“Well, that's a hell of a coincidence,” said Rudy, scratching the back of his head.
Harbaugh nodded slowly, peering out the window. “It's weird as hell, is what it is.”
Rudy said, “What about you, stranger? You got any insights about this?”
Alex swiveled his stool to face Rudy. “If y'all can forgive the pun, I'm in the dark here, too.”
Josh came out of the back room. “I reset all the breakers. Nothing.”
Rudy asked Josh, “Is your phone dead, too?”
The kid pulled his phone out of his pocket and pushed a few buttons. “Yeah,” he said. “Dead dead.”
“What could even do this?” asked Rachael.
“An EMP strike is the only thing I can think of,” Rudy answered.
“What the hell is that?” Rachael said.
“It's like a nuke, but—”
Harbaugh cut him off. “Okay, let's not lose our damned minds here.” He held up his hands for calm. “There's no nukes, so let's not go starting crazy rumors. There's an answer for all this, and we're going to figure it out. So first, I'm going to walk this asshole over to the lockup, and then we'll all—calmly—figure out what the fuck is going on.” Harbaugh unclipped his keys from his belt, glanced out the window as his fingers searched out his handcuff key—
—and froze. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
Rudy said, “What's the mat—” He looked out the window, and the color bled out of his face.
“Oh my God.” Rachael's hand unconsciously circled her throat. “Oh my God.”
“What in the hell is everybody's problem?” Alex looked around in confusion.
“It's Buddy,” said Rachael.
***
Buddy lurched down the middle of Main Street, staggering like he was drunk. His movements had an unsettling, spastic quality, like a marionette with tangled strings. He stared ahead without focusing on anything in particular, his eyes clouded over and his mouth hanging slack. His hands reached slightly out in front, grasping futilely at thin air. His throat was a bloody mess. A dark red, crusted stain covered the front of his shirt.
“That the guy I killed?” said Alex. “He don't look dead.”
“He doesn't look so healthy, either,” Rachael added.
“He was dead,” Harbaugh stammered. “He . . . Jesus Christ, he was stone dead and cold. His throat was cut to the bone. I helped haul him onto the slab myself.”
“Then, Jim . . .” Rudy pried apart the venetian blinds with shaky fingers and peered outside. “Why's he stumbling down Main Street like a man with a rum hangover?”
“What the hell is wrong with him?” said Rachael.
“Well, at least we know he ain't a vampire,” Alex said.
“Christ,” the sheriff repeated. He headed for the door.
“Hey, Sheriff,” said Alex. Harbaugh stopped and turned toward him. “Be careful, pal. I'm serious. I don't know what's goin' on, but I know that this don't smell right. The whole situation is just plain bad wrong.”
Harbaugh turned away without responding. The little bell rang as he left the diner. He descended the steps and approached Buddy warily as the dead man stumbled toward Lila Montez, who stood in the doorway of her salon.
“Hey, Buddy?” said Harbaugh. “You alright there? You been drinking today?”
Buddy noticed the sheriff. He stopped for a heartbeat, as if in surprise. His eyes snapped into focus. He let out an inarticulate groan and limped toward Harbaugh.
From somewhere far away, the sheriff heard gunshots and screams. He stopped for a moment, cocked his head, and listened. Buddy kept coming, and Harbaugh returned his attention to the approaching drunk.
“Hold up there, Bud.” Harbaugh held out his hand in the universal symbol for stop.
Buddy kept shuffling toward Harbaugh at the same stilted pace.
“You're bleeding pretty bad there. Maybe you'd better sit down, and we can give Doc Harper a call.” Harbaugh's hand came to rest on the grip of his pistol. After a moment's indecision, he removed it again.
Buddy shuffled closer and reached desperately toward the sheriff.
“Jesus, Buddy, you're hurt bad. Let's just get you—” Buddy leaned in toward Harbaugh, as if for a hug. Harbaugh grabbed him loosely by the shoulders. Buddy pushed forward, mouth open, and moaned.
The sheriff laughed. “Holy shit, you are about drunker than a—”
Buddy sank his teeth into Harbaugh's arm.
Harbaugh screamed. Buddy wrenched away a mouthful of flesh and muscle. Bright-red blood spurted from the gaping wound and sprayed Harbaugh's khaki shirt. Buddy leaned his head back and chomped on the hunk of meat, making ravenous grunting, smacking noises.
“Jesus Christ . . . ah, Jesus Christ.” Harbaugh stumbled back, his hand clamped over the wound. Red blood leaked from between his fingers and ran down his forearm. Tom Miller ran down the pharmacy steps. Rudy started toward the sheriff. “Stay the hell back!” Harbaugh yelled.
Buddy finished his first bite. He locked his eyes on Harbaugh and lurched forward again, groaning hungrily.
Harbaugh put his hand on his pistol again, then reconsidered. Still walking backward, he moved his hand to his Taser, drew, aimed, and fired.
The electrodes struck Buddy in the chest. Harbaugh lit him up. The Taser crackled, and Buddy toppled like a felled tree.
Buddy lay on the ground and twitched silently. Harbaugh pulled a plastic zip-tie handcuff off of his belt and straddled the drunk, expertly controlling his arms and zipping the cuffs into place. With Buddy's arms secured, Harbaugh stood up and stumbled over to the sidewalk. He flopped down on the curb and examined the wound on his arm. “Jesus Christ. Buddy, you asshole.”
Rudy came down the diner steps and stood next to the sheriff.
Buddy wormed his way to his knees, then onto his feet. With his hands bound, he stumbled toward the assembling crowd, fresh blood running down his chin.
Rudy helped himself to another set of plastic zip-tie cuffs from Harbaugh's belt. He circled around behind Buddy and kicked one of the drunk's legs out from under him. Buddy toppled and fell hard onto his face. Rudy planted a boot in Buddy's back and straddled him, then zip-cuffed his legs together.
Tom Miller ran across the street with a first aid kit in his hand, the tails of his white coat flapping in the wind. Emily Carson followed close behind him.
Tom knelt next to the sheriff and snapped the first aid case open. “Hold still, Jim,” he said. He poured antiseptic down Harbaugh's arm. “Christ, he took a chunk out of you.”
The sheriff said, “I'm aware of that, Tom.” When the disinfectant hit, he hissed. “Shit!”
Emily stood in shock, her eyes wide and her hand over her mouth.
Josh hurried down the diner's front steps but didn't seem to know what to do next. He stood, looking from Emily to Harbaugh, to Buddy, and back to Emily again. Rachael stood in the doorway at the top of the steps with one hand circling her throat, leaving Alex alone and handcuffed to the stool. Lila hurried over from the salon, muttering, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod . . .”
The crowd gathered around Buddy, who snapped half-heartedly at their feet, squirming and rolling on the pavement.
“Good God, what just happened?” said Rudy, as he squatted down next to the sheriff and watched Tom press gauze against the wound. “Would you look at him?”
Buddy struggled against his bonds, moaning incoherently and squirming, baring his teeth. The cut in his throat spread wide open as he strained, showing a cross-section of skin, fat, blood vessels, and cartilage.
Lila continued muttering, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod . . .”
Tom slowed the bleeding on the sheriff's arm with piles of gauze and direct pressure. He wrapped another roll of gauze tightly around Harbaugh's upper arm. “Okay, Jim. You're probably going to go into shock, so you should stay sitting down for—”
Screams and muted gunshots echoed from the other side of town. Harbaugh stood up. His hand went to his dead rad
io, and he took a few steps down the street. He stopped and held his head in his hands, turning in a slow circle, and walked over to Buddy.
“Christ.” He leaned down and peered at the man on the ground. “What the hell is going on here, Rudy?”
“I've never seen anything like this,” Rudy said. “I mean, look at his throat. He ought to be dead. By all that's holy, he shouldn't ought to be walking around.”
Tom came over as well. He squatted down and stared. “Would you look at that? Emily, you're the pre-med student. What do you make of this?”
Emily squatted down. Rudy raised Buddy's head and the wound gaped. Emily paled. “Oh, God.” She turned away and vomited.
“Can you hold him for a second?” said Tom.
“Jesus,” Harbaugh repeated. He and Rudy both knelt on Buddy.
“Hold his head,” said Tom.
“He's stone cold,” said Harbaugh.
Tom held his fingers on Buddy's neck. “He doesn't even have a pulse.” He pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and probed the gash in his throat. “I mean, look at this. This cut goes all the way to the bone. His carotid is completely severed. He isn't even bleeding anymore. He should be dead. He is dead.”
“And yet, he's up and walking around,” Harbaugh observed. “What kind of weird shit is this?” Harbaugh and Rudy both stood up. Buddy groaned and snapped at their retreating ankles. “What the hell do we make of this?”
Josh stepped up next to the other men. He still held a dishrag in one hand as he peered at Buddy. “Don't any of you guys watch TV?” he said.
“The hell's that supposed to mean?” asked Harbaugh.
Josh stood up and stepped back from Buddy. He turned to Harbaugh. “Seriously? Don't you get it? Dude, he's a zombie.”
Harbaugh rolled his eyes. “Kid, go play with some marbles or something. We don't have time for this.”
Josh responded, “It's a dead guy walking around and trying to eat people. Are you gonna tell me you've got a better explanation?”
Rudy shrugged. “You have to admit, he's got a point.”
“This isn't playtime, kid,” Harbaugh growled, “and Rudy, don't you be encouraging him. He's not a fucking zombie. There's no such thing as zombies.”
A look of horror suddenly crossed Josh's face. He turned to the sheriff. “Holy crap, dude, he bit you. He . . . You're going to be one of them. You're going to turn. We need to—”
Harbaugh made a disgusted face. “I'm not going to turn into a goddamned zombie, kid. Would you shut the fuck up?” The sheriff's skin was pale and clammy. He trembled and swayed on his feet.
“Jim, you're going into shock,” Tom said. “You need to sit down.”
Harbaugh waved him away. “I don't have time to go into shock.”
They paused and turned their heads at the sound of shoes slapping against pavement. A second later, Chet Morgan came around the corner of Main and Old Mine. He ran full-tilt down the middle of Main Street, still wearing his letterman's jacket and holding a baseball bat in his hands like a soldier clutching a rifle. He screamed Emily's name as he approached.
Emily faced him, a look of confusion on her face. “Chet, what—”
He careened to a stop, dropping the bat and grabbing her by the upper arms. His face was a mask of pure, cold terror. He panted, “Emily, thank God you're alright! We've gotta go. They're everywhere! They're coming!”
Harbaugh put a hand on Chet's shoulder. “Son, just slow down for a second and breathe. Look at me. Who, Chet? Who's coming?”
“Them!”
Chapter Four
“Oh, God, they're here.” Chet pointed down to the intersection where Main Street crossed Old Mine Road.
They heard it first. The crowd fell silent, waiting, as the chorus of groaning and shuffling grew louder. The first of them rounded the corner. Ten. Sixteen. Twenty. More.
Don Wilson, the school bus driver, staggered toward them. His gray T-shirt was splattered with blood. Half his face was a leering skull framed by dangling strips of flesh. Behind him came Hector Martinez, the school maintenance man. He shuffled along, stumbling on the coils of his own guts that hung down and dragged on the ground behind him. Then Emelia Warren, chairwoman of the Rotary Club and president of the Prosperity Horticultural Society, lurched around the corner. Her silver perm was still immaculate, but her glasses were cracked and skewed crookedly across her face. Her flower print dress was torn and bloody.
“Sweet Jesus,” whispered Harbaugh.
“Run!” screamed Chet. He tugged on her arm. “Emily, run!”
The pack of undead heard Chet's screams. They perked up and noticed the crowd of fresh meat milling around the front of the diner. Their shuffling gait increased in urgency, and the grunts and sighs rose to howls and ravenous moans.
“Emily, just run! I'll hold them off!” Chet charged toward the pack of zombies, his baseball bat cocked over his head.
“Goddammit, Chet!” yelled Harbaugh. “Get back here!”
Chet ran headlong toward the horde, winding back with the bat.
Harbaugh ran after Chet. “Don't do it, kid!” He reached for his Taser, realized it was still on the ground, and snapped open his extendible baton. “Chet, drop the bat!”
Chet didn't listen. He ran up to the horde and swung for the fences. The bat connected with the side of Don Wilson's head. His skull cracked and burst. Brains bulged and hung loose like a drunk leaning over a railing, and the old man crumpled to the ground.
“Oh, God.” After a moment's horrified indecision, Harbaugh dropped the baton and drew his pistol.
Chet wound back for a swing at Hector Martinez, but Emelia Warren circled around his blind side and latched onto his shoulders with her bony old fingers. She leaned in and bit down on his neck. Blood bubbled from around her lips. Chet tried to shake the old lady off, but by that time, Hector was too close. The groundskeeper clawed past the upraised bat and sank his teeth into Chet's forearm like it was a Thanksgiving turkey. Chet screamed and tried to pull away, but more piled on.
Harbaugh ran after Chet. He fired one shot into the air and screamed, “Everybody on the ground!” Nobody responded. A half-dozen of the undead tore Chet apart. Blood sprayed onto the faded asphalt of Main Street while Chet's screams grew more hysterical.
The sheriff sighted his weapon on Hector Martinez and fired. Red flowers bloomed on Hector's chest, and a fine, bloody mist drifted away in the wind, but Hector didn't seem to notice. The sheriff shifted his aim and put two more shots into Emelia Warren. Still no effect. Harbaugh stepped forward and fired into the mass of undead as they swarmed around Chet. His screams gave way to choked, wet, gurgling noises, more like sobs, hardly audible over the sound of snapping bones and ripping meat.
Harbaugh fired until his pistol ran dry. He slapped in a fresh magazine. The zombies finished with Chet and saw their next victim. They staggered forward, and Harbaugh backpedaled.
Josh ran forward a few steps. He cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, “Aim for their heads! Shoot their heads!”
Harbaugh shifted the pistol's barrel fractionally. He squeezed the trigger. The top of Hector Martinez's head vaporized and blew away in the warm breeze. Hector made an epiphanic face and slumped to the ground.
Harbaugh nodded once. He re-aimed, fired, and missed. His injured arm trembled. Blood still trickled from the bandage. He fired again and again.
A half dozen more zombies fell.
The pistol's slide locked open on an empty chamber. Harbaugh walked steadily back as the horde advanced. He pulled his last magazine from his belt, but it slipped from his trembling fingers and hit the pavement. The undead lurched toward Harbaugh. He flailed backward, stumbled, and fell.
Rudy stepped forward, then paused, unsure.
“Stay back!” yelled Harbaugh. “Get inside!”
The civilians retreated back inside their businesses and watched through the windows. Harbaugh got to his feet and stumbled backward. More of the undead appeared from the
direction of the highway, cutting off his escape. Harbaugh turned in a slow circle as the net closed around him.
Inside the diner, Rachael pried the slats of the blinds apart with her fingers and peered out into the street. “This isn't happening.” She shook her head. “This can't be happening. It's all a bad dream.”
“Ain't no bad dream,” said Alex. “Look, just let me outta these cuffs. I can help.” She didn't respond. He rattled the handcuffs. “Hey. Hey! Look at me.”
Rachael turned to face him. Panic showed in her eyes. “The sheriff said—”
“I don't give a good gol-damn what the sheriff said.” Alex rattled the cuffs against the backrest of the stool. “Your sheriff's about to get ate up like a fresh apple pie. If you don't unlock these cuffs, you and me are next. Please, Rachael, darlin', the danged key is right there.”
Rachael watched through the window as the zombies closed in on the sheriff. Harbaugh took a running start and slammed into the closest of the things with his open hands. The zombie only stumbled back a few steps and shuffled forward again.
“Goddammit, please!” Alex pleaded. He twisted in his seat as far as the handcuff would allow. “You said you thought I was a good guy, right? Let me prove it to you! I mean, how in the hell could I make things any worse?” He pulled frantically at the cuffs, tried to stand, and fell back against the stool. “Please.”
Rachael stood for a few more seconds with her hand clutched at her throat as she watched the zombies close in on Harbaugh. “Goddammit,” she said. “You'd better not make me regret this.”
She took the key from the counter and knelt down to unfasten the handcuffs.
Chapter Five
Alex didn't wait for Rachael to open the second lock. With the cuffs still dangling from his wrist, he grabbed his .45 and the magazines from the counter.
The little bell rang madly as Alex careened through the door. He raced down the steps, jamming a magazine into the pistol as he went. He flicked the slide release, and the pistol closed with a mechanical slap.
Alex Rains, Vampire Hunter (Book 2): Hell Night Page 5
