Floodwater Zombies

by Sean Thomas Fisher

Her face soured. “Dad?”

  He looked back up, tears slipping from his eyes, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, baby.”

  Rachel took a wobbly step backwards and Rory had to help steady her. She shook her head defiantly with clear snot streaming from her nose. “What…what do you mean?”

  Christopher swapped glances with Laura and turned back to his daughter. “She was…bitten.”

  Rachel’s jaw dropped. “Bitten? By what?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

  His Adam’s apple bounced one time. “Joe.”

  Her jaw dropped. “From next door?”

  His hands clenched into fists at his side. “She tried to kill me,” he whispered gravely, blinking more tears down his cheek. “I did everything I could, but it was too late.”

  Rachel gasped and threw both hands over her heart as if it might fall right out of her chest. “What? No!”

  Rory turned back to his mother, his eyebrows dipping together. “Where’s dad?” he asked dourly.

  Laura dropped his piercing gaze and began twisting her hands like wet towels.

  Rory looked to Christopher who fled from his gaze. “Mom!”

  She glanced to Major Grundy as he reluctantly stepped up onto the expansive porch and turned back to her son. “Your father’s in the pool,” she whispered, like it was a dirty little secret. Her bottom lip quivered as her resolve to stop crying buckled.

  Rory frowned and rested a hand on his gun. “The pool?”

  Laura nodded somberly and wiped her nose with the crumpled tissue in her hand, thick tears slipping from her face to the white planks below.

  Rory turned to Grundy and nodded towards the house. “Let’s go.”

  The Army Major pulled his gun from its camouflaged holster and gently pushed past the others.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The house was a wreck. Rory’s eyes followed a trail of destruction that led from the living room into the kitchen. The jagged shards of the fifty-five inch flat screen littering the floor next to a broken lamp took Rory’s breath away. The pools of blood took his hope.

  “Jesus Christ,” Grundy mumbled, gripping his gun with both hands.

  They swapped glances and cautiously followed the crimson trail across the living room, plastic and glass crunching beneath their feet as they made their way to the kitchen. Scout suddenly launched into a barking frenzy in the backyard and it made Rory shudder. Scout wasn’t the kind of dog to bark at the mailman or joggers passing the house on a bright sunny day. They had trained him better than that. In fact, the only time Rory could recall a fierce outburst like this was when Woody had stopped by one Hallow’s Eve, dressed as Han Solo turned into a zombie. Scout had nearly ripped Woody’s bloodstained blaster off his hip.

  When Rory saw a bloody handprint on the archway leading into the kitchen, he suddenly didn’t want to know what Scout was barking at, but had a good idea just the same. The closer they got to the kitchen the louder Scout’s barking got, puncturing the quiet day like a car alarm set off by a rumbling Harley. Grundy turned back to Rory, his gun pointing to the wood floor. They cleared the archway and stopped, scanning the kitchen deep frowns. The kitchen table was on its side, three of the four chairs somehow still standing. A bloody butcher’s knife on the granite breakfast bar made Rory’s pulse quicken. He felt light headed staring at the pieces of a shattered Killian’s bottle sprayed across the tiled floor.

  Scout stopped barking and Grundy stopped in his muddy tracks. He turned back around to Rory and swallowed dryly. Rory’s eyes flickered to the French doors leading out back. Grundy nodded and continued across the bright room, brown glass crunching beneath his boots. He reached out and pulled the sheer curtains back on one of the two French doors with Rory peering over his shoulder out into the sun-stroked backyard. The German Shepherd sat quietly on his haunches, staring at the pool with his back to them. Rory scanned the empty pool and turned back to the raised hairs on Scout’s back.

  “What the hell?” Grundy asked, taking the words right out of Rory’s mouth.

  “Open it.”

  The Major snapped his head around and found Rory’s thin eyes. “Maybe you should let me take care of this. Go check on your mom.”

  Rory returned the Major’s stare, a blank expression gracing his grubby face. “Open it.”

  Grundy sighed and pushed down on the long handle, gently clicking the glass door open. Scout gave them a quick glance through dark eyes and quickly turned back to the empty pool. They stepped out onto the patio, the rancid smell of death making their faces wrinkle.

  “Scout, c’mere boy,” Rory whispered, sticking his hand out and making smooching sounds. Scout ignored him, his attention enraptured by the empty swimming pool, glimmering in the rising sun. The fact that a cold, wet nose wasn’t nudging Rory’s hand for some attention by now only made Rory that much more anxious. He winced with the sparkles reflecting off the wavy water, Scout’s tail wagging back and forth like someone was about to throw a ball for him to fetch. But there was no one there.

  They took another step forward and simultaneously paused as they noticed a man leaning up against a large silver barbeque. Black flies swarmed the dark goo oozing from a hole in his stomach. His jaw was hanging open much wider than it should have been and the fireplace poker sticking out of his left eye made Rory gag. The pungent smell of decay mixed with chlorine only made matters worse. He dry heaved a few times before regaining his composure.

  Grundy stared at the dried out corpse with its one good eye staring blankly off into the blue sky. “Holy shit-sticks,” he mumbled, his face seeming to stretch almost as long as the stiff’s.

  Rory threw a hand over his nose, his eyes dropping to the man’s postal uniform. “That’s our mailman,” he sputtered.

  The Major shook his head and stepped closer to the pool. His steel toe caught the leg of a metal lawn chair, jerking it across the sand colored tiles with a loud scrape. Scout snapped his head around and barked one time before returning his attention to the pool. “Sorry,” Grundy whispered.

  Rory exhaled a pent up breath and mopped sweat from his brow with his shoulder.

  Grundy adjusted his two-handed grip on his gun and kept moving. Rory’s legs felt heavier with each step he took. His neck strained to see over the pool’s tiled edge. When Rory’s father burst from the pool with a spray of water, Scout jumped to his feet and began barking feverishly. Grundy and Rory flinched backwards as Stephen pulled himself from the water and got to his black wingtips, glaring at them with hollow eyes that had sunk at least an inch into his skull. The burgundy necktie and bloody white button down clinging to his torso told Rory his dad was either getting ready for work or just getting home when the stiffs had descended upon the house. Probably the latter since there was a broken beer bottle on the kitchen floor.

  Stephen’s chest rose and fell, a sinister grin plastered across his waxy face. Water mixed with blood from a large gash in his cheek and splashed to the tiles below. Scout’s fevered protest morphed into a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate the ground.

  “Dad?” Rory said weakly, his voice cracking like the skin covering Stephen’s face.

  Stephen’s bloated hands curled into claws at his sides. His chest rose once more before he lunged.

  Rory pointed at Stephen and yelled, “Avada Kedavra!”

  Scout jumped forward and sunk his long canines into Stephen’s arm, tugging the walking corpse away from Rory. Grundy took aim at the thing as it desperately tried yanking its arm from the dog’s snarling snout.

  “No!” Rory shouted, grabbing the Major’s arm. “Don’t shoot!”

  “He’s dead now, Rory!” Grundy barked, shrugging him off and inching closer with both hands pointing his sidearm at Stephen’s head.

  Stephen’s necktie swung wildly through the air. He grunted and choked as Scout violently whipped his head back and forth. Stephen’s gold Pulsar watch – a gift from Laura last Christmas - glinted in the sunlight with the stru
ggle. Scout lowered his head and, with one final jerk, tore Stephen’s arm off at the elbow. The thing that used to be Rory’s father screamed and stumbled backwards with its newfound freedom, its expensive heels teetering on the curled edge of the pool. Scout’s deep growl remained steady with Stephen’s arm still in his mouth.

  Casually, Stephen reeled himself in and regained his balance. His cavernous eyes quickly found Grundy and Rory, determination his only instinct now. The bloody ghoul extended his good arm (and what was left of the other) and began reaching for them like a newborn baby, blood oozing from the torn shirt sleeve hiding the stub of his arm inside.

  The thing that used to coach Rory’s little league team tilted its head back and issued a painful sounding groan to the rich sky above, sending goose bumps rippling across Rory’s flesh. “Don’t shoot,” he said faintly, with zero conviction in his voice. He knew what had to be done.

  Stephen bent over and violently wretched, spewing black liquid onto the patio with such force that most of it splashed into the pool. Even though they jumped backwards, the goo splattered across their shoes. Rory’s dad took a few short breaths, up righted himself and began shambling closer.

  “Jesus Christ,” Rory said under his breath, jerking his gaze from his decaying dad to the peeling arm still clamped in Scout’s jaws. A gunshot made both Rory and Scout jump. Stephen’s head snapped backwards. His body followed the head’s momentum in slow motion and back-flopped into the swimming pool with a loud smack. Scout shook the splash water from his face and trotted to the pool’s edge, clenching the wrinkled arm between his teeth like a brand new bone.

  Grundy closed in on the pool, his gun going first. Together, they peered over the lip with Rory right behind.

  “Oh my God,” Rory murmured.

  Stephen stared up at them from the bottom of the glistening pool, his eyes wide open and blank like an old fashioned doll. His good arm floated listlessly out to his side while a black wingtip surfaced with a soft kerplunk. Rory forced his gaze to the green grass on the other side of the pool, the same green grass where he and his father used to play catch with a football. The same green grass his father loved cutting on his trusty old Craftsman riding mower.

  Rory felt someone behind him and whirled. Rachel, Laura and Christopher stood in the doorway with matching looks of horror dripping from their gray faces. Rachel rubbed her arms like it was a crisp autumn day. Christopher wrapped an arm around her and hanged his head. He had seen enough. They all had.

  “Rory?”

  Rory turned, the world moving before him in a blurry haze. Nothing seemed real. Nothing seemed permanent. But it was, and there was zero chance of reversing any of it. The grief-stricken thought weighed heavily upon his lungs, making each breath a struggle.

  The Major’s face drew together. “Avada Kedavra?”

  Rory stared at the man who had shot and killed his father for a moment longer and then let his eyes drift back to the pool, where his father’s buoyant loafer immediately caught his eye. Stephen had a walk-in closet full of expensive suits and ties and shoes and Rory found himself, of all things, wondering what they would do with it. The thought of donating such high-end attire to a Goodwill store or The Salvation Army almost made him laugh. He could just see some struggling janitor, looking to save some bucks as much as the next person, with a closet full of Armani and Calvin Klein. Rory pushed the thought down, disgusted with himself for taking a single second to focus on such a trivial detail in this most tragic of times.

  “Rory?”

  He stared at the wavering wingtip with a far-away look in his eyes. “Attack command,” he said lightly.

  Grundy’s brow folded.

  Rory blinked, his heavy eyelids taking their sweet time. Everything was different now. Everything stained. The sharp words with his father the night before floated through his mind alongside the shoe. The last words he had said to him. The last words he would ever say to him. He shut his eyes and grimaced with the regret surging through him like a deadly virus.

  “Attack command?”

  Rory opened his eyes and tried to relax his clenched fists. “It’s the killing curse from Harry Potter.”

  Grundy stared at him for a moment longer with his mouth hanging open. “It’s over now, son,” he said softly, holstering his government issued sidearm. “Go be with your family.” Grundy turned and crossed the yard to inspect a white shed planted near the back end of the privacy fence.

  Rory’s stomach twisted into tight knots at the mere mention of the word: family. Two people didn’t make much of a family. He glanced over his shoulder to his mom. Her sad eyes looked upon him with pity. He swallowed hard and turned back to a black cloud of goo silently spreading throughout the pool. He couldn’t help but wonder when it had happened. It was the last thing he wanted to think about but he was tired of fighting and lowered his guard, letting different scenarios play out in his mind. He saw his dad’s twisted face in the bathroom upon realizing a foul smelling ghoul was hiding in the shower with the water turned on. He saw Stephen grab a beer and shut the fridge door to find some wrinkled slug swaying on the other side. Or was it when Stephen took the trash out and went to investigate a strange noise in the garage? Regardless, the shock must have been overwhelming, overwhelming enough to lose the upper hand.

  Rory dropped his head and closed his eyes, knowing he should have done more. Knowing the last words he had spoken to his father had been hurtful and that no matter what he did, he could never take them back. Knowing hungry crows and hawks were picking flesh from his best friend’s body lying on Doc’s rooftop and he was powerless to stop them.

  They would have to start over. Start over beneath a cloud of heavy gloom, and he couldn’t imagine where to even begin. A cold, wet nose pressed against his fingers. Rory cracked his eyelids and found Scout’s weary gaze staring back at him. The dog sat at Rory’s feet, panting with a bloodstained tongue lulling from one side of a matted snout. Rory winced at the sight of his pet and Scout nudged his hand again. Rory took a deep breath and released it into a light breeze sweeping across the backyard. He watched a cardinal land in a maple tree Stephen had planted when Rory was just four. The bird sang out its supple song, searching for a friend and Rory wondered if it was any bird in particular he was looking for, or if the red bird was starting over as well. But where to even begin? Rory turned back to Scout’s expectant face and hesitated before dropping a heavy hand onto the dogs head. Scout pressed against Rory’s open palm as it slowly massaged behind the dog’s ears.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Five weeks later, life in Minot had returned to something that almost resembled normalcy. The kind of normalcy one could expect to find in a fever dream or funhouse mirror. It looked like home, but everything was an illusion that barely hid the wicked devastation lurking just beneath the city limits. Most everyone knew a handful of people who were no longer residents of the easygoing township and - sooner or later - the city council would have to address the population statistic on the Minot city signs coming into town.

  The military had pulled out four days ago, handing Sheriff Hooper the reigns, which he gladly accepted with his one good hand. Before the Army packed up their makeshift tents and sand-colored Humvees, they detonated underwater explosives in Lake Darling and proceeded to secure it with heavily armed divers and robotic mini-subs. Two divers and one remote sub were the last casualties of the still unexplained uprising. The Army dragged bloated bodies from the lake and piled them on top of the ones that hadn’t been able to make it back into the water. After transporting the corpses to an undisclosed massive pit - which Hooper and many other townies suspected was in or around Glenburn – the dead were set ablaze. The soldiers even burned the bodies of Woody, Doc and Deputy Meyer and Johnson, which Hooper had argued against until he was as blue as the bruises covering his body.

  The roads reopened five days ago and the gas stations, grocery stores, restaurants and bars were open for business but Allan’s Funeral Home was slo
wer than all of them combined. The military had even torched the bodies stored in the funeral home’s cold basement coolers, indifferent to whether or not they had died before or after the outbreak. It didn’t matter to those in charge. They had their orders and no chances were to be taken in returning the small community to their glory days of being one of AAA’s top twenty-five safest places to live in the country, a stat that now defined the word irony.

  Rory slid open the top drawer of his dresser and grabbed a black wallet. He flipped it open and stared at the shiny gold badge inside, rubbing his finger along the words Deputy Callahan engraved along the bottom. He snorted and shook his head, slapping it shut and sliding it into his back pocket. His hand went back into the drawer and came out with a tiny black box. With a click, he cracked it open and gazed at the small chocolate diamond inside. The sparkling jewel, perched atop a titanium band nestled in red velvet, made his heart flutter even more than the badge. His eyes rose to the mirror above the dresser. He straightened his short sleeved button-down, cleared his throat and held the open box out to his reflection.