White Trash Zombie Unchained

  But this felt different. I hoped.

  After a brief pause, I traced the numbers again. If he was awake, he’d understand what I was doing. If he wasn’t awake, then I was worrying over nothing, and no harm, no foul.

  “All right, dude. I have a coffee date with someone a whole lot livelier than you.” I withdrew my hand and stood. “Catch you on the flip side.”

  I punched my four-digit code into the keypad by the door and left.

  Chapter 17

  Though Tucker Point had a number of coffee shops and cafés, Dear John’s was my hands down favorite. Not only did it have excellent coffee and pastries—baked fresh on the premises—but it was also in convenient walking distance from the morgue. Not to mention, the place had a cool origin story. A decade ago, John Hickey had received a literal “Dear John” letter from his then-wife after she left him for his brother’s ex-wife. Hickey decided it was time for a change, quit his job, and invested everything in the café. Last month he’d opened another café in Longville, and rumor had it he was looking at commercial property in Baton Rouge for a third location.

  Meanwhile, I was happy to support his ambition by indulging in his super yummy hot chocolate at every opportunity.

  There was no sign of Portia when I arrived, but that was forgivable since I was early. The café was at the end of its lunch rush, and after ordering my hot chocolate—extra chocolate, extra whipped cream—I snagged a table by the window that also allowed a view of the door. I had Mr. Fluffy’s container with me, though I’d stuffed it into a paper grocery bag, since I suspected the café workers would be less than thrilled at the frog’s presence. I warned him quite firmly to not make any croaks, then placed the bag under the table and savored my super excellent hot chocolate.

  Portia arrived a couple of minutes later, managing to look elegant in jeans and a simple pale green shirt. She scanned the room, face breaking into a smile when she spied me. After making her purchase, she settled into the chair across from me with a cup of herbal tea. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

  “Not at all. And I have a bit of a surprise for you.” I motioned for her to look under the table then unrolled the top of the bag. “Rana pipiens, right?”

  Portia chuckled. “Excellent memory! Did you pilfer more?”

  “No, this one escaped the bucket. I found him hiding out in my car, and I was hoping you might take him to join the others?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” she replied with zero hesitation and set the bag by her purse.

  “I’m really glad you called,” I said. “The past twenty-four hours have been kind of shitty.” I hesitated. “Dunno if you heard about the deputy who died yesterday.”

  Her brow furrowed with concern. “I saw it on the news. Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Not close or anything, but we’d worked a bunch of scenes together. Kinda half-ass flirted with each other but nothing serious.” I curled my hands around my mug, wishing I could draw all of its warmth into me. “But I was with him when he collapsed . . . and in the ER with him when he died.”

  “Oh, Angel. I’m so sorry.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I grabbed a napkin to blot them away. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she said, warm and firm. “You’re more than justified, and it’s far healthier to express your grief.”

  “It’s just bullshit, y’know? He was a really nice guy.” I crumpled the napkin in my fist. “I’ve seen a lot of death. So much of it is stupid and pointless, but this . . . he didn’t deserve it.” My throat clogged, and I covered by turning away to blow my nose. I wanted so badly to share my sense of guilt over Connor’s death. I couldn’t help but feel she’d understand. But opening up would reveal too much.

  “No, he didn’t deserve it,” Portia said, emotion rippling through her voice. “And the fact that it was sudden and unexpected makes it all so much harder.”

  I met her eyes. “You’ve lost someone suddenly?”

  “My husband,” she said and gave me a soft smile. “Last October. Massive heart attack. And then a few weeks later, my friend and neighbor lost her fiancé in a plane crash.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  Portia chuckled. “I used that word and many others. As did Jane. The two of us went through a truly profane amount of ice cream together in the following month.”

  Something clicked into place in my brain. “Jane? You mean Jane Pennington?” How many other Janes could there possibly be who lived near Portia and whose fiancé had died in a plane crash? Or, in her case, pretended to die in a plane crash.

  “Yes. The Congresswoman.”

  “I know her,” I said. “Actually, I met her through Pietro, her fiancé. I dated his nephew for a while.”

  Her face brightened. “What a small world! I liked Pietro quite a bit.”

  “Yeah, he was cool.” Then, since I felt like I needed to add something nicer, I said, “He helped me out a bit with tuition.” Technically, the tuition had been covered by the bonus the Tribe had paid me for helping rescue zombies from Saberton’s New York lab, but “helped me out a bit” was a tetch more discreet.

  “And now you’re an expert frog rescuer.”

  “Go with your strengths, right?” I grinned and took a sip of hot chocolate. “You told me you didn’t start college until you were twenty-five. Why so late?”

  “I got pregnant when I was sixteen,” she said with a wry twist of her mouth. “My parents sent me to live with my grandmother in Atlanta, and I was kept out of school—to avoid embarrassing the family.” She shook her head. “I was angry at my parents for sending me away, and furious when they told me I had to put the baby up for adoption or be cut off completely.”

  “Wow, they sound like assholes.”

  She grimaced. “It was a different time, and they did what they thought was best for everyone. I didn’t have a choice. But after I gave up my baby, I refused to return home. I lived with my grandmother and finished high school in Atlanta.” Her nose wrinkled. “I was nineteen by the time I graduated, thanks to missing a year of school. Then I was too proud to ask my parents for college money”—Portia rolled her eyes at her foolish younger self—“so I stayed with Grandma and found a job that helped pay the bills.”

  “What happened at age twenty-five?”

  Her expression softened. “I met Korbin Antilles. A lawyer, eight years older than me, and already on the fast-track to partner in the firm where he worked. We were married barely six months later, and I was in college the following semester with his unwavering support.”

  “That’s a seriously cool story,” I said fervently. “Do you know anything about the baby you gave up?”

  “I do,” she said, smiling. “About a decade ago he went looking for his birth mother and found me. He’s an engineer. Had a great childhood.” She turned her hands over and examined them. “Part of me wished I could have watched him grow up. But letting him go was the right choice.”

  “You and your husband never had kids?”

  “We tried for years with no luck.” Portia chuckled. “According to the doctors, my husband had slow and scarce swimmers. We discussed alternatives but finally decided having children simply wasn’t a priority for us.”

  I can’t have children, I realized, and it felt like a blow. I’d never really thought about it before, but no way could a zombie carry a baby to term. And now that it was off the table, it had a lot more emotional weight.

  Portia must have sensed my downward spiraling mood, because she steered the conversation to lighter topics, such as the new movie theater and the never-ending construction on 7th Street. By the time we got to the latest scandal involving the Chief of Police, I’d shaken off the brief funk and giggled with her about the goat and the alien sex doll found in his office.

  All too soon, Portia glanced at her watch and sighed. “I have to go, and so do you.”

&
nbsp; English class. Bah. “I really enjoyed this. We need to do it again.”

  She glanced away, and for a godawful second I was sure I’d misjudged everything, and she was going to make an excuse about how busy she’d be for the next year painting her toenails and reorganizing her sock drawer and washing her hair. But when she looked back, there was only a gentle, faraway sadness in her eyes. She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

  “I hope we can,” she said, her voice ever-so-slightly rough. “I’d like that.”

  Before I could say another word, she gathered up her purse and Mr. Fluffy and hurried out. It felt like fog had rolled in and masked her sunshine, and I wanted to chase her down to give her a hug and tell her everything was going to be all right. But, I didn’t. She’d think I was crazy, and besides, my gut was probably wrong.

  I dropped a dollar in the tip jar and headed out. Portia waved as she pulled out of her parking space. I smiled and waved back—and kicked myself.

  Dammit. I did trust my gut. I didn’t know why, but that lady needed a hug.

  Too late now.

  • • •

  Unlike Dingle, the English instructor was a nice guy. Young, sorta cute in a nerdy way, but very unforgiving when it came to spelling errors or comma splices. I was starting to get the hang of punctuation, but spelling was my nemesis thanks to my dyslexia.

  Fortunately, the universe gave me a break, and Mr. Worthing didn’t assign one of his dreaded in-class writing projects. I had too much on my mind to focus, plus I never earned better than a C minus on those stupid things because there was never enough time for me to make it coherent.

  Instead, we launched into a class discussion about how to write a clear thesis statement and come up with logical support for assertions. I threw myself into the conversation since not only would it pump up my class participation grade, but it also served to distract me from the impending shambler epidemic.

  Yet as we talked about the oh-so-important freshman-level essays, something clicked for me. The principles could easily carry over to my science-y work at the morgue and lab in the form of clearer and more concise reports of observations. For the first time, I saw English Comp as something besides a total pain in my ass.

  Before I knew it, class was over, and everyone was gathering up their stuff to leave. As I headed for my car, I dug my phone out of my purse and turned it on. The only thing Mr. Worthing wasn’t nice about was cell phones. They had to be off and stowed away. If he caught sight of a phone during class, the offending student would be marked absent and get zeroes on any in-class assignments.

  I had no messages from the lab—which I hoped meant no new shamblers—but there were back-to-back missed calls from an unknown number, followed by a voicemail from Reb at the Coroner’s Office.

  “Hey, sweetie. A lady called for you. Said it’s urgent. The name is Dr. Charish, and her number is . . .”

  I didn’t hear the rest due to the blood roaring in my ears. Kristi Fucking Charish.

  Of course then I had to replay the whole thing since I’d zoned out. Reb gave the number and finished with, “She was real nice and polite, but sure seemed to want a callback ASAP, hon. I’ll text the number over, too, so you have it right there.”

  My hands went icy, and a lump of undisguised fear settled in my gut. I found Dr. Nikas’s number in my favorites but paused with my thumb hovering above the screen.

  ASAP. Kristi had left the message with Reb nearly an hour ago, and no way would a call about this to Dr. Nikas be short and sweet. What if Kristi already had some horrific plan in motion? Or what if she had my dad or someone else close to me in her crosshairs? She’d ordered my dad kidnapped once before. Nothing was off the table where she was concerned.

  I punched in Kristi’s number before I could dither any longer. Time was ticking away, and I’d have more info for the Tribe if I knew what her game was. I forced myself to breathe deeply and evenly. The last thing I wanted was for Kristi to know I was rattled.

  On the fourth ring, she picked up. “Hello, Angel,” she purred. “What took you so long?”

  “I was in class.” I throttled back the snarl that hovered behind the words. “What do you want?”

  “Class?” Amusement colored her voice. “Sounds fascinating. Are you learning to cook? Knit? Or are you finally making a go at finishing high school?”

  “It’s college,” I spat, instantly annoyed at myself for letting her goad me.

  “That’s absolutely adorable. Kudos to you for pulling off the con. It doesn’t say much for the college’s standards, of course, but it fools people into thinking you’re just a teensy bit smarter than you really are.”

  Ugh. Nope. Not gonna rise to that bait. “What the fuck do you want that’s so goddamn urgent? And I swear, if you’ve fucked with my dad or any of my friends, I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands.”

  She made a tsking noise. “I’m utterly wounded you would think that. No, darling. I’m calling to offer my help.”

  “Help?” My brain fumbled for purchase. “With what?”

  “With that tragic little homage to The Walking Dead you have going on down there. You lot have a serious problem on your hands.”

  That was the understatement of the year. “Why would you help us?”

  “You truly are thick. Your zombie epidemic needs to be stopped before it gets completely out of control. I’m offering my help because a) I’m the best goddamn neurobiologist in North America and the only one with knowledge of the zombie parasite. Those CDC morons will spend years simply trying to determine what the hell they have. And b) I have no desire to become one of the shambling horde, so it behooves me to do my part to put a quick end to it.” She gave a low chuckle. “Besides, Ari and I have worked together before. With our combined intellectual resources, we’ll make short work of this disaster.”

  Shit. Her reasons were more than plausible. “I can’t answer for Dr. Nikas or the Tribe. Why didn’t you just call them directly?”

  Kristi let out an impatient huff. “I don’t have the lab’s number. I do have yours. And, now, you’re wasting precious time. Contact Ari and pass along my offer. I can be reached at this number.” She disconnected.

  I made several obscene gestures at the phone then called Dr. Nikas.

  “Angel. What is it?” He sounded harried and stressed, but that was normal lately.

  “Kristi Charish.” I quickly told him about the conversation and her offer. When I finished, he heaved a sigh.

  “While I am understandably wary of her proposal, I confess to a generous amount of relief. Though I doubt Pierce will view it in a favorable light, especially right now.”

  I frowned. “Right now? What happened?”

  “Kang is gone.”

  Chapter 18

  Marcus paced the length of the north conference room while Brian pulled up the surveillance video. Dr. Nikas sat at the table across from me, and I silently counted to a thousand to keep any hint of guilt off my face. Not that I felt the slightest bit of remorse about helping Kang escape, but no sense being obvious about it.

  Brian clicked a button. “Here’s Kang’s room right before he makes his move.” The wall screen lit up with a view of the gauze-wrapped Kang lying motionless on the bed, the closed door visible beyond him.

  For nearly half a minute nothing happened. Then, moving almost too fast to follow, Kang leaped from the bed and to the door, punched a code in, and slipped out.

  “How did he have a code?” Marcus demanded.

  I shrugged. “If he was really awake the whole time, he could’ve watched any of us put it in.”

  Marcus scowled, but appeared to accept my hypothesis. It was a darn good hypothesis, too, especially considering I wasn’t stupid. I’d given Kang Pierce’s code—which I knew because I’d watched him use it more times than I could count.

  Brian played it again
at half speed, giving a nod of appreciation at Kang’s economy of movement. When it finished, he switched to the feed from the hallway outside Kang’s room, side by side with the view of the corridor that intersected it. He glanced at us and winked. “Pierce would kill me if he heard me say it, but I could watch this next part a million times.”

  He hit play. On the left, Kang exited his room and broke into a sprint toward the main corridor. On the right, Pierce strode with grim purpose down said corridor toward the intersection.

  Marcus groaned as he realized what was coming. I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back a laugh.

  As Pierce rounded the corner, Kang—without breaking stride, and with timing so precise it would put the space program to shame—leaped at him, somehow twisting in midair to seize Pierce in a chokehold from behind.

  Kang sank his teeth into Pierce’s trapezius. Pierce shuddered and let out a low moan then went quiet.

  Marcus stepped forward. “What the fuck just happened?”

  “Kang did a control bite,” I said in awe. I’d instinctively done the same thing to Philip a year ago to keep him calm, but with nowhere near the pizzazz Kang had shown.

  Dr. Nikas gave a reluctant nod. “He did indeed.” On the screen, a glassy-eyed Pierce walked to the far end of the hallway with Kang on his back like a gauze-wrapped tick.

  Brian stopped the video. “Pierce walked him all the way to the garage and out—after first giving him a cooler of brains and a set of scrubs.”

  “Pierce could not have hoped to resist,” Dr. Nikas said. “Not against Kang.”

  “Because Kang is his zombie daddy,” I added sagely.

  “So that’s it then?” Marcus asked, frowning. “Kang has escaped, and we’re not going after him?”

  “How could he escape if he wasn’t a prisoner?” I asked sweetly, earning myself an exasperated look.