Floodwater Zombies by Sean Thomas Fisher, Esmeralda Morin Page B
Authors: Sean Thomas Fisher, Esmeralda Morin
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chuckled. “ Ain’t enough Viagra in the world to make that happen! ”
“Oh, you two wouldn’t know what to do with this much woman,” the blond said, running a hand along her curvy figure.
Rob grunted. “Have to put some of it in a truck because all of that ain’t fittin on the back of my bike,” he snickered, pushing his empty bottle to the edge of the bar.
“Don’t take any of his crap, Marge,” Kourtney said, sliding four Jack and Cokes across the shiny bar-top.
“Well, not all of us can have gorgeous bodies,” Marge replied, winking at Kourtney and dropping a twenty on the bar. Kourtney blushed and took the money. Mick and Rob waited for her to turn to the cash register before letting their eyes bore holes into the seat of her tight fitting jeans.
Michelle leaned in between them. “You wouldn’t know what to do with that either,” she said softly.
The bell hanging from the front door jingled as it burst open with a bang. Their heads snapped over to see Woody, Rachel and Rory standing next to a wooden coat rack carved into a weathered fisherman, donning a yellow slicker and matching hat. Sweat and blood dripped from their arms and chins as the ragged looking trio caught their breath. Woody’s chest, shirtless and covered in red scratches, rose and fell like someone who had just finished a marathon. His mouth opened to speak but nothing came out.
Rory’s eyes scoured the stale smelling room, darting from one bewildered face to the next. When he was certain the bar’s patrons weren’t the living dead, he helped Rachel to a stool at the end of the bar. Blood oozed from a nasty gash over a knee she favored with each painstaking step.
Kourtney slammed the register shut and set Marge’s change on the bar without looking. “What happened?”
“Call 911,” Rory said, carefully setting Rachel onto a round bar stool with cracked vinyl. She plopped down with a final groan, dropped her face into her hands and began crying.
Kourtney’s forehead creased as she came down to the end of the bar. “What happened?”
“Three people are dead out at the lake. Just call the police.”
Kourtney hesitated with her mouth hanging open, staring at Rory like he was nuts.
“There’s no time to explain!” he shouted, dropping onto the stool next to Rachel.
Kourtney jumped and went to a beige phone on the wall behind the bar.
Woody took the stool on the other side of Rory, feeling the weight of the stares upon them.
“What happened, Wood?” Mick asked, his mouth hanging open just as wide as everyone else’s.
The two women sitting by the front window exchanged glances and craned their necks to hear over Bon Jovi’s Raise Your Hands .
Woody exhaled a long breath and stared at his battered reflection in the bar mirror. He barely recognized the man looking back at him. Normally, his tan set off his white coral necklace but tonight they blended.
“Woody!”
Woody’s bloodshot eyes snapped over to Rob.
Rob leaned forward, looking past Mick. “What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his eyes as glassy as a bucket of cool water. “Something…came out of the lake.”
Everyone’s eyes narrowed at the same time as they slowly shuffled closer to Woody, reminding Rory of those things.
“Was it the boogeyman?”
They slowly turned to Alex, who was staring at Woody with grave eyes. He set a red marker (which he had just used to draw a pool of blood beneath the hearse) onto the bar. “He’s come back, hasn’t he?” he asked, brushing his hand against the cap gun stuffed inside his holster.
Woody swallowed dryly and turned to Marge. “Can I get a quick drink of that?”
Her eyes dropped to the Jack and Cokes in her hands. “Sure, honey.”
Woody grabbed a glass, pushed the straw aside and finished the drink in four large chugs. “Thank you,” he sighed,
“Oh, you two wouldn’t know what to do with this much woman,” the blond said, running a hand along her curvy figure.
Rob grunted. “Have to put some of it in a truck because all of that ain’t fittin on the back of my bike,” he snickered, pushing his empty bottle to the edge of the bar.
“Don’t take any of his crap, Marge,” Kourtney said, sliding four Jack and Cokes across the shiny bar-top.
“Well, not all of us can have gorgeous bodies,” Marge replied, winking at Kourtney and dropping a twenty on the bar. Kourtney blushed and took the money. Mick and Rob waited for her to turn to the cash register before letting their eyes bore holes into the seat of her tight fitting jeans.
Michelle leaned in between them. “You wouldn’t know what to do with that either,” she said softly.
The bell hanging from the front door jingled as it burst open with a bang. Their heads snapped over to see Woody, Rachel and Rory standing next to a wooden coat rack carved into a weathered fisherman, donning a yellow slicker and matching hat. Sweat and blood dripped from their arms and chins as the ragged looking trio caught their breath. Woody’s chest, shirtless and covered in red scratches, rose and fell like someone who had just finished a marathon. His mouth opened to speak but nothing came out.
Rory’s eyes scoured the stale smelling room, darting from one bewildered face to the next. When he was certain the bar’s patrons weren’t the living dead, he helped Rachel to a stool at the end of the bar. Blood oozed from a nasty gash over a knee she favored with each painstaking step.
Kourtney slammed the register shut and set Marge’s change on the bar without looking. “What happened?”
“Call 911,” Rory said, carefully setting Rachel onto a round bar stool with cracked vinyl. She plopped down with a final groan, dropped her face into her hands and began crying.
Kourtney’s forehead creased as she came down to the end of the bar. “What happened?”
“Three people are dead out at the lake. Just call the police.”
Kourtney hesitated with her mouth hanging open, staring at Rory like he was nuts.
“There’s no time to explain!” he shouted, dropping onto the stool next to Rachel.
Kourtney jumped and went to a beige phone on the wall behind the bar.
Woody took the stool on the other side of Rory, feeling the weight of the stares upon them.
“What happened, Wood?” Mick asked, his mouth hanging open just as wide as everyone else’s.
The two women sitting by the front window exchanged glances and craned their necks to hear over Bon Jovi’s Raise Your Hands .
Woody exhaled a long breath and stared at his battered reflection in the bar mirror. He barely recognized the man looking back at him. Normally, his tan set off his white coral necklace but tonight they blended.
“Woody!”
Woody’s bloodshot eyes snapped over to Rob.
Rob leaned forward, looking past Mick. “What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, his eyes as glassy as a bucket of cool water. “Something…came out of the lake.”
Everyone’s eyes narrowed at the same time as they slowly shuffled closer to Woody, reminding Rory of those things.
“Was it the boogeyman?”
They slowly turned to Alex, who was staring at Woody with grave eyes. He set a red marker (which he had just used to draw a pool of blood beneath the hearse) onto the bar. “He’s come back, hasn’t he?” he asked, brushing his hand against the cap gun stuffed inside his holster.
Woody swallowed dryly and turned to Marge. “Can I get a quick drink of that?”
Her eyes dropped to the Jack and Cokes in her hands. “Sure, honey.”
Woody grabbed a glass, pushed the straw aside and finished the drink in four large chugs. “Thank you,” he sighed,
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