Floodwater Zombies

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  “Please,” he moaned weakly. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and ran down his chin. “It hurts.” He winced in pain and dry heaved.

  “Damn!” Rory exclaimed, turning his back to Woody and running both hands through his hair. Rachel returned his helpless stare with her hands covering her mouth. He shook his head and spun back around, glaring at the blood running out of his best friend’s chest. “Shit!” he said, realizing that cursing was his only real solution.

  “I know,” Woody said softly, his eyelids beginning to droop. “But it’s okay, man. It’s no one’s fault.”

  “It’s someone’s fault!” Rory cried, kicking his shoe through the pooling water and splashing the Golden Tee.

  Woody bent over and clutched his stomach with both hands just before throwing up a black liquid that smelled like spoiled chicken.

  Kourtney pulled Alex tighter against her side and backed closer to the restrooms, watching Woody with eyes that were just as big as her son’s.

  “He’s gonna kill us,” Alex whispered, unable to tear his frozen gaze from Woody.

  “No,” Kourtney said, blinking tears down her shiny face. “We’re going to be just fine,” she lied.

  Hooper cringed when the smell hit him. He unleashed his weapon and pointed it at the water covering the floor, his chest pounding inside his black t-shirt.

  “No!” Rory yelled, his hand going to his gun. “We don’t have to do that!”

  Hooper held up his free hand to Rory without taking his eyes off Woody. “Just relax, Rory!”

  Woody’s pale face seemed to glow in the darkness. He glanced at Hooper’s gun and nodded. “Do it. Please.”

  Hooper shifted in his stance and traded a quick glance with Rory.

  “Don’t do it!” Rory begged.

  Woody vomited again and inhaled a long, wheezing breath of smelly air. Hooper raised the gun and pointed it at him.

  Rory drew his gun and pointed it at Hooper. “Fucking drop it, Hooper!”

  Woody straightened back up and wiped his mouth with a bloody hand, smearing a crimson stain across his pallid cheek. “Rory!” he barked, making himself cough. “What’re you doing? He’s a cop!”

  “I don’t care! No one is shooting anyone!”

  “Rory stop!” Rachel cried.

  “No!” Rory countered, his mind racing to find a reasonable argument to defend his protest.

  “You’ll have to shoot me then, Rory,” Hooper said turning back to Woody. The gun shook in his right hand. His index finger found the trigger and coiled around it like a thick python. He took a deep breath and held it. “I’m sorry, Woods. You didn’t deserve this.”

  Woody snorted, shooting blood out his nostrils. “No one did,” he whispered, not bothering to wipe his face. He turned to Rory with watery eyes. “Please stop.”

  Rory kept his gun on Hooper, and blinked a tear down his face.

  “Rory!” Woody pleaded.

  Rory glanced at his friend and released a dejected sigh before lowering his weapon. “This is bullshit. Maybe you won’t…”

  Woody held up a bloodstained hand. “I don’t have much time.” He stopped to take some heavy breaths before continuing. “Thank you for being the best friend a guy could ever ask for. I know you didn’t want to come back but I was so glad you did. You were always there for me, even now, and I can’t tell you how much that means to...” His eyes tightened as a sharp pain gripped him.

  Another tear slid down Rory’s cheek. He could only shake his head and turn to the others for help, but found only glum faces in response. His wide eyes returned to Woody and blinked another tear down his face “I’m so sorry, Wood,” he quivered, giving up on finding a rational resolution to their dilemma. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

  Woody’s body constricted with another spasm. When the pain passed, he relaxed and took short breaths in quick successions. “Make sure they use the picture of me at Yellowstone at my funeral. I had a good hair day that day,” he smiled, coughing into his hand. He smeared the blood across his torn shirt, the color continuing to drain from his shivering body.

  Rory wiped his face with the back of his hand and nodded, unable to form a complete sentence, unable to think and breathe at the same time, let alone speak.

  A bloody grin slipped across Woody’s face. He snorted, shooting more blood out his flared nostrils. “Shit, I just remembered that my last post on Facebook was a picture of hot chicks playing volleyball.” He coughed a few times and turned to Rory. “You have to delete that, dude. My mom will shit if she sees what I wrote. I can’t have that be my last post.”

  Rory stood with a nonplussed look on his face, speechless and chilled to the bone.

  Woody’s face tightened as another flash of pain rippled through his body. He waited for it to pass before taking another breath. “My password’s Pantyhunter217.”

  Rachel sniffled loudly. Tears slipped through the ghostly fingers covering her face and splashed into the water below. “This isn’t funny, Woody!”

  He looked over to her, his face stiffening. “Listen to me, Rachel, you are going to get out of this. Stay tough and help this clown get outta here alive.” He nodded towards Rory.

  She shook her head. “We are going to get out of this,” she sniveled. “All of us.”

  “It’s too late for that.” Woody’s face contorted as another wave of pain seized him. He turned to the Sheriff and gritted his teeth. “You better hurry.”

  Hooper tightened his sweaty grip on the gun and took a deep breath. Woody’s face twisted in the faint light slipping through the glass door and window. Hooper shifted in his stance and wiped away a tear with his shoulder. He took another deep breath and held it, trying to steady the gun in his shaky hand. He stared down the barrel at Woody’s ashen face and traded a quick glance with Rory. Slowly, Hooper’s index finger began squeezing the trigger. He released the breath and dropped the gun to his side, catching a worried glance from Kourtney.

  “C’mon man!” Woody pleaded, spitting a front tooth into the water with a dreadful plop. “Hurry you, fuckers!” he cried, stomping a foot in the water and grunting loudly. “Don’t you get what’s going to happen?”

  “I’ll do it!”

  Rory drew his gun and pointed it at Mick’s face. “Shut your hole before I blow it off.”

  “Rory!” Woody howled, bending over with another shot of searing pain.

  Mick glared at Rory through narrow eyes, pointing Rob’s .38 Special at Woody’s head. “You don’t and I will! He’s cooked.”

  “Mick, you drop that fucking gun! I am Sheriff of the Ward County Sheriff’s Department, and – zombies or not – you will respect my position of authority in this town!” There was a loud click as Hooper pulled the hammer back on his nine-millimeter.

  Mick’s nervous eyes darted back to the sheriff. They held each other’s steady gaze in the flickering light. Finally, Mick dropped the gun to his side and shook his head. “You’re gonna get us all killed, you stupid bastards,” he sneered. “You need to cowboy-up and do this Sheriff, for the boy’s sake!” He nodded to Alex.

  Hooper turned and watched Alex press tighter against his mom.

  The bell hanging above the front door jingled.

  “Woody!” Kourtney screamed.

  Their heads snapped around to see Woody stumble out into the pouring rain. The storm’s roar faded as the door slowly shut on its own accord.

  “No!” Rory yelled, sprinting to the front door.

  Hooper splashed through the water after him. “Rory, no!”

  Powder Blue finally turned from the window and began shuffling towards Woody. A few of the other things bumping around in the early light stopped in their aimless shuffles and turned. Woody bent over and clutched his stomach, not noticing the things coming closer. Not caring. Lightning lit up the horrifying scene, making everyone wince inside the bar.

  Rory pushed the door open. Water immediately began running over his already soaked shoes. Hooper grabbed h
is arm and yanked him backwards. “Lock it!” he yelled over his shoulder, dragging Rory away from the door. Rory fought against the sheriff’s tight grip, yelling and screaming and dragging tables onto their side.

  Rachel rushed over and took Rory’s arm. “Rory stop! I’m not going to lose you, too! Do you hear me? Not again!”

  He stopped thrashing and took deep breaths. Reluctantly, he turned to the window just in time to see the old lady grab Woody with gnarled hands. She opened her mouth up wide, her soaking wet dress clinging to her emaciated body like Saran Wrap. Her teeth hovered over his arm. Everything moved in slow motion. Rory was just about to make a run at Hooper’s gun when Powder Blue closed her mouth. She dropped her head and swayed in her stance for a few seconds before turning from Woody and blankly stumbling back to the window.

  By the time she reached it, the other corpses had gathered around Woody, like lions on a wounded gazelle. A unified hesitation rippled through the ghastly horde, loosening their pack. Casually, they backed away from Woody, making his hunched over figure visible again. The gruesome mob lazily returned to their previous plan of roaming the flooded parking lot. Doc jogged over to the front door and turned the key that was still in the lock.

  “No!” Rory screamed, pushing Hooper away and running to the door. Doc intercepted him with two thick arms covered in faded green tattoos.

  “You can’t help him now,” he shouted, wrestling with Rory. “But you can still help Rachel!”

  Hooper bear hugged Rory from behind and lifted him off his feet.

  “Let me go!” Rory cried, watching his best friend since first grade turn to the window with vacant eyes. Woody tipped his insipid face back and moaned into the night, seeming to breathe in the falling raindrops. Rachel inhaled sharply when he lowered his head and quietly joined the old lady at her side. They were a team now, a single unit with a cohesive goal.

  “Rory, he’s gone!” Hooper grunted, his biceps stretching his t-shirt as he fought to restrain him.

  “No,” Rachel whimpered, staring at Woody and the old lady. “This isn’t happening.”

  Woody swayed in his hunched stance and stared listlessly into the dark bar, fascinated by his new reflection.

  “There’s nothing you can do now but get yourself killed!” Hooper let Rory’s feet back to the ground but didn’t release his bear hug on him. “Rachel needs you,” he panted. “We all do. Shake it off...for now.”

  Rory thrashed one last time before resigning to go limp. His chest rose and fell beneath Hooper’s sturdy arms. “This is such bullshit,” he grumbled, trying not to look at Woody and failing miserably. “Why is this happening?” he whispered.

  Doc stepped closer, his face draped in shadows and despair. “The only thing we know for sure is that we’re going to need you to get out of this,” he said sternly, coughing into his fist. “You open that door and we’re all dead.” He paused to point at the door. “I’m sorry, Rory, but there’s no time for grieving. Not now.”

  Rory lifted his runny eyes to meet Doc’s wired gaze.

  “Do it for Alex,” he whispered. “He’s got his whole life ahead of him. You all do.” He turned to greet each set of frightened eyes and then returned his attention to Rory. “There ain’t no one else comin and we need your shot. I didn’t let you shoot beer cans out back over the years so you could have a meltdown on me when it counts the most.” His nostrils flared in and out with each labored breath he took, his hardened eyes refusing to budge from Rory’s. “You got me?” he asked, tipping his head down like he was peering over a pair of invisible glasses.

  Rory studied the deep wrinkles lining Doc’s vexed face. Each shadowy groove looked hand carved by a clay sculptor wielding a tiny peeling instrument. But in reality, Rory knew those wrinkles came from stories about long nights in a hot bunker with twenty other men in Vietnam. Stories about watching some of those men die, only to return to a country that just wanted to forget the whole damn thing. Stories about losing his wife, Natalie, to breast cancer in ‘06 and then nearly losing the bar to flooding that following spring. Doc had given Rory his first summer job as a bar back in high school and, to Rory, those wrinkles seemed to have doubled in the last forty-eight hours. But as usual, Doc was right. Rory dropped Doc’s hardened gaze and nodded without uttering a single word.

  A half-hearted smile crept across Doc’s leathery face. He placed a meaty hand on Rory’s shoulder and squeezed. “Atta boy,” he sighed, turning to the others. “That goes for all of ya! Forget about the past and get your heads on straight. This ain’t no time for cryin a river. Last thing we need right now is more water around here anyhow. You stay frosty!”

  Hooper maintained his hold on Rory, unconvinced by his silent agreement.

  Rory tried to shake free. “I said all right!”

  Hooper tightened his grip and glanced at Doc, who nodded.

  Reluctantly, Hooper loosened his hold and Rory stumbled forward and fell into a small table, knocking a chair into the water. He leaned on the table with his head down, staring at the dark lines running through the fake wood. “This is so messed up,” he sniveled, plopping into a chair and burying his face in his hands.

  Hooper stared at Woody through the blurry glass. “I know, but we’ll get through it.”

  Rory pulled his wet face from his hands and, once again, found Woody’s vacant gaze. A curled photo of them standing arm in arm in their Giants little league uniforms flashed through his mind. It was sunny and life’s biggest worry was having enough money for a pouch of Big League Chew at the concession stand after the game. Another picture of Woody dressed up as Shaggy and Rory as a bloody scarecrow on a cold Halloween night sent a spike through his heart. A recent shot of each holding up a large Northern Pike during a fishing trip to the Boundary Waters last summer skated through his mind next. Wide smiles plastered their sun burnt faces while cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon peppered the background. He wondered where those pictures were. Probably in a box in his parents’ basement.

  Rory lowered his unfocused gaze to the greasy salt and pepper shakers and plastic bottles of ketchup and mustard huddled in the center of the small table. The more the condiments came into focus, the more they seemed so normal. So everyday. They pulled him back to the way things used to be. The way things should be. Maybe things could be like that again. Like the days when going out to eat on a Friday night wouldn’t get you killed. He looked back up to Woody, who was pawing lightly at the glass. But probably not. Things could never be the way they were again. Rory inhaled deeply and released it. “So what now?”

  Rachel placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed. “Now, we fight.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hooper grabbed the shotgun from the table where Woody had left it and turned to Kourtney. “Can you handle a twelve-gauge?”

  “Hell yes, she can handle a twelve-gauge!” Doc replied as if he had just been insulted. He hiked up his old western gun-belt, tucking it just beneath his belly, his black leather vest making him look like one of the Cartwrights from Bonanza. “What kind a girl you think I raised?” he grumbled.

  Hooper smiled and passed her the weapon. “All right, here’s the plan,” he said, sliding the napkin dispenser and condiments off to the side of the table. Rachel slid into a chair next to Rory and watched the sheriff begin drawing a crude outline of the bar on the table with one of Alex’s markers. He sketched the bar’s parking lot and the wooded surroundings next, followed by Highway Ten, which he snaked through the scene until it reached the table’s end. “Now,” he said, pausing to study the blueprint through narrow eyes. “Here’s the back door.” He looped a black circle over the back of the building. “If we create a diversion at the front door,” he said, slashing a large X across the front door. “We might be able to sneak out…”

  “Holy crap,” Mick said dully, cutting Hooper off in midsentence.

  They turned to Mick’s slumping face and followed his dismayed gaze to the front window where a red and white ski boat bounced
with the current along US Highway Ten. It dipped with the rushing water and veered off the flooded road, barreling downhill towards the bar.

  “Run!” Mick yelled, bolting for the door behind the bar.

  The others remained stationary, watching the boat gracefully slide into the flooded parking lot and pick up speed with the flowing water. They barely had time to abandon the table before the boat steamrolled Woody and Powder Blue, catapulting them face first into the glass. The large pane shattered with a thunderous explosion, spraying the bar with pieces of glass and wood.

  Kourtney left the shotgun sitting on the bar and yanked Alex by the hand. The sputtering boat wedged in the window frame with an ear piercing screech. The front wall bulged inward, threatening to give in to the boat’s heavy load. Doc ran like hell, narrowly avoiding the ski boat’s pointed bow. “To the roof!” he yelled, stumbling with the gushing water. Hooper grabbed the back of Doc’s vest to keep the bar owner from face planting.