Alex Lee Martinez - Gil's All Fright Diner

Under the pretense of pouring himself another glass of lemonade, he delicately slid away. "Thanks, but I really want to finish the trench."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah. If I get this done today, I can do all the pipe laying tomorrow. That way, you won't lose any business over it."

She sighed. "Well, it's your call, but if you change your mind, if it gets too hot for you, I'll be inside." Loretta redid her bun and returned to the diner.

Duke took measure of her quivering rear end. A six pack or two and the offer might start looking good. He swore off beer for a while.

A half-hour later, the diner's back door opened again. This time Red from Red's Taxidermy and Mortuary and a thin, older guy in jeans walked through it.

"Howdy, Duke." Red extended his hand. "Don't know if you remember me or not. ."

Duke took Red's withered hand in a firm, but not too firm, shake. "Sure."

"This here is Walter Hastings."

Walter tipped his baseball cap. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Walter's been having some trouble with his cows, and I was just telling him about that trick you did with my dogs. How they're all nice and friendly now."

"I can make 'em mean again for you."

"No, that's alright. I like 'em better this way. But like I was saying, Walter's been having trouble with his cows, and I mentioned to him about your way with dogs. And he was wondering if maybe you had a way with cows, too?"

"You tried a vet?"

"Walter here don't trust vets. He thinks they're part of the. . uh. . what's that you're always saying there, Walt?"

"Inflated and excessive medical establishment."

"I guess I can take a look." Duke checked the burning sun hanging directly overhead. "I was about to take a break anyway."

"I surely would appreciate it. I'll pay you for your time. Say, twenty bucks?"

Duke stuck his shovel in the dirt. "Let's go."

Rather than squeeze in the cab of the pickup, he sat in the back along with Walter's dog, Betty. The mutt was a mix of two dozen breeds with notable traces of collie, Doberman, and, judging from her size, Saint Bernard. She laid her head on his lap, and Duke scratched behind her ears.

"Told'ja he had a way with animals," Red said.

The truck bounced down the road, pulling off after a few miles. The vehicle cut across Walter's land to a small herd of six thin cows. They were mostly skin and bones, their ribs showing through their sagging flesh and their deflated udders hanging limply. One lifted her head from the dry brush she was chewing to check out the approaching truck. She resumed grazing.

"So what exactly is the problem?" Duke asked as he hopped off the truck to take a look.

"Well, they aren't sick, and they're not eating any less, near as I can determine. They're just losing weight, and they stopped giving milk."

"Anything else?"

"They seem kind'a stupid." Walter pointed out a large Jersey. "Melinda here use'ta be smart as a whip. For a cow. Now she's just got this — I don't know — empty look in her eyes. Like she don't even know me."

Duke circled Melinda twice. He ran his hand along her bumpy spine and checked her tongue and teeth. He patted the cow's thin neck. Melinda snorted dryly and stirred.

"I think I see your problem here."

"Nuthin' serious, I hope."

Duke pulled his pocket knife. " 'Fraid so. What you got here is six dead cows." He stuck the blade deep into Melinda's side between her ribs. The cow didn't seem to mind. He pulled out the knife and stuck his finger in the wound. "Yep. No blood, see? It's all dried up."

Walter and Red stepped in for a closer look.

"Son of a bitch," Red remarked.

Walter pulled off his cap and scratched his tangled gray hair. "Sweet Jesus, I ain't never seen nuthin' like that. So what are we talking about here? These cows are like zombies or sumthin'?"

Duke nodded. "Yep."

"Hell. I knew Loretta was having problems, but I didn't think cows could become zombies. How's sumthin' like that happen?"

"Couldn't say, but the whole lot will have to be put down. Right now they're still eating grass, but they'll be craving flesh soon."

"But they're dead. How do you kill them?"

"Bullet in the head should work, same as any zombie."

"The whole herd?"

"Sorry."

Walter patted Melinda between her eyes. "I'm gonna miss you, old girl. I got a thirty-eight in the glove box."

"That'll do."

"Uh. . how long do we got before they get hungry?" Red asked.

"Not long, I'll bet," Duke replied.

"How about now?"

The other men saw that the herd had surrounded them unnoticed. The cowbells should've warned them, but none had been paying close enough attention.

"Damn," Duke swore under his breath. This sort of thing would happen now.

While the sun was up he was stuck in his man form. One almost human werewolf and two unarmed geezers weren't much of a match for six walking dead Jerseys.

Melinda raised her head and uttered a low, haunting howl. The rest of the herd joined her in a bloodcurdling moan that seemed to bubble up from the sulfurous pit of Hell itself.

"Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oo."

Eyes full of unnatural hunger, loose lips smacking, the herd closed in. The clang of cowbells marked their otherwise silent advance.

The pickup was only twenty feet away, but the herd stood between the men and the truck. Duke scooped up a large rock with a pointed end. He guessed it a fair implement for smashing in a cow's skull. His best choice at the moment.

The cows licked their lips and nostrils with purple, flaking tongues.

He raised the rock over his head and charged a white-and-brown Jersey. He swung the stone with all his weight and muscle behind it. It struck with a deafening crack, tearing away fur and skin, exposing the broken skull beneath. The cow lurched clumsily to one side. Grunting, Duke struck again. The cow bawled out a muted cry as her brainpan caved in. Duke glimpsed the brains beneath. Calling on what little supernatural strength he had, he unleashed a third blow. Bone shattered beneath stone, and the hit crushed the zombie's brains. The cow fell over in a twitching heap. She took his rock with her, firmly lodged in her skull.

But he didn't need it anymore. There was a hole in the herd's line. The truck (and its glove box) was an easy dash away.

Melinda charged from his right. Her fierce head butt to his hip knocked him flat on his ass. His vision blurred, he could barely see the hooves flailing at his face. He jerked clumsily out of the way, narrowly avoiding a braining.

Walter made a run for it. He zipped past two snapping zombies, but a third slammed him. He tumbled over the cow carcass. A Jersey bit a chunk out of his leg. His face twisted as he spit out a muffled groan.

Zombies nipped at Red's arms. They ripped his sleeves but didn't draw blood.

Melinda's slavering jaws dangled over Duke's face. He launched a punch at her nose. It landed in her mouth. She bit off his index and middle fingers. Blood dripped from her sagging lips as she casually chewed.

It hurt like hell, but the fingers would grow back. If he survived this ordeal. Werewolves could die by only specific circumstances: silver, fire, decapitation, some types of magic, and certain varieties of supernatural creatures. Getting eaten alive might make the list as well. He had never bothered to check.

Melinda swallowed with a satisfied slurp.

Betty leapt from the truck's bed. The dog fearlessly sprang upon the cow, sinking her teeth into Melinda's tender flank. A human zombie would've ignored the dog, but the freshly dead cows still retained a hint of bovine instinct. Melinda kicked Betty away. Betty spat out the shreds of skin and muscle. She bared her teeth, frothing at the mouth, and barking ferociously. The confused Jerseys backed away.