High Water by R.W. Tucker

the hood. The unfortunate man’s head had been pulverized, his brain lying in a pink mound at his feet.
    “Holy mackerel!” said Liz in awe.
    Walter frowned into the rear view mirror. “Who says ‘holy mackerel’ about a brained cop?” Pete smiled in spite of the circumstance. He looked to Liz, but she continued to stare out the window silently.
    From his vantage point, the old casino billboard could be seen in all its glory. The ad’s pair of painted breasts watched over the carnage. Partygoers milled around the parking lot, snarling and occasionally clawing at each other. Strangely, there was no action among them to hurt the fellow infected.
    Pete reflected momentarily on the common cause between the disease carriers. A young woman wearing jean shorts and a belly-revealing t-shirt milled around a group of infected. Her swollen eyes were devoid of expression. Why was there a sympathetic reaction to the other infected? Perhaps it was the aggressive stature that characterized the infected, a quivering spasticity hinting at violence bubbling right under the surface. Or it could be the swelling of the eyes and the foul smell. Something cued the victims off to each other’s infection. Any organism that wanted to spread and spread widely couldn’t kill off other hosts. Not for the first time that night, Pete longed to be able to mount a lab slide and subject the disease to microscopic scrutiny.
    Further on, the SWAT van that likely belonged to the ill-fated expedition which breached Tahitian was abandoned but the diesel engine was still humming away. Past the SWAT van, a fire truck was being pounded on by several infected partygoers. They appeared to be gathering around the cab and trying to get at someone inside. Red and white lights continued to pulse and spin.
    Walter rolled to a stop. “Fortunate for us these things are fucking stupid.”
    Pete nodded at Walter’s eyes in the mirror. “We got an up close look at them, including a tooth in my arm. They don’t have anything on Shaolin, though.”
    One partygoer, a girl in a string bikini with very short brown hair, was part of the fire truck mob. She saw them and began to run directly at their car. Walter kept his eyes locked on her, but chewed his lip, “Never trained for this.”
    “I figured this was our black belt test and nobody told us.”
    “ Sifu might try something less dramatic next time,” Walter replied.
    “You should tell Kyle that when we get back,” Pete said. Without emphasizing the ‘when’, he felt the significance of it. Walter slammed on the gas. Before Pete could object, the Cutlass accelerated at the girl, engine snarling. The car bounced angrily, once, twice, and then picked up speed. They continued to cross the parking lot, leaving behind the girl’s corpse and, ironically, Walter’s bumper.
    “Jesus, Walt!”
    Stoic-faced, Walter gunned the engine again, but the car grumbled and didn’t pick up much speed. Some of the infected crowd around the fire truck started fast in their direction. Walter responded by beginning to drift away from them, a choking noise coming from under the car.
    “Don’t worry, I got this,” Walter said, the engine sputtering and heaving.
    “Walter, they’re coming,” Pete said loudly. “Something’s wrong with your car.”
    “I got this, just a hiccup.”
    “You don’t have this , that’s what you said this morn—” Before Pete could finish, a suicidal infected dove head first into the wheel well of the left front tire. There was a thump, then a loud snap. The car began to fishtail.
    “You idiot, can you not drive this fucking car either?” Pete yelled. The pursuers were catching up to the slowing car.
    “What do you mean?” Walter exclaimed, the wheel bobbing in his hands.
    “Hello, the fucking moving truck, Walter?”
    “You’re making me nervous!” Walter shouted.
    Liz yelled over both of them, “Come on, Walter, go faster.”
    The car, seemingly responding to Liz’s advice, made