Kyle released a low sigh. “A fictitious transfer to another facility would raise suspicion. His family, friends, and colleagues—cops—wouldn’t simply forget about him. There would be a hue and cry over his disappearance, which would engender the sort of attention our kind must avoid.”
“But it could buy us time. Buy him time.”
“Angel is right,” Allen said, expression somber. “And even though the Connor we knew may already be gone, I won’t condone murder. But if this infection spreads . . .” He rubbed his eyes. “Maybe it’s time to put another option on the table. Turn this over to the CDC.”
“No!” Kyle and I said in unison. Kyle eyed Allen warily as if assessing whether or not he would take that step on his own. Allen was a solid ally to zombie-kind, but we were staring at the kickoff of a potential zombie apocalypse. I couldn’t blame him for thinking beyond our need to keep zombies secret.
“Look,” I said, “there’s no need to get radical with the CDC just yet—”
Connor turned his milky-eyed gaze on me. A sound rattled deep in his throat before it gurgled out. “Annnnnngggggellll.”
A chill shuddered through me and settled in my chest. Kyle didn’t flinch, but Allen backed away from the bed, eyes wide and face pale.
“It’s okay,” I forced out, not feeling the least bit okay. “Judd did the same with his entire cerebrum gone. It doesn’t . . . mean anything.” Like whether there was a chance Connor was still Connor somewhere in there.
Allen’s shoulders relaxed a bit, but he stayed well away from the bed.
My lower lip began to quiver. “Connor wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for me. I bit Judd and—”
“Angel.” Kyle snapped my name out like a whip. “Cut the shit. That’s like blaming a person who transmits the flu for not keeping their immune system up to snuff.”
It wasn’t the same thing at all, but I couldn’t marshal an argument. “Fine,” I said, voice cracking.
To my utter shock, he reached out and pulled me into a hug. I’d never ever seen Kyle hug anyone—or even give so much as a pat on the back. He was the absolute last person I would have ever described as affectionate or soothing or remotely cuddly.
But, damn, he had hug superpowers. The tension and anxiety flowed away. It only lasted a few seconds, but when he released me, I felt less as if the world was about to crumble.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
Connor moaned long and low then lay motionless, cloudy eyes fixed on me. I edged closer to the bed. “This is the first time he’s been still?”
“Since I’ve been here,” Kyle said.
Allen gestured toward the IV pump. “Might be the antibiotic affecting him.”
“Dr. Nikas was convinced it wouldn’t,” I said. “But it sure fits the timing.”
Kyle frowned at the monitor. “His heart rate’s dropping.”
Before I could ask what that might indicate, Connor wailed in what could only be agony. He went rigid, back arched and hands curled into claws by his sides.
Dr. Renley burst in followed by Patricia.
Kyle snapped out a status report as if he’d been born to his PCA role. Renley shouted an order for IV lora-something, but called it off as Connor went limp, head lolling to the side.
“Angel?” Connor’s voice barely had breath—thin, weak, and . . . scared.
A chill swept over me. That was no mindless babble. “I’m right here, Connor.”
His eyes met mine, milkiness diminished to a mere haze. “Ange . . .” He let out a long sigh, and his body went so limp it seemed to sink into the mattress.
“Asystole!” Kyle barked.
Dr. Renley cursed. “Call a code.”
Allen rushed out of the room with his messenger bag that contained the covertly obtained samples. Four more staff hurried in, and a flurry of activity commenced under the direction of Dr. Renley. Intubate. Compressions. Ventilate.
I backed into the corner by the door and watched in helpless anguish. For that brief moment, Connor had been himself. And now he was dying.
Maybe death was inevitable if the mutated parasite affected a living person? But Connor had seemed so stable earlier—in a shambler sort of way.
Earlier. Before the antibiotic. If the treatment itself wouldn’t hurt the mutated parasite, what was up with the timing? I trusted Dr. Nikas’s judgment. I did not trust Saberton. What if Baldy or Dr. Garrison had tainted the bag of Paxibiotic? They’d still been in the building when Dr. Renley ordered it.
I eased toward the IV pump where it had been shoved out of the way. Kyle flicked a glance toward me as I reached it then gave me a micro-nod, as if gleaning my purpose. Everyone else’s attention was fixed on Connor, and with a smooth and super casual move, I disconnected the tubing, slipped the bag from the hook, and stuffed it under my shirt.
I quietly left the room, arms crossed over my chest to hide the lump, and found Allen by the nurse’s station.
“Unzip your messenger bag,” I murmured while trying to look worried rather than guilty. He obliged, and I tugged the Paxibiotic from beneath my shirt and shoved it in.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“Just a hunch. Might be tainted.” I broke off as the sound of activity from Connor’s room ebbed away. Dr. Renley’s voice carried clearly. “Time of death . . .”
Numbness crept over my face and hands. No. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t right. “I need to make a call,” I gasped and lurched off down the corridor without waiting for a response.
The cops were still in the waiting room. Feeling like a coward, I exited through the ambulance doorway. I didn’t want to be around when they got the word Connor had died. Couldn’t.
I leaned against the wall, cool brick mildly soothing against my back. Stared at my phone.
“Angel?” Dr. Nikas’s voice. I must have called him.
I swallowed past the knot in my throat and lifted the phone to my ear. “Connor died. I think the Saberton people might have poisoned him with something in the antibiotic. That’s when he started going downhill.” I took a shuddering breath. “Connor was there, Dr. Nikas.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the seconds before he died, it was him. Or a part of him at least. He was scared. He knew me. It sounds stupid, but . . .”
“Not stupid at all, Angel,” he said gently. “We don’t have enough information about the mutation to know what’s possible.”
“Is he going to go dead-shambly now? Like Judd and Douglas Horton?”
“Kyle is taking post-mortem samples. I won’t know until I can check them for parasite activity.”
I rubbed my eyes, and my fingers came away wet. “Okay. You’ll keep me in the loop? Please?”
“Of course I will, Angel. You can count on me.”
I lowered the phone. The doors shooshed open, and Allen exited. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Angel, I was going to have Nick take care of transporting Connor to the morgue, but I need to send him on a call. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I . . . I want to be the one to bring him in.”
He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “I told Nick to meet you at the boat launch to swap vehicles. It’s going to be a while before Connor’s body is released to us, so I’ll text you when you need to come back.”
I gave him a grateful nod then returned to Nick’s car and made my escape.
• • •
The boat launch wasn’t exactly a halfway point between morgue and hospital, but I suspected Allen knew I liked it out there. I parked facing the river then sat on the hood. Sunset cast shimmering streaks of pink and orange across the water. Soon this day would be over. Hard to believe it had started at 4 a.m. No wonder I was exhausted. And hungry—in more ways than one, especially since I’d left my bag of brain chips in the van. I could use a burger with a
side of brains right now.
Nick pulled up a couple of minutes later. I hopped off the Hyundai.
He climbed out of the van, sympathy in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Angel.” He hesitated then wrapped his arms around me. I returned the embrace, ready to open up, share the grief with him.
The scent of his warm, fresh brain made my mouth water. A shudder went through me, and I pulled away. I was a monster. No changing that. I wasn’t hungry enough to try to crack his skull open, but it might happen someday.
Nick gave me a puzzled look. “Angel? Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s not you. I promise. Keys are in the console.” I took a step back. Safer for us both if I kept my distance in every way that mattered.
Nick gave a single nod, eyes on mine, then tilted his head toward the van. “Okay. Ditto.” For an instant he looked uncertain, as if he wanted to say more, do more. But then he turned away and climbed into his car. “Call if you need anything.” He hesitated again, then shook his head and drove off.
“Fuck,” I said then said it a few more times. I grabbed the bag of brain chips and stuffed four in my mouth, which kept me from continuing to say Fuck until the heat death of the universe.
The van didn’t have a hood I could sit on, so I leaned against the bumper and finished the chips while the sun slipped below the horizon. I tried to think of anything but Connor—biology notes, the morgue inventory, the fate of the frogs—but the mental image of his eyes floated before me, and his voice endlessly whispered, Angel?
My phone rang as the first stars made their appearance. Dr. Nikas.
“Kyle arrived with the samples,” he said. “I’ve only performed the test for parasite activity on the post mortem sample thus far, but I wanted you to know that it was negative. Deputy Connor is truly deceased.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. That was good, right? As if anything could be good in this whole situation. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
“I’m very sorry, Angel. I will call again when I have more information.”
I hung up. A few seconds later my phone buzzed with a text from Allen.
• • •
Allen helped me roll the gurney out to the van. Even using the ambulance door, I couldn’t escape the grief and shock of the cops. It flowed out like a black wave, enveloping everything in the vicinity. I caught a glimpse of the sheriff holding the hand of a freckled, middle-aged woman wearing a grief-stricken expression. Connor’s mother.
Averting my eyes, I loaded up Connor’s body, closed the doors, and headed for the morgue.
The morgue. With Connor. Dead. My palms grew sweaty against the steering wheel.
After a year and eight months at the Coroner’s office, I’d picked up more bodies than I could count, and never been bothered in the least. But this was different. This was Connor. Saberton had murdered him, but I was still responsible.
I pulled into the empty parking lot of a strip mall, shut off the engine, and climbed into the back to sit on the wheel well beside the gurney. Hands shaking ever so slightly, I tugged the zipper down then pushed the heavy plastic of the bag aside to show his face, the sunburn ashen now. At least his eyes had been closed. I couldn’t do this if they were open.
“I’m sorry, Connor,” I whispered, clenching my hands together. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. Those motherfuckers murdered you. You weren’t dead yet. I know it.” A sob welled up, and I let myself bawl, gasping out the truth about the zombie situation. Of what I was. What I’d done. He deserved to know. Even like this. Even . . . dead.
Eventually the torrent subsided. I fumbled a tissue out of one of the supply bins and blew my nose. Calmer now, I placed a hand on his shoulder. Cool, not yet cold. “I’m going to do everything I can to make this right, Connor.”
I reverently zipped the body bag then climbed into the driver’s seat and continued on my way.
Dr. Nikas called less than a minute later—perfect timing, since I’d’ve been incoherent any earlier.
“My testing of the samples is in progress, with no new revelations yet. Dr. Leblanc will autopsy Deputy Connor in the morning, and Allen will run interference with any issues that might arise in the process.”
“What about after the autopsy?” I asked. “I mean, is Connor still, er, a biohazard?”
“Fortunately for all, Deputy Connor’s mother has decided to have him cremated which eliminates any risk.”
I exhaled in relief. One tiny worry in a sea of worries taken care of.
“Allen told me that your shift is over once you transport Deputy Connor—”
“It is, and don’t worry. I’m heading straight for the lab as soon as I’m done.”
“No,” he said, quiet yet commanding. “You are to go home and get a good night’s rest. Can you be at the lab for 10 a.m.?”
I wanted to protest, assure him I could be there a lot earlier, but I knew I’d only receive another firm No. “Yeah, ten works fine.”
“We’ll get through this, Angel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I mumbled a goodbye and hung up. At the morgue, I placed Connor’s body in the cooler and logged him into the computer.
Then I clocked out and cried all the way home.
Chapter 15
In a turn of events that would surprise absolutely no one, I slept like total shit. By 6 a.m., I was awake and staring at my ceiling—which had far less character than the one in the old house. That ceiling had been cracked and stained, and if I was lucky, a roach would skitter across as entertainment.
But this ceiling was new and white and smooth. A blank space that a piece of me envied.
My alarm was set for eight, but I stubbornly refused to turn it off, even though I knew damn well I wasn’t going to fall back asleep. But shutting it off somehow felt like giving up.
I stared at the ceiling and tried to go numb. When the alarm finally beeped, I forced myself out of bed and got my pathetic ass in gear.
• • •
The route from my house to the lab was a series of scenic and mostly empty back highways. The part of me that wasn’t sad, stressed, and exhausted could recognize it was going to be a pretty day and that the drive was even lovelier than usual. Patches of fog swirled along the edges of the road and wrapped around the trees. Sunlight pierced through the mist in beams so tangible it seemed as if I could reach out and grab one. Azalea bushes were in full pink and fuchsia bloom, and the occasional dogwood offered a burst of white amidst the lush green of spring leaves. Gorgeous. And wasted on me.
Okay, maybe not totally wasted. I’d have been a lot more miserable if the scenery was dreary. And my mood wasn’t completely at rock bottom. I had enough mental energy to tell myself to pull it together. I was going to help Dr. Nikas find a solution. Or at least find out what the hell was going on and how bad it might get. Because yeah, I knew it could be a whole lot worse.
My phone buzzed with a text from Reb, the Coroner’s Office receptionist. I pulled over to read it.
Delight and worry rushed through me in a confusing emotional cocktail. I’d really enjoyed talking to Portia, but what if she was simply calling to give me a heads up because the homeowners association had seen us dump the frogs? Or to tell me that the frogs had mass-suicided in the maw of the great blue heron?
I got back on the road and dialed the number Reb had included, trying not to think of even more dire reasons Portia might want to speak to me.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Angel Crawford—”
“Oh! Thank you so much for returning my call so quickly.” She gave a warm chuckle. “The instant I left the message I realized how odd this might be, but I knew that calling back and saying never mind would be even creepier. However, I enjoyed talking with you yesterday, and since I ha
ve to be in town this afternoon, I was wondering if you’d like to grab coffee together?” She said it all in what felt like a nervous rush, which of course made me like her all the more.
“I’d love that,” I said and thought I heard a relieved breath on the other end. “I have class at one today, so would noon work?”
“That’s perfect. Is Dear John’s Café all right? It’s not far from the campus.”
“I know it well,” I said. “That totally works.”
“Excellent! I’ll see you then.”
I hung up, mood improved about a billion percent.
As I made the turn onto the road that led to the lab, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A quick glance toward the passenger seat revealed nothing, though. Probably a trick of the light. The dappled sunlight cast shifting patterns, making it easy to think there was—
Something furry and rat-sized launched itself at my face. I reacted in the only possible way—shrieked, batted it frantically away, and slammed on the brakes. The instant the car stopped, I threw it into park then bailed out and didn’t stop running until I was a good twenty feet away. Only then did I turn and warily peer at the car. The driver’s door stood open, but I couldn’t see any sign of a rat or bat or whatever the hell had tried to attack me.
Jesus, Angel. You’ve gone up against trained mercenaries. And you’re acting like a weenie about a rodent?
Yeah, well, I’d yet to come across a mercenary who was weird and squirmy and jumped at my face out of nowhere.
I squared my shoulders and crept toward the open door. The Thing jumped onto the passenger seat, and I backpedaled—fast—in case it decided to lunge for my throat. But it remained motionless.
I eased closer. Not a murderous rat-bat at all, but a frog covered in hair and fuzz and dirt and god knows what else it had picked up from the floorboard of my car.