Floodwater Zombies

FLOODWATER ZOMBIES

SEAN THOMAS FISHER

Copyright 2011 by Sean Thomas Fisher

Chapter One

Connor snapped a picture with his Droid RAZR, illuminating Dale’s ashen face in the moonlit darkness. Connor pulled the phone closer and inspected the picture, the screen casting an eerie glow upon the sinister grin cutting into his cheeks. Satisfied with the shot, he clipped the phone back onto his belt and smoothed out his tie, tucked into a lavender button down. He took another casual glance around the darkened lake, catching a burst of lightning as it spider-webbed across the southwestern skyline. His hand returned a lock of brown hair over his receding hairline as he steadied his lanky frame on the Pontoon boat’s railing. “Nice
knowin
ya
, Dale,” he whispered, raising a maroon wingtip into the air and gently nudging the rigid body over the edge. Dale
rolled
listlessly inside a new gray suit and hit the black water below with a soft splash.

With unfocused eyes, Connor watched the lake slowly claim the young dentist, who had gone into cardiac arrest last weekend after feeding his secret cocaine habit a little too much dinner. Circular ripples rolled outward, disrupting the water’s glassy reflection of the full moon above as the body quietly sank to the bottom. The old timers claimed Lake Darling reached depths of up to seventy-five feet and had catfish the size of bull sharks lurking along the muddy floor. But Connor didn’t believe a word of it. Regardless, the embalming fluid would ensure that Dale would soon find out.

A loon cried out from across the lake as Connor wiped sweat from his upper lip. He debated stopping off for a cold one at Doc’s on the way home, envisioning a frosty mug of beer and a quiet table for one. Unfortunately, he still had work ahead of him and Don would have his head on a platter if everything wasn’t ready to go tomorrow.

When Dale had completely disappeared, Connor pulled
a silver
Rolex from his black slacks. The blue moonlight jumped off the timepiece as his hand rose up and down, inspecting its impressive weight. Another cold grin slithered across his gaunt face. It might even be worth more than Mrs. Johansen’s diamond necklace. He’d have to make another trip to the pawn shop in Bismarck to find out.

His phone began vibrating, jerking him from his thoughts. He slipped the watch back into his pocket and pulled the cell from his belt. His face grimaced in the screen’s white glow. He hesitated before sliding the answer icon across the screen. “Hey, Don,” he said, watching the bubbles rise where Dale had literally gone to sleep with the fishes.

An irritable sigh hissed from the line and snaked down Connor’s ear canal, piercing the drum at its end.
“When did you plan on telling me about the scratch in Mr. Walters’ coffin?”
Don asked with a forced patience.

Connor tipped his head back and rolled his eyes, catching a shooting star go streaking across the night sky. He made a quick wish before replying.
“Scratch?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Connor!”
Don shouted, making Connor wince and crushing his wish at the same time.
“Albeit a very easy role for you to pursue,”
he said, lowering his voice.
“Ricardo already informed me it was YOU who knocked it against Mr.
Mirskey’s
tombstone while removing it with the crane this afternoon.”

“
Sonofabitch
,” Connor muttered, wrinkling his long nose and silently cursing Ricardo.

“And it will be YOU who will have it shiny as new in time for Mrs. Keller’s funeral tomorrow afternoon. Do we understand one another?”

Connor dropped his eyes to his shiny dress shoes, reflecting the light from above. “Yeah, I understand.”

A long pause followed, interrupted by a jumping fish off in the distance. Connor mopped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and tried not to show he was nervous by clearing his throat.

“Yeah, you understand what?”
Don said slowly.

Connor cleared his throat and immediately regretted it. “Yes, I understand, Mr. Allan.”

Don took a deep breath and exhaled tiredly as papers ruffled in the background.
“Is everything all set with Mr. Walters?”

Connor glanced back to the bubbles still breaking the water’s surface. “Yep, he’s fish food now.”

Another bloated pause stormed the line, making Connor’s beating heart sound that much louder in his ears.

“Connor, I realize the gravity of what we’re doing here, but that doesn’t mean you can’t display a certain degree of…respect.”

Connor’s hand slipped into his pocket and wrapped around the thick Rolex inside. “Everything went just fine, Mr. Allan.”

“
Ahhh
, excellent!
And when might we expect your most eagerly awaited return, Mr.
Faherty
?”
he asked mockingly.

Doc’s Bar & Grill – nestled between the lake and a lonely stretch of U.S. Highway Ten - flashed through Connor’s mind.
“
Bout
an hour.”

“Marvelous! I look forward to seeing Mr. Keller - and that coffin – looking right as rain in the morning then.”

“Gotcha, boss.”

“And Connor?”

Connor swallowed dryly, wiping more sweat from his upper lip.
“Yeah?”

“Don’t fuck it up,”
Don said gravely.

Connor pulled a long cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and lit up, bathing his face in an orange glow as his cheeks sucked in. “Don’t worry, I’ll have them both
lookin
right as rain,” he said, exhaling a tumbling cloud into the darkness. “Hell, I’ve fixed bigger dents than that on my car. You won’t be able to tell the… Hello?” When there was no response he checked the screen and snorted. “Asshole,” he grumbled, shoving the phone back into its holster. “Keep
talkin
to me like that and I’ll blow the lid off this whole damn thing,” he moaned, getting behind the wheel and firing the pontoon boat up.

Lightning fractured the black sky behind him, this time closer. He flipped on the front and rear lights and smoothly throttled up, motoring Don’s weekend getaway across the placid lake. The boat sliced through the water like a warm spoon through a tub of frozen chocolate ice cream. A loud clap of thunder erupted, making him flinch. He turned just in time to see another burst of lightning rip through the sky like cracks in a car windshield on a hot summer day. He turned back around and got into the throttle, making the engine whine louder. “People find out what he’s up to and they’ll string his cheap ass up,” he murmured, shaking his head and taking another drag.

“
Bust
my balls for a stupid little scratch and I’m doing all the heavy lifting? I don’t think so.” He flicked the cigarette into the lake and stared blankly out over the calm waters ahead. It would be a few more minutes before the marina’s sparse lighting would appear around the bend, giving his mind too much time to think. “I don’t need his shit!” he yelled, producing an echo that bounced off the rolling hillsides framing the lake. Another crack of thunder punctuated his statement and he recoiled again.

Deep down, no matter how frustrated he became, Connor knew he’d never leave Allan’s Funeral Home. That’s what pissed him off the most. Don had him by the balls. That funeral home was his life and Don knew it. But what Don didn’t know was that the people on those cold, silver slabs were Connor’s friends, his family. And just like a real family, he had pictures of every single one of them. Of course, none in a lavish gold frame like the one of his mother hanging above the ratty couch in his living room. He couldn’t wait to add Dale’s picture to the others, tucked in alphabetized photo albums hiding beneath his king-sized bed. His family was growing and he felt stronger with each addition. Hell, he had more pictures than most people had friends on Facebook. He chuckled, his face glowing red in the dashboard lights. “Fucking Facebook,” he scoffed.

Tonight, however, his family would have to wait. Tonight, he had his work cut out for him and would be lucky to get two hours of sleep, if that. Tomorrow was going to be a long day with three services, but the good news was that Annie Dixon was waiting for him in one of the coolers back at the ranch. Annie had always greeted him with a warm smile and pleasant tone whenever he grabbed a burger and a beer at the Longhorn. Her long red hair set off radiant green eyes that always made him blush beneath their weight, no matter how hard he focused on the menu.

Last week, she had finally dumped her grease monkey boyfriend, Luke Donovan (who was nothing more than a meth head loser in a Michael Myers outfit), and Connor had nearly asked her out. But as usual, he couldn’t pull the trigger and, boy, had he felt the barbs from his
family
when he returned home later that night. Even sweet old Mrs. Halloran had called him a chicken-shit pussy, saying he
couldn’t get laid
if he paid for it. Before Connor could prove her picture wrong, a blood clot caused Annie’s brain to hemorrhage four days ago and she never opened those green eyes again.