White Trash Zombie Unchained

  Kristi Fucking Charish. The text had come in at 6 a.m. on the nose, which was what woke me. Bitch. And a smiley face? I gave the phone my middle finger then dialed Marcus’s number. No way was I going to reply to Kristi before confirming this wasn’t a setup. I was ready and willing to help find a cure, but not if it meant getting locked in a cage and experimented on. Besides, if I had to be awake, then so did Marcus.

  To my surprise, he sounded wide awake when he answered—which told me he’d been up for a while. We’d dated long enough that I knew it took him an hour and a pot of coffee to not sound sleep-fuzzed.

  “Hey, Marcus. I got a text from Kristi saying to meet her at NuQuesCor this morning. Will any Tribe people be there? I’d rather not go on my lonesome, if you know what I mean.”

  “Dr. Nikas has been there all night, along with Tribe security.” In the background, a door opened and closed, followed by the sound of footsteps on tile.

  A bit of my tension eased. “Gotcha. What about the people who usually work there?”

  “We’re only taking over half of the third floor. NuQuesCor regularly conducts highly classified projects, so the employees are used to not asking questions.” Fatigue threaded through his voice, but it wasn’t physical—more likely his weariness of being a figurehead, of being responsible without actually being responsible. “And to smooth the feathers of the displaced workers,” he continued, “we’re sending them to a week-long conference in Puerto Rico.” He paused. “Hawaii was too expensive.”

  I silently prayed a week would be enough. “That was your idea, right? The conference thing?” I couldn’t see Pierce giving a crap about smoothing feathers.

  “Sure was,” he said, tone a bit brighter. Another door opened, followed by a rising thwup-thwup-thwup sound. “Sorry, Angel,” Marcus said, raising his voice over the noise. “I’m headed to NuQuesCor right now. I’ll see you soon.” The thwup-thwup grew louder and faster, then he disconnected.

  Damn, he got to ride in a helicopter. Too bad that little perk couldn’t make being Tribe head worth it.

  I thumbed in a reply to Kristi’s text:

  Her reply came as I pulled myself out of bed.

 

  I could practically hear her long-suffering sigh. Nice guilt trip, bitch. And it worked, which was even more annoying. Grumbling curses, I texted Allen.

  Hopefully, he’d read into that and understand what I meant.

 

  Messy. Two dead shamblers. Damn it.

 

  I returned to the Kristi convo.

 

  Ugh. I liked her a whole lot more when she was her normal, nasty self.

  I shuffled to the kitchen, surprised to see my dad flopped on the sofa watching the morning news.

  He gave me a bright smile. “Morning, baby. There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen.”

  My eyes narrowed as I took in his bloodshot eyes and haggard features—as well as the controller and headset resting at the far end of the couch. “Did you stay up all night playing Swords and Swagger?”

  “Um.” He shifted. “Yeah. Y’got me. I heard you talkin’ on the phone, so I changed it to the TV real quick.”

  My mouth twitched as I poured a cup of coffee. “And you might’ve gotten away with it except for one tiny detail.”

  Dad heaved a sigh. “I ain’t never awake this early.”

  “Uh huh. You ain’t never awake this early.” I added cream and sugar, stirred. “Bad guys get caught when they act out of character. But you made coffee, and that’s all that matters for now.”

  He snorted. “You hang around cops too much. I can’t get away with shit around you no more. Not that I meant to stay up ’til the crack of dawn. See, I went online last night and found a discussion forum all about Swords and Swagger. Learnt how to make a character. So I created me a guy barbarian and then had to level him up so I could do the cool shit.”

  “Had to.” I shook my head. “I don’t know which is weirder: you playing a video game all damn night or that you joined an online forum.”

  Dad chortled and went back to watching the news. But my amusement faded as I rummaged in the pantry for something more nutritious than Pop-Tarts. Kristi Charish was being nice and pleasant. That was definitely out of character.

  “Goddammit!” my dad roared, startling me. “Fuck you, you fucking bitch!”

  “What the hell, Dad? What’d I do?” I grabbed a towel to wipe up the coffee that had sloshed from my mug.

  “Not you, Angelkins. Come see this goddamn shit! It’s her! That piece of shit fuckstain cunt!”

  I left the spilled coffee where it was. Dad only ever used the c-word for one person.

  And there she was on TV. Lovely, perfectly stylish, and . . . blonde? She’d always been auburn before. I checked the crawl at the bottom of the screen to make sure it was really her. Sure enough, it read “Dr. Kristi Charish—noted neurobiologist.” Guess she wanted to make a whole new start, now that she was a bigshot at Saberton. What sucked the most was that she looked fucking amazing with blonde hair. Fuck her. I was hands down the better blonde.

  Her voice grated through me. “It is my solemn duty to volunteer my expertise and services in this time of world crisis. I will find the cure.”

  “Occupied with other matters, my ass,” I growled under my breath. People were dying, and there she was puffing herself up in interviews, all fake altruistic and shit. That was definitely in character.

  “Why’s that bitch involved with any of this?” he demanded.

  I sighed. “We’re in deep shit, and she offered to help Dr. Nikas. Common ground to stop the spread of the zombie epidemic.”

  “She ain’t right in the head.” He jumped up, face flushed and hands balled into fists. “Tell me right now you ain’t goin’ nowhere near that good for nothin’—”

  “Dad! I have to.”

  “Let them other zombie hot shots deal with her. You don’t have to be around her.”

  “I do,” I blurted. “This shambler mess is my fault.” Somehow saying it out loud to my dad made it worse. And better. He would never blame me. “Long story, and it wasn’t on purpose, but I’m the source of the infection, which means I’m needed for samples and stuff.”

  His body slumped in a sigh. “Damn, Angelkins. When you gonna get cut some slack?”

  “Soon, I hope.” I gave him a wobbly smile. No need for him to worry more than he had to. “There’s some serious brain power happening when Dr. Nikas and Kristi work together.”

  “You ain’t fool enough to trust her, right?”

  “Not in the slightest. It’s like having a cottonmouth in your sleeping bag. It’s fine and dandy while it’s cozy and warm, but it can bite you in the ass at any time.”

  He gave a grudging nod of approval. “Don’t you let your guard down for one second, y’hear?”

  “I swear I’ll be careful.” I nodded toward the game console. “I have some time before I have to get ready. How about we take Momzombique and your guy . . .”

  “Barney.”

  I rolled my eyes. “. . . and Barney the Barbarian out on a little spider demon hunt.”

  “Hot diggety damn. Mebbe you can help me kill the Skeleton Spider!”

  “It would be my greatest pleasure.”

  It took the better part of an hour, and each of our characters died twice, but we eventually fought our way to the lair of
the dreaded Skeleton Spider and dispatched the foul beast. Dad whooped and hollered with abandon as we collected the treasure, but no amount of monster-killing glory could make me forget the ugly truth.

  I was about to be Kristi Fucking Charish’s lab rat.

  • • •

  Even though I’d been to NuQuesCor several times before, I still needed my GPS to help me navigate the convoluted route. Situated in the eastern end of the parish, it was a twenty-minute drive from my house. Less, if you drove like a bat out of hell.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot and gazed up at the building that housed the biotech company. Three stories of white brick, with a scattered handful of windows to break up the monotony. Boring, stark, and functional.

  Squaring my shoulders, I strode up the sidewalk and through double glass doors into a vast lobby that more than made up for the exterior—marble floors, burnished metal wall panels, artsy sculptures, and a number of comfortable seating areas. A dozen or so people mingled near a coffee stand—some in business clothes, and others in dressy casual with lab coats. A grizzled security guard sat within the circular desk in the center.

  A fresh-faced young man in a tailored pinstripe suit approached from the direction of a curving staircase.

  “Good morning!” he said, smiling brightly. “You must be Angel Crawford?”

  “I am,” I replied cautiously. “You work here?”

  “No ma’am.” His smile widened. “I work for Dr. Charish!”

  “That’s . . . awesome.” No way could anyone fake being that cheerful. “Can you tell me where I need to go?”

  “Dr. Charish’s research suite shares the third floor with the NuQuesCor genetics program. They only have critical staff on duty and are restricted to the rooms on the east side.” He whipped out a map. “For your convenience, I marked the way to Dr. Charish’s main lab area.”

  “You mean Marcus Ivanov’s research suite and lab area?” I said sweetly. “He’s an owner. Not Kristi.”

  “Er, I . . . yes? That is, Dr. Charish—”

  I snagged the map from his hand. “Mighty kind of you to mark this for me. What’s your name?”

  “Billy Upton, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Likewise,” I said and shook it.

  “Here’s your fob so you can get into the secured area once you’re on the third floor.” He handed me a lanyard bearing an inch-long nub of black plastic.

  I slipped it over my head. “Thanks for your help, Billy.”

  “Anytime, Miss Crawford.”

  Bemused, I took the stairs to the third floor then followed the highlighted route on the map. The fob got me past a locked door and into the lab suite, where I navigated a maze of corridors, passing offices and break rooms and doors marked “Autoclave” and “Microscope/Fluorescence” and “Cell Culture.” Lab coats and other protective equipment hung on hooks outside several of the rooms, including one bearing giant biohazard placards and “LEVEL 3 BIOHAZARD” emblazoned on the door in bright red letters.

  Eventually, I reached a large room with multiple bays for focused work. Three long tables took up the center of the room, with drawers and storage beneath. A sink and safety shower occupied one corner, opposite a large fume hood. Counters filled with every variety of analytical equipment ran along the left wall, while glass-fronted cabinets loaded with chemicals and supplies hugged the right. An enormous walk-in refrigerator took up a sizable chunk of the back wall.

  Jacques worked to set up a second whiteboard for Dr. Nikas while four techs I didn’t know held a quiet discussion over photos and paperwork strewn across the back table. The four wore identical starched white scrubs and lab coats, all male, all fit, and all thirty-something. Kristi’s crew, and likely doing double duty as her eye candy.

  Kristi had slipped a lab coat over the outfit she’d worn for the TV interview. She and Dr. Nikas conferred near a computer station, comparing information on the screen to that on a tablet she held. Beside them, Marcus fidgeted, seeming stressed yet oddly energized. Probably because he was finally doing something.

  Brian, Kyle, and Rachel stood spaced around the perimeter of the room—out of the way, but close enough to intervene at the slightest threat. Two men in dark suits with obvious shoulder-holster bulges occupied the gaps between the Tribe security people. One had a black eye and a bandage across the bridge of his nose. Average height. Medium build. The other stood at least six-foot-five, broad-shouldered and intimidating. His nose looked like it had been broken half a dozen times, and his dark hair was cropped close, exposing a wicked scar where his left ear used to be.

  Kristi’s muscle.

  The two stepped toward me. Kristi glanced up as they moved. “Stand down, boys. Believe it or not, Angel is invited.” She bestowed a winning smile upon me. “My bodyguards. One can never be too careful.” She passed the tablet to Dr. Nikas. “I’ll be with you in a tick, Angel.”

  “Whatever,” I muttered then gave the two thugs my own brilliant smile. Black Eye seemed familiar, though I’d been around so many Saberton security people it wasn’t surprising. He hadn’t been out in the swamp for the gator hunt, so I’d most likely seen him at Saberton New York.

  Marcus came over to me. “C’mon. You have to see the pen.”

  “The what?”

  “You’ll see,” he said with a wink then led me out of the lab, down the corridor, and around the corner. Halfway down that hall, he pulled open a grey metal door and gestured for me to step through.

  I did so, only to find myself face-to-face with a massive, milky-eyed alligator.

  Well, not quite face-to-face since there was a chain-link fence between us. Plus the gator’s face was several feet lower than mine, but it was still just as much of a shock. Especially in the middle of a friggin’ research building. I had no idea what the room was originally used for, but it was the size of a basketball court, with the gator pen occupying the nearest quarter. An eight-foot-tall fence topped with razor wire surrounded a broad swath of grassy turf with a shallow pool at its center—temporary home for two twelve-foot zombie gators and half a dozen smaller specimens, ranging from three to six feet.

  “This is . . . impressive,” I finally said.

  Marcus chuckled. “Crazy, huh? These were here when Dr. Nikas arrived last night.”

  “Very crazy. Saberton caught all the zombie gators?”

  “Not Saberton. Kristi’s people. And there might still be more infected ones out there. No way to know for sure.”

  I frowned. “So Kristi was already setting up to work here.”

  “Her people were, at least. Her plane didn’t land at the Tucker Point airport until around midnight.”

  The other gators began to trundle toward us. The one already by the fence let out a weird growl-moan.

  “They seem to like you,” Marcus said.

  “This is taking the zombie mama thing to an uncomfortable extreme,” I said, though I couldn’t take my eyes off the big gator.

  Kristi’s voice sounded through the intercom, crisp and annoyed. “Angel Crawford to the central lab. Now.”

  I made a face. “The wicked witch desires my presence.”

  “Mustn’t keep her witchiness waiting.” He turned to leave but stopped when I didn’t follow. “Angel?”

  I crouched. All of the gators were now clustered on the other side of the fence from me, eerily still, and milky eyes on me. “Hey there,” I murmured.

  In unison, they opened their toothy maws and sent up a wavering chorus of unnatural growly-moans.

  Marcus wrapped his hand around my bicep and hauled me up. “That’s just plain creepy. Let’s go before they decide to rush the fence.”

  I shrugged out of his grip. “They won’t.”

  “Riiiight. C’mon, zombie-gator whisperer.”

  Oddly reluctant, I b
acked out of the room then double-timed it to the lab.

  Kristi gave me a sour look as we entered. “Finally. I didn’t expect you to go scampering off, considering you’re at the heart of this whole debacle. I need your blood.” She pointed to a chair.

  I could hardly refuse since she was right about the debacle/heart thing. Plus, Dr. Nikas gave me a subtle nod, which helped my nerves. I took a seat and stuck my arm out as Jacques approached with a handful of collection tubes and a pint bag. One of Kristi’s techs followed him, carrying a tablet and tube rack. Thick black hair curled in the vee of his scrub shirt and ended in a precise shave line, as if his collar bones marked the border of a demilitarized zone. The name embroidered above his pocket was Harold Frost. Hairy Harry? I bit the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face. Hunky hairy Harry had happy huge hopping healthy hares. Hardly horrible.

  Jacques had taken my blood for Dr. Nikas more times than I could count, so I heaved hairy hares out of my mind then settled back and relaxed while he slid the specialized needle in.

  “Hey, Kristi. What’s the deal with your guy in the lobby?” I asked after the third tube. “He seems way too nice to work for Saberton.”

  “You mean Billy? He doesn’t work for Saberton. He works for me. Isn’t he sweet? He’s terribly young, but I enjoy having him around. Like a breath of fresh air.”

  I blinked. That was the last thing I ever expected Kristi to say. And she sounded utterly sincere, too.

  Sincere, my ass. It wasn’t in her nature. “Let’s get to the tougher questions,” I said, voice hard. “Why did you have Beckett Connor killed? And why were your thugs out in Mudsucker Swamp?” My hands clenched. “I know that’s how you got those gators. Your people tried to kill us. I had to take out one of the divers before she could finish off Pierce.”

  Kristi grew somber. “Those weren’t my people you encountered in the swamp. The gentlemen here”—she gestured toward her bodyguards—“captured those specimens last night. And I certainly did not have Deputy Connor killed.”