Floodwater Zombies (40 page)

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.”

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 struggle. 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.