Alex Lee Martinez - Gil's All Fright Diner

Duke and Red helped Walter to his feet. Duke practically hoisted Walt's wiry frame under one arm, and they ran to the truck. Walt and Red climbed into the cab. Duke hopped onto the bed. Walter jammed his key in the ignition. Red opened the glove box and found the revolver and a box of ammo. The bullets spilled onto the floor and across the seat. He grabbed up a handful and shoved them into the cylinder.

The cows' unnatural appetite overwhelmed their fear. Betty nipped at Melinda's ankles. A grazing kick glanced off her muzzle, sending her sprawling.

Walt started the truck and mashed the accelerator. The pickup peeled away, raising a cloud of dust.

Duke whistled. Betty jumped to her wobbly legs and dashed after the truck. Walt slowed down just enough to allow her to jump into the bed.

The zombies gave chase but quickly fell behind. Walter watched them become small dots in his rearview mirror before stopping.

"What the hell are you doing?" Red asked.

Walter took the thirty-eight and got out of the truck. He limped over to the tailgate and had a seat as the herd drew closer. He gave Duke his handkerchief.

"Sorry about your fingers there, son."

Duke wrapped his bloody hand. A red stain spread across the white cloth. "Ain't as bad as it looks."

Mooing, the ravenous zombies were almost within picking off range.

"They really were a good bunch of girls."

"I'd do it for you, but I'm left-handed."

Walt raised his revolver in two steady hands. "S'alright. I should do it. I owe 'em that much."

He squeezed off one well-aimed shot. The bullet punched a bloodless wound between a Jersey's eyes. It fell over. With single-minded determination, the rest of the herd trotted forward. Frowning, Walt put down the rest of the Jerseys. Five cows in five shots. The last zombie collapsed just six steps from her goal. Betty jumped from the bed and cautiously sniffed the corpses convulsing in the dirt.

"Is that normal?"

"Pretty much. How's your leg?"

Walter shrugged. "I've had worse. I ain't going to turn into a zombie, am I?"

"Doesn't work that way, usually, but if you wanna play it safe eat a lot of salt the next couple of days. That should clean out your system just fine."

"Don't you think we ought to get you fellas patched up?" Red shouted from the cab.

Walter dug a worn twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and threw in another twenty bucks for Duke's lost fingers. He climbed into the driver's seat.

"Betty, get your butt in gear!"

The dog snarled at one dead cow, barked at another, and ran back to the truck.

Awerewolf's wounds healed according to when they were received. Once, Duke's chest had been blown open by a point-blank shotgun blast, but the damage had been done after dark during a full moon. He'd simply dusted himself off and gotten on with his evening. But his fingers had been bitten off around noon during the cycle of the new moon, and the digits were taking their sweet time in growing back.

He wiggled the knuckle-and-a-half that had regenerated so far. The loss forced him to eat his dinner with his off hand, which wasn't all that difficult, but still annoying, nonetheless.

Yawning, Earl emerged from the kitchen.

" 'Bout time you got yer ass up," Duke said between bites of chili.

The vampire fumbled around in his overalls' deep pockets and produced a comb. He took a seat on the stool beside Duke and ran the teeth through his thin hair. He combed it one way. Then another. Then another. Finally ending up with a laughable combover gracing his clearly bald head. Duke cut Earl a break. It may have been a ridiculous attempt, but at least Earl couldn't check himself in a mirror to realize how stupid it looked. Earl yawned again.

"You're teeth are out," Duke informed.

The vampire ran his tongue across his teeth and felt the bump of his extended fangs.

"Shit."

He turned away and grumbled at the undead bloodsucker's version of the embarrassing morning boner. Actually, vampires still got those as well, though not usually at the same time.

"C'mon. C'mon. That's it." Fangs retracted, he turned back. "Thanks. So you wanna tell me what happened to your fingers."

"Zombie cow."

"Longhorn?"

"Jersey."

Earl winced. "That's gotta be embarrassing. I mean, a big, badass werewolf like yourself gettin' his ass kicked by Bossie the milk cow."

"Funny."

"Or was it Bessie?"

Duke cracked his knuckles one at a time. Earl knew that to be a sign of dangerous annoyance but couldn't stop himself.

He snapped his fingers. "I got it. It had to be a Clarabell. Am I right?"

Duke's arm moved in a blur. Earl felt the sting of the spoon imbedded in his gut before he actually saw it.

"Damn it, Duke. This is my favorite shirt, you humorless prick."

He grabbed the two inches of handle sticking out and tugged with little effect. He summoned a portion of his undead strength and pulled harder. The utensil held tight, and he was reluctant to call upon more supernatural muscle for fear of accidentally tearing a bigger hole in his shirt.

A few ounces of vampire blood, dull red and thick as molasses, oozed from the wound. Earl grabbed a napkin and wiped it away.

His side began to tingle ever so slightly.

"Goddamn! That chili didn't have garlic in it, did it?"

"Just a touch," Duke replied.

The tingle grew into a light burning twinge.

Earl clutched his side and danced around in a panicky circle. "Get it out! Get it out! Get it out!" The vampire hopped from foot to foot. He grimaced.

Duke grabbed Earl by the shoulder and threw him against the counter. "Quit your twitchin'."

"Be careful. It's my favorite shirt."

The werewolf extracted the spoon with a twist of his wrist. A loud rip echoed through the diner as the overalls tore. Duke tossed the utensil on the counter.

"I licked the spoon, you puss."

Earl put his finger through the tear in his clothes. "You didn't have to do that. I loved this shirt. It makes my shoulders look wider."

"Maybe next time you'll keep your mouth shut."

"You gotta admit. It's pretty funny."

"I could've been killed. Maybe."

"That's what makes it so funny."

Duke picked up the spoon and tapped it against the bowl.

"Alright already. Damn, you lose a couple of fingers and your sense of humor with 'em. Not that you had much to begin with."

They took their seats back at the counter.

"Cows huh? How many?"

"Six."

Earl whistled. "That ain't good."

"And I don't think they were dead when they turned. They were too fresh. Whatever got into 'em, it got 'em when they were still alive."

"You don't think it's contagious, do you?"

"We burned the carcasses just to be safe, but Loretta has been burning her zombies. So that doesn't appear to be stopping it."

"Hell."

Both men knew what to expect if this continued to spread unchecked. Especially if it didn't limit itself to things already dead. Earl, being neither alive nor dead, and Duke, possessing unnatural powers of regeneration, were safely immune to zombiefication. The ordinary citizens of Rockwood were not.

"Maybe we should just move on," Earl suggested, "before things get. . messy."

"Yep. Maybe we should."

Both knew they wouldn't. Whatever evil might be at work, only they stood a chance of stopping it. If they left now the good folks of Rockwood would surely be doomed. If not to transformation into a town of shambling zombies, then to ammunition shortages and plunging property values. Duke and Earl just couldn't do it.

Their gas tank was nearly empty, and they were flat broke.