Floodwater Zombies (25 page)

“Rob, you need to sit down and rest,” Rory said, using his body to block out as much of Rachel from Rob’s view as possible.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” he snapped, pointing the gun at Rory’s face.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Hooper yelled, raising his gun.

Woody swung the shotgun around and moved across the bar so that Rory and Rachel wouldn’t be in his shot if Rob forced him to pull the trigger. Woody gripped the gun with sweaty hands, his pupils as full as the rising moon. “Just take it easy, dude!”

Rob jerked the gun to Woody in one motion and brushed hair from his beady eyes. “I just
wanna
…get a little action. Is that so wrong, Woody?” he asked softly, smiling rows of scarlet teeth at him.

Rory held his hands up and took a deep breath. “Rob, we’re on your side, man. Just put the gun down.”

He swung the gun back to Rory. “
Gobbledly
goofunk
!” he screamed, choking and grunting.
“Pandas!
Trunks miss ark!
Aghst
!”

Rory frowned, his mind flipping through options at a rate of speed that made it impossible to latch onto anything substantial. When he saw Hooper creeping up behind Rob, his mind found something to hold onto. “We’re just trying to help you, Rob.” He held his hands up for Rob to see he meant him no harm and to distract him as well.

Rob hit Rory with odious eyes and turned the gun on Rachel. “Take your clothes off, bitch!”

Rachel gasped, throwing a hand over her breasts. “What?”

Rob gestured with the gun. “Go on!” he said.
“
Getroncho
!”
He laughed, glaring at Rachel with dilated pupils that looked like an old doll’s eyes.
“
Habenarchy
!
Itchinzt
!”

Hooper brought the butt of his down on the back of Rob’s head. There was a loud crack and Rob, subsequently, crumpled to the floor. His .38 clattered across the cracked tile and came to rest beneath the pool table. Rory pounced on it and readied himself for Rob to get back up.

Rachel moved behind him like a shadow, staring at the heavy blood flow oozing from Rob’s shoulder. “Please tell me he’s not dead.”

Chapter Thirteen

Rob’s legs stretched listlessly across the red tiled floor, his wrists tied to an old black pipe running vertically next to a rumbling ice-maker in the back of the bar. Long, stringy hair veiled his closed eyes while red ropes seeped from his cracked lips. Doc watched him with bated breath, his tattooed forearms folded across his broad chest with one finger resting on his lips. “Is he dead?”

“I don’t think so,” Hooper whispered, glancing to a sink just outside the office. Hooper walked over and grabbed a clear plastic pitcher from a silver rack stocked with straws, cocktail napkins, plastic cups and an assortment of condiments. He turned the pitcher upside down and dumped salt packets to the floor.

Doc noticed Rory watching them through the porthole window and saw Kourtney getting someone a beer in the background.
Probably Mick.
He turned back to Hooper and scratched a thick sideburn. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m going to try something,” he replied, kicking a yellow mop bucket out of the way and filling the pitcher with water. He turned the faucet off and came back over. “You might want to stand back.”

Doc frowned and took two reluctant steps back with heavy legs, bumping into a spiral staircase leading to the roof.

Hooper held the pitcher over Rob’s head and took a deep breath. He rotated his wrist and slowly poured a thin stream of water over Rob’s head. Hooper emptied the pitcher and waited with wide eyes. When Rob didn’t move, Hooper filled it up again and gave it another shot.

This time Rob started coughing. His body convulsed with each wet sounding hack, spraying water on Doc’s and Hooper’s legs. The convulsions gradually turned to snarls and grunts. Rob breathed deeper and began struggling against the pipe. The pipe refused to budge so he stopped. His body grew still. Slowly, he turned his insipid face and hit them with a pair of hollow eyes that made Hooper take a step back and make sure his gun was still in its holster. Rob lurched at the town sheriff, gnashing his teeth and pulling on the pipe with everything he had. Hooper took another step back, standing shoulder to shoulder with Doc.

They wore matching looks of disgust as they studied the thing that used to be good old Rob. The Rob who loved going for cruises through the rolling hillsides on the Harley Davidson that was probably worth more than his mobile home.
The Rob who liked drinking beers on Sunday while cheering for the Minnesota Viking.
The Rob who exaggerated every story he ever told, just to make everything sound larger than life. Whatever language Rob was speaking now Hooper and Doc didn’t speak, but they understood it just the same.

“Myer was right,” Hooper said absent-mindedly. “They’re water-based.”

Doc turned to him and narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“They can’t survive without water. The ones in the lake came out just long enough to grab someone and get back in.”

Doc gazed at Rob through glazed over eyes, his mind processing the information like a bogged down computer. “But they’re all over the parking lot.”

Hooper turned to meet the old man’s eyes. “They’re using the rain to go mobile.”

Doc’s eyes widened, the color draining from his face. “It’s supposed to rain like hell the next three days.”

“I know.”

“You know what that means?”

Hooper nodded glumly. “It’s probably going to flood.”

Doc swallowed dryly and turned back to Rob. “These damn things will be all over the place.”

Hooper inhaled a long breath and released it. “They already are.”

“How can any of this be?”

Hooper watched Rob fight to free his hands from the rope, knowing what would happen if the biker did. “It can’t,” he replied softly, staring at the blood coming out of Rob’s ear.

“Well, we can’t leave him in here. He’s one of them now.”

Hooper glanced at a metal door that led to the big blue dumpster out back. “We can’t take a chance on opening any of these doors.”

Doc nodded to the spiral staircase. “We can take him up to the roof.”

Hooper followed the nod. “And leave him up there?”

Doc snorted. “Hell no, we throw him off.”

Hooper turned back to Rob and carefully stepped over his kicking legs. Rob’s haggard face lunged at the sheriff’s legs, his teeth snapping together so hard that white splinters flew from his mouth.

Hooper hopped over him and went to the back door, closed one eye and peered out the tiny peephole with his other. Magnified images of the dense tree line behind the bar stared back at him. They were gray and blurry from the rain. Then a man walked by. His head was big and bald with a giant strip of skin missing just above his left ear. And then he was gone. An elderly woman stumbled from the trees, her pink dress snagging on a thorn bush. She jerked free, tearing the dress and staggering towards the back door in bare feet with curled toes. Hooper shifted in his stance.

“What is it?”

Hooper held up an open palm, watching the woman creep closer. Weathered cracks lining her skin became clearer with each step she took. Her jaw dangled in the air, exposing a missing front tooth. A Hispanic man in an expensive three-piece suit limped by behind her and quickly disappeared from the domed picture. The woman reached the door and stopped, staring into the peephole like she could see Hooper. He swallowed dryly and shifted again.

“What the hell is it, Ryan?”

Hooper shot his hand into the air again and shook it as the old lady took a step back to survey the door with soulless eyes. When she pounded on the door with a sloppy fist, the sheriff stumbled backwards and tripped over Rob’s outstretched legs. Hooper landed on his butt with a thud. Rob pitched forward, his ravenous mouth leading the way. Hooper scrambled just out of range of the chomping teeth.

“
Goddamnit
Sheriff, be careful!” Doc said, helping him to his feet. “Last thing we need right now is to lose you, too.”

Hooper brushed his rear end off and pulled his gun belt up. “I say we leave him here without water for a few hours and see what happens. We may be able to learn something from him.”

Doc nodded, rubbing his bristly mug. “I worry about the window up front.”

Hooper glanced to the bar door and turned back to Doc. “You got any guns in here or not?”

Doc snorted. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” he said, motioning for Hooper to follow him into the office. Doc took a seat in a worn out, high-backed chair on wheels hiding behind a large mahogany desk. “This,” he said, sliding open a lower drawer and pulling out a .357 Magnum revolver tucked inside a black nylon holster. “Is Gladys, and her bite is worse than her bark.” Carefully, he set the silver gun next to an ashtray, overflowing with crumpled cigarette butts, on the desk. His hand went back inside the drawer and came out with a box of bullets.

“Full?”

Doc opened the box and showed him.
“Half.
Sometimes we like to do a little target shooting out back.”

Hooper took his hat off and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He slapped the cap back on and sighed.

Doc opened another drawer and pulled out an old Colt .45 wrapped in an old leather holster with bullets running along the belt. Gently, he set it on a copy of Kourtney’s
Women’s Health
. “This is Daisy. She belonged to my grandfather. Legend has it he shot Billy the Kidd in the arm with it after a dispute over a poker game.”

Hooper almost chuckled. “And I bet that was the last thing your grandfather ever did.”

Doc shook his head and frowned. “No, he went on to open his own furniture store years later.”

Doc stood at the window with his arms folded across his chest, watching a scaly marine lazily shuffle across the dimly lit parking lot, his disheveled coat laced with medals and moss. For no apparent reason, he abruptly stopped and stared in the direction of Rob’s toppled Harley, the rain pelting his tidy crew cut (which, once and for all, proved that hair does not keep growing after death). Rory willed the man to keep moving and disappear from the window’s frame altogether, but the marine stubbornly refused.