,” he sighed. “All that work, and for what? This?”
Paul cringed, realizing Curtis mourned the loss of his NASCAR job as much as Paul mourned the loss of his wife and maybe that was why he was such an asshole.
Curtis hit the joint, making the cherry glow. “So what’d you do before this, Jonny Depp?”
Paul leaned against his door and sighed, fogging the glass and debating whether or not he had the energy to even answer. “I worked at a radio station.”
“No shit? In Des Moines?”
He nodded, watching amazing beach houses that no one would ever step foot inside again whiz past in pink and turquoise streaks. It was such a goddamn waste. He could just imagine what this idyllic coastal town would look like in five years.
Overgrown.
Weathered.
A little more dead.
Just like him.
“So what’d you do? Sell commercials and stuff? Clean the restrooms?”
“He had his own morning show on a rock station,” Wendy replied, leaning between them. “Paul to the Wall.”
Curtis started laughing, coughing out clouds of smoke. “Paul to the Wall?” He shook his head and took a long drink of water. “So what happened? Pandora stick ya in with the VCRs and flip-phones?”
Paul’s eyebrows drew together. “What happened? The zompocalypse happened, idiot!”
Curtis grunted. “Well lucky us, I’ll be sure to call you if I need any fart jokes or crank calls when the next horde pushes through.” Glancing at Wendy in the mirror, he pressed on the gas pedal. “But first we need to get back and check on Troy-boy. Hopefully he’s feeling better.”
Paul and Wendy didn’t reply.
“He could be!” Curtis snapped, reading into their silence. “You never know what could happen in this messed up world. Maybe it skips some people, like chicken pox or measles.”
Back inside the beach house, it was hot and quiet with no one in sight. Paul set the duffel
bag down and stared at the empty couch basking in the sunshine, a bad feeling creeping into his marrow. He pulled his handgun, seeing stragglers hiding in the corners, waiting to pounce.
Crossing the living room with his gun pointed at the floor, Curtis stopped and held a hand up, rotating his head slightly to the left. “You hear that?”
A faint whimpering carried down the glass hallway leading to the bedrooms on the lower level. Wendy clutched her pink gun in both hands and crept barefoot across the sand-colored tiles, nervously swinging her head in different directions, seeing the same ghosts as Paul. The further down the hall they got, the louder the whimpering became. Stopping at a shut door covered in bloody handprints, they traded quiet looks while someone sobbed on the other side.
“That doesn’t look good.”
“Steph?” Curtis whispered, slowly reaching for the knob.
The door cracked open and their guns jerked to Stephanie’s teary-eyed face. Paul unlocked a pent-up breath and lowered his weapon, glancing behind him.
“Get in here,” she whispered, towing Curtis inside and locking the door.
“What happened?”
Stephanie nervously pulled wet hair over the shoulders of a clean tank top. “I think he killed Cora.”
“What?” Paul said way too loud, his voice echoing in the spacious five-piece bathroom.
Curtis stepped forward. “Who? Troy?”
She nodded, shaking more tears loose. “He was fine just a few minutes before and then…”
“Then what?”
Rubbing her bare arms, she trembled like an October leaf. “Then he just…” She shook her head, letting her eyes go blurry.
Curtis pinched his gaze into razor thin slits. “He just what?”
“Turned.”
“Jesus Christ,” Paul whispered, glaring at Curtis. “I told you this would happen.”
Curtis kept his eyes on his sister. “What? How?”
“It was the bite,” she answered, looking at Paul. “You were right. He just kept getting worse and worse.”
Curtis leaned against the sink to keep from collapsing into a puddle of despair. When he looked up at Stephanie in the mirror, his words came out in a chilled voice. “Did you kill him?”
She dropped his piercing gaze and twisted a sapphire ring on her finger, shifting from one combat boot to the other.
“Did you kill him?” he slowly repeated.
“No, I took a shower and then was fixing him something to eat in the kitchen,” she explained, wiping wet tracks from her face. “When I shut the fridge door he was standing on the other side, staring at me with this…look in his eyes.” Stephanie studied the tiled flooring, the hint of a smile brushing the corners of her lips. “At first, I thought he was feeling better and that he was finally hungry for something to eat.” She looked up. “And then he attacked me.”
A tendon flared in Curtis’ neck. “Bullshit! He would never do that.”
“He smashed me up against the sink and I stabbed him in the head with a butcher’s knife and he kept coming!” She turned to the bathroom door and spoke in a soft voice. “But that wasn’t Troy out there. That Troy is gone.”
Curtis staggered back into a wall, stunned and unnerved. “You stabbed him in the head? Are you fucking serious?”
“The blade bounced right off his skull and didn’t even faze him.”
“Knives don’t work on them,” Paul said, inspecting the magazine in his 9mm. “Their skulls and bones don’t deteriorate as fast as the rest of them.” He slapped the mag back in with his palm. “They aren’t piñatas; not yet anyway.”
“But it was enough to make him stumble back a few steps.” Stephanie gestured to the clawfoot tub. “So I ran in here and locked the door. He beat on it for a while and I didn’t have my gun so I just prayed the door would hold.” She tried on a smile that didn’t fit. “It did.”
“Where’s he at now?” Curtis asked.
“I don’t know.” Stephanie massaged her temples. “He finally gave up and then I heard a scream that sounded like it came from upstairs.” Her glassy eyes jerked to Paul. “It sounded like Cora.” She swallowed thickly. “Then someone started hammering on the door again and it stopped right before you got here.”
Paul exhaled a heavy breath. “Why didn’t you have your gun?”
“I-I left it on the kitchen island when I was making him lunch.”
Curtis frowned. “You know better than that, Steph!”
“It was hurting my hip and I didn’t think I’d need it! He was fine two minutes before.” Her eyes fell to the floor and turned distant. “We were talking about that time we all went camping at Devil’s Lake, when Dad fell out of the boat.” She looked up. “You remember that?”
He blew out a low breath. “I remember.”
Paul’s eyes bounced between them, his hand slowly going to the doorknob.
Curtis smacked it away. “I’ll go first. He’s my brother.”
Paul took a step back and swept his gun out. Curtis filled his lungs and quietly opened the door, jumping back into Paul, who fell against Stephanie. They stared in horror at Cora standing in the hallway just outside the door. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and blood ran from a gash in her neck, staining the tattered robe hanging wide open. Curtis raised his handgun.
“Paul,” she said weakly.
“No, don’t,” Paul screamed.
Curtis pulled the trigger and shot Cora in the face. Her head snapped back and dark blood sprayed the glass wall behind her just before she slid to the floor.
“Noooo!” Paul slammed Curtis up against the bathroom wall, clenching his teeth. “Why did you do that?”
“She was a straggler!” Curtis pushed back and Paul slammed him against the wall again, bringing down a towel rack.
“She just said my name, you asshole!”
“There was a bite mark in her neck!”
“You don’t know that!” Paul pushed harder. “She said my name.”
Curtis turned to Cora’s crumpled body, grasping at words and lowering his voice. “I’m sorry, bro, I thought she was one of them. It was an accident.”
Paul pushed off him and spun around to Cora, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ,” he said, tightening his grip on his gun. Troy was still out there and he needed to stay frosty but the blood pooling around Cora’s head made that a difficult prospect. Checking up and down the hallway, he knelt down and rolled her over.
“Was she bit?” Wendy whispered, peering over his shoulder with her gun clutched in both hands.
Paul looked away from the horror etched into what was left of Cora’s face, stomach tightening. “Yes.”
“See?”
Paul shot to his feet and slammed Curtis up against the same wall, rattling the mirror on the opposite side. “That doesn’t mean shit! She hadn’t turned yet!”
“But she would’ve, man. She would’ve.”
Paul drilled him with a piercing glare before storming from the bathroom and going back out front. The others followed with their heads on swivels.
“Troy!” Curtis yelled, making Paul cringe.
“Curtis.”
“I’m trying to draw him out.”
“It doesn’t always work like that. Now he knows where we are.”
“Good.” Curtis entered the lower level living room where the bloody couch was just as empty as it was when they returned from Wavy Gravy. The sunlight streaming through the glass walls turned everything into a silhouette. A man standing in the corner turned out to be a coat rack with a sunhat and raincoat draped from the hooks.
Their heads jerked to the ceiling at the same time.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Trading silent looks, Curtis nodded to the staircase and Paul followed, climbing the naked steps on rubbery legs, expecting Troy to reach through and grab an ankle at any second. The thumping grew louder and the hair stood up on the back of Paul’s neck. This was going to end badly and he ju
st wanted it to end.
At the top of the second floor landing, the thumping was loud and steady as a clock. Cautiously spilling into a large game room with the same glass walls as the rest of the place, the group stopped in front of a massive billiards table with leather pockets. Paul stared past the red felt with his mouth agape and a lump wedged in his throat, watching Troy pound a bloody fist against a glass wall overlooking the horses below.
Thump!
Thump!
Thump!
Troy wanted out. That much was clear. He wanted a piece of those horses and Paul had time to think about how much more confused Troy was as a newborn corpse than Mike & Molly were back at the beach.
“Troy?” Curtis said in a shaky whisper.
Troy stopped pounding on the glass and everything got quiet. He stared out the window and Paul adjusted his sweaty grip on the Beretta, intrigued and terrified.
“Troy!”
Hesitating for a moment, Troy slowly turned to Curtis with a blank look in his sunken eyes and blood running from the corners of his mouth. Purple veins spider-webbed through his ashen skin like thin worms burrowing into his flesh. His mouth began opening and closing as if he was trying to tell them something. Maybe that he loved them and to chin up or that he was sorry about Cora. But the only thing that came out was a stream of thick dark fluid that oozed down his Chevy cut-off and slapped to the hardwood flooring around his bare feet.
Paul took aim, curling his index finger around the cool trigger and lining up white dots with Troy’s forehead. They’d seen enough.
“Don’t you fucking dare!”
He looked over to find Curtis pointing the Glock at his head. Wendy swung her gun on Curtis and spread her legs.
“He’s gone, Curtis,” Paul said, not lowering the weapon.
“You don’t know that for sure!”
“Curtis stop!” Stephanie pleaded.
“Drop it, Curtis,” Wendy said, her voice as steady as her aim. “Or I’ll drop you where you stand.”
Paul jerked his chin. “That’s not your brother anymore. That man is gone.”
“Paul, put the gun down,” Curtis said calmly.
Dead Series (Book 2): A Little More Dead: Gunfire & Sunshine Page 4
