Mick cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, bunch of talking banana pirates and stuff,” he said, smiling at Alex, who paid no attention and kept working on his morbid masterpiece. Lightning cracked again, lighting up the soggy parking lot.
“Whatever happened to the days of having real people in cartoons? Like Scooby-Doo and The Jetsons and Captain Cavemen,” Rob asked, taking another swill from his bottle.
Mick pulled his eyebrows together and rubbed his thick mustache. “Technically, I don’t think Captain Caveman was a real person.”
Rob turned to him and raised his eyebrows. “Well, what the hell was he then?”
Mick shook his head making brown curls softly bounce beneath his worn trucker hat. “Not sure; a guinea pig or a turd or somethin.”
Rob twisted on his barstool. “But you admit he was a Captain, right?”
Mick cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “You got me on that one, partner,” he said, cheering Rob with his bottle.
“Do you guys want a cross or an angel?”
Slowly, they rotated their heads to the seven-year-old seated around the corner of the bar.
“For your tombstones, I mean,” Alex grinned, patiently awaiting their decisions.
Mick swallowed hard. “Somethin’s off with that kid,” he mumbled.
Rob took a slow pull from his bottle, keeping a wary eye on Alex the whole time. “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
Alex yanked his cap gun from its holster and pointed it at them. “Cross or Angel?” he asked slowly.
Rob smiled weakly. “Personally, I like crosses.”
Kourtney slammed the knife onto the cutting board. “Alex Gintner! You stop pointing that gun at people or I’m going to take it away.”
He frowned. “It’s not even real, mom.”
“I don’t care. Pointing any kind of gun at people is a bad habit.”
Reluctantly, he stuffed the gun into its holster and returned to his drawing.
Mick leaned in closer to Rob and spoke out the corner of his mouth. “Bet he grows up to be a serial killer.”
“I heard that!” Kourtney said, sliding the limes into the end compartment of a long, plastic garnish tray. She crossed over to them and leaned on the dark wooden bar, still clutching the knife inside a closed fist. “Maybe you two should be talking about how you’re going to find jobs instead of cartoons.”
Mick stared at her thoughtfully. “You don’t know what Captain Caveman was either, do ya?”
She tried not to laugh and wiped her hands on a white towel hanging from her belt. “I know you two are about as nutty as a Baby Ruth bar,” she said, turning to flip through a pile of receipts next to the cash register.
Rob stared longingly at her firm backside stuffed into a pair of tight fitting, black jeans. “Hey, somebody’s gotta keep you company until all those working stiffs get here.”
Kourtney laughed sharply, stapling some receipts together.
“Yeah, just think how much business you’d lose without us,” Mick added. “No one comes in here before four o’clock.”
She turned around and both men tore their gaze from her butt and pretended like they were watching the dusty TV behind the bar.
“That’s not true,” Kourtney said, slipping the receipts into a bank bag and zipping it shut. “You guys aren’t the only ones without jobs out there. Unfortunately.”
Rob looked around the empty bar. “We are today!” he laughed.
“Hey mom?”
“Yeah sweetie?” Kourtney said, pulling liquor bottles from a cardboard box and plugging gaps in the rows of bottles behind the bar.
“How do you spell bereaved?”
She stopped in her tracks, a bottle of Wild Turkey in one hand, and wrinkled her brow.
“Man, we gotta find a new bar,” Mick whispered.
Rob nodded slowly. “Yeah, maybe one with strippers instead of kids.”
“Or at least a flat screen TV.”
Rob chuckled. “Hell, I’d settle for an updated Golden Tee.”
The bell hanging from the front door’s elbow jingled as the door burst open, making everyone jumped. Their heads snapped around to see Sheriff Hooper, Rory, Rachel and Woody soaking wet and out of breath. The storm raged behind them, drowning out Eric Church’s Smoke a Little Smoke seeping from the jukebox. Lightning flared, lighting up the lines of driving rain. Kourtney’s eyes gravitated to the shotgun in Woody’s hands. Water dripped from its barrel as the glass door slowly shut behind him, bringing Eric back to life. Lightning flickered across the front window, lighting up Mick’s and Rob’s bewildered faces.
“What the sam hell?” Mick mumbled.
“Need you to lock this door and the one in the back right now,” Hooper ordered, scoping the lonely bar with wide eyes.
Kourtney frowned, shoving the box of liquor bottles to the side. “What’s wrong, Ryan?”
He crossed over to the bar and dropped a black duffel bag on it with a grunt. “No time to explain, just lock em!” he panted, grabbing Mick’s beer and draining it.
Mick watched him with his mouth hanging open and raised a finger into the air. “Umm…”
“Oh, don’t even tell me!” Kourtney said, snatching a buoy keychain from an anchor-shaped hook on the wall next to the cash register.
Doc came back through the wooden door with five sleeves of red Solo cups in his arms. “Don’t tell you what?”
“It’s the boogey man, isn’t it?” Alex asked, trading his magic marker for his cap gun.
Kourtney dashed past Doc and came around the bar, fumbling through the keys on her way to the front door. Doc’s eyes did a double take on the shotgun in Woody’s hands. He ran a hand through his slick backed hair and swallowed hard. “Oh sweet Jesus,” he gasped, the color leaving his face.
“What’s wrong, Grandpa? Are you feeling short of breath?”
Doc watched his daughter lock the front door. “You could say that, A-man,” he wheezed.
“Mom, Grandpa’s having a heart attack!”
“No I’m not, Alex!” he snapped, coming out from behind the bar. “What happened?”
Hooper wiped water from his face and checked the clip in his gun. “You don’t even want to know.”
Kourtney peered out the large front window that normally let in a ton of daylight. “How many were there?” she asked, scanning the blurry tree line across Highway Ten.
“A lot,” Rory said flatly, plopping into a padded metal chair at a square table.
Doc stopped in front of the sheriff and narrowed his eyes. “Ryan?”
Hooper met Doc’s thin gaze and nodded. “Everything they said,” he began, nodding to Rory and Rachel. “It was all true.” The two men held each other’s cold stare for a few seconds as thunder rattled the old light fixtures above. Hooper nodded again, rain dripping from the brim of his hat to the floor. “All of it.”
Doc’s face contorted into a ball of leathery wrinkles. “But how…how is that possible?”
Hooper shook his head. “I don’t know, Doc, but it is. They got two of my men and two divers from Garrison.”
Doc pulled his bushy eyebrows together and cleared his throat. “What got em?”
Hooper dropped his eyes to the cracked floor and shook his head. “Whatever they were, they were dead.”
Doc traded glances with Kourtney and coughed into his fist. “Who was dead?”
Hooper looked up and found Doc’s vexed eyes. “The people that came out of the lake.”
Rob set his beer on the bar, got up from his stool and threw on the leather jacket he had been sitting on.
Mick swiveled, watching him head for the front door. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Get my gun.”
“Oh, no you’re not!” Kourtney said, sliding between him and the front door. “That door is staying locked.”
Hooper dashed behind the bar and snatched the phone from its faded cradle on the wall. He put it to his ear and started punching buttons
. After just a few numbers, he stopped and began tapping the hang up button. “Shit!” He slammed the receiver back down and turned to the others. “It’s dead.”
An uneasy laugh escaped Woody. “What isn’t?”
“Let me go, Kourt!”
“Rob, you don’t need your gun!” Kourtney said, folding her arms across her chest and closing her fist around the keys.
“Let him get it!” Hooper hollered, sliding a silver cooler open and tossing a cold bottle of water to Rory, who passed it to Rachel. Hooper threw another one to Woody and then grabbed one for himself. “We’re going to need all the firepower we can get, but you make it quick, Robert!” he said, cracking the plastic top and taking a long drink.
Doc cast a sideways look at the sheriff and put his hands on his hips.
Hooper swallowed with a sigh. “Trust me, you don’t wanna be out there long.”
“Is it the boogeyman, Sheriff?”
Hooper turned to Alex, his chest still heaving inside his black t-shirt. He stared at the young boy for a moment before nodding grimly. “But we’re gonna be fine, buddy.”
Alex’s face brightened. “Can I have a real gun, just in case?”
Kourtney sighed and stepped aside, allowing Rob to bolt out the glass door and disappear into the hammering rain. Thunder rattled the old bar and the lights flickered again.
“That’s not good,” Woody said, surveying the ceiling. When the lights held, he shrugged and folded his long limbs into a chair, banging his head on a small light hanging above and scraping his bony knee on the underside of the table. “Dammit!” he winced.
“Those things gotta be coming out all around the lake,” Rory said, staring out the front window, which was like being in a car wash. He turned back to Woody’s shotgun lying on the table. “We each need a weapon.”
Rachel shivered and rubbed her arms. “Why are they in the lake?” she whispered, as if those things might hear her and come knocking.
“Maybe they’re aliens,” Woody said, keeping a close eye on the front door and rubbing his forehead. He swallowed, making his white necklace jump.
“Even if the phones did work, no one could drive in this storm. Not for awhile anyway. For now, it’s us against them,” Rory said softly.
Woody gripped the shotgun tighter in both hands, staring at the floor with unfocused eyes. “They’re so fast,” he whispered.
Rory stared at Rachel with tired eyes. He couldn’t tell if the water rolling down her pallid cheeks was from rain or tears.
“Rory’s right.” Hooper slammed a new clip into his handgun, racked a load and slipped it back inside its holster. “We make a stand here! Kourtney, go make sure that back door is locked.”
She hesitated before power walking around the bar. “We’re going to be okay, honey,” she said, kissing Alex on top of his head and pushing through the door behind the bar.
Hooper turned to Doc, who was busy scratching a furry sideburn, still trying to get his bearings. “You got any guns in here, Doc?”
The rain came down in buckets, falling in straight lines to the ground. As soon as Rob heard the door lock behind him he immediately began wishing he had parked his motorcycle closer, but, as usual, it sat way out where no one could ding it like some inconsiderate asshole had done at Walmart last month. He stopped and squinted to the right where the fuzzy outlines of two Harleys seemed to float above the gravel. The storm had triggered the only parking lot light to switch on early. It did little to illuminate the secluded lot on the best of nights, let alone now, and cast long shadows that stretched to the trees. His eyes bounced across the mostly empty lot to the quiet highway. It looked clear but everything was a gray blur filled with gloomy shadows.
He pulled his collar up and started for the bikes, passing Hooper’s patrol car - parked at a cockeyed angle off to the side. The broken passenger window gave him the goose bumps and the hair and skin stuck in the grill guard made his heart sink. Gravel crunched beneath his black combat boots while his eyes played tricks on him along the way. The bikes seemed to drift further away with each hasty step he took. The rain clouded his vision. His breath hitched when he saw someone standing in his peripheral vision. He jerked his head to the left and released the pent up breath, realizing it was just an old telephone pole, stained with rain and tar.
“Jesus Christ,” he chuckled, finally reaching his bike and fumbling for the key that unlocked the two fiberglass saddle bags. The rain slapped against the bike’s glistening gas tank, filling his ears with a steady hum. The black, leather tassels on the ends of his handlebars hung limply in the rain. A clap of thunder made him wince.
“Shit!” Rob hissed, dropping the keys to the wet gravel. He bent over. A branch snapped in the woods next to him just as his hand found the keys. He rose back up and inspected the woods, blinking water from his eyes. “Okay, this is creepy,” he muttered, finding the right key and sinuously sliding it into the lock with the experience of someone who had done it a thousand times before. The glossy side compartment popped open and Rob grabbed the shiny .38 Special sitting inside. He tucked a long box of bullets into his jeans with his other hand and quickly checked the pistol’s chamber. Another branch broke. He turned to the woods, rain streaming down his face. A dark shadow passed through a sparse spot in the thick row of trees and quickly vanished behind a broad bush.
With the jerk of his wrist, Rob slapped the chamber back into place and straightened his arm, pointing the gun at the ground as he tip-toed closer to the tree line. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he called out, trying to sound brave and failing. His boots stepped carefully from the gray gravel into the sodden green grass. His left hand peeled back a heavy branch of wet leaves. The gnarled face of a dead man grinned back at him with rotten teeth resembling a weathered fence guarding an abandoned house. Rob blinked and the man was gone.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “I’m seeing shit.” He tried to laugh but it was as difficult as seeing through the thick leaves. His eyes swept back and forth through the gray woods, blinking water away as his grip tightened on the small gun. Something shuffled and Rob drew a bead on a wet squirrel burrowing through some foliage.
He chuckled lightly, letting the branch snap back into place. “I shouldn’t of had that last beer,” he mumbled, turning for the bar. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of four silhouettes standing between him and the small bar nestled in the trees. The group stood there, silently watching him through the driving rain, their shoulders hunched at awkward angles.
“Doc?” Rob called out.
They didn’t respond or move, but the weight of their stares made his heart quicken.
“Awe hell,” he said softly. “Hope they’re watching me inside.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath of country air that smelled like worms. “Are you okay?” he yelled, praying for some sort of an intelligible response. Praying it was just a family from a lake house down the way. Praying the steady influx of water had forced them to higher ground.
Fat raindrops assaulted the ground, the leaves and the bar’s flat rooftop. He strained to hear and see. “Hello?” The four darkened shapes quietly studied him through the unyielding downpour. The gun in Rob’s hand suddenly felt heavier than it ever had during target practice.
Despite the rain, he swallowed dryly. “Yeah, this isn’t good.”
At the same time, they began limping towards him.
“Yep, this is bad,” he muttered, raising the gun. “Stop or I’ll shoot, goddamnit!”
They either didn’t hear him or didn’t care, and kept shuffling across the waterlogged parking lot, their shoes kicking up pieces of gravel with each languid step.
Rob widened his stance, bracing himself for the gun’s kick. He squinted through the rain. “Dammit, I’m not kidding around here, people!”
When they shuffled a few steps closer, he realized how wrong he was. They weren’t people. Not anymore. They were as dead as the breeze. His blood pounded thickly in his temples. He sho
ok rain water from his face. Sharp teeth sunk into his shoulder from behind. Rob threw his head back and screamed. Instinctively, his elbow swung around and connected with the face of an old man not wearing any pants. The man stumbled backwards and regained his footing.
Rob stared at him in horror. The man’s shirttails covered his privates but not the pasty chicken legs leading to feet with thick, yellow toenails. The geezer raised two bony hands, covered in liver spots, and staggered forward with a lifeless expression covering his scaly face. His splintered lips parted, releasing a long moan. Rob hesitated and then shot the thing in the mouth, silencing the bloodcurdling death groan. The man jerked backwards and crumpled onto his back, his skinny legs folding beneath him, exposing a shriveled up, headless penis.
Floodwater Zombies Page 14
