White Trash Zombie Gone Wild

  Judd’s face reddened. “Hang on, we don’t have you registered, which means you can’t go on the hunt with us.” He shot a Do Something glare in Randy’s direction. “Right?”

  Randy jammed a hand through his hair. “You two go get set up,” he told Judd and Coy. “I’ll take care of this.” After a brief hesitation, the men moved off. Randy turned to me. “Look, Angel, forget the hunt. I didn’t register you.”

  I acted hurt. “What the hell, man? Are you really bent out of shape because a coworker gave me a VIP pass?”

  “You’re the one who told me you weren’t gonna come out with me this afternoon,” he shot back. “Don’t blame me.”

  “I was still dealing with my shitty morning when I said that. A five a.m. call to pick up a dude with his head chopped off tends to throw me off my rhythm.”

  “I’m supposed to know you changed your mind? That’s bullshit, Angel.”

  If this was a real argument, he’d have a point. “Okay, well, I changed it.” I softened my voice. “Can’t you put my name down for the team?”

  He glanced at the retreating Judd and Coy. “They won’t let me,” he said. “The, uh, registration people.”

  Right. I knew who he meant. “Could you at least try?” I jiggled my VIP badge. “I betcha this will get me in.”

  Randy looked down at the badge as if it was a horrible truth—which it likely was. His shoulders slumped. “Sure. Let’s go see what that thing can do.”

  Giving a great impression of a man heading to his execution, he walked with me to the registration table. Once there, I was delighted to learn that Randy had in fact included me when he’d turned in the team members, which meant I was already signed up. All I had to do was fill out a couple of forms and sign the release and waiver of liability. Take that and shove it up your ass, Judd.

  As soon as I finished the paperwork, we headed to the prep area. Randy appeared calm and laid back, but I’d known him for too long not to notice the little signs of stress. The way he rubbed his left thumb and finger together. His lack of friendly banter. The creases on his forehead.

  Not that I had any room to talk since I was just as stressed. I wanted desperately for my suspicions to be wrong, but it wasn’t easy with how squirrelly all three were acting. It also didn’t help that I kept getting annoying stabs of brain hunger despite the recent “ProteinGel” brain packet. To my relief, Randy wasn’t paying close attention to me, and I managed to sneak a few brain chips into my mouth and gulp them down. That settled the hunger again—for now.

  “So, how’s this zombie hunt thing work?” I asked Randy as we neared the prep area.

  He blinked as if he’d been deep in thought. “We gear up and load weapons, then around fifteen minutes before our hunt the coordinators come around and check the shit for safety. Once that’s done, we climb in the truck,” he lifted his chin toward a big black pickup with a giant zombie decal plastered along the side, “and they take us to the beginning of the course. When it starts, we have thirty minutes to get through the course without getting painted by any zombies, and at the end you’re scored for how many hits you get on them.”

  “Painted?” I asked, frowning. “The zombies have paintball guns, too?”

  Randy shook his head. “Nah, see, the only zombies on the course are the ones the Fest hires, and they have gloves that leave paint on you. Plus they have all sorts of people out there watching for cheaters. You lose points any time a zombie grabs you, and if you get grabbed three times you’re dead, though your points still count for your team. If you get disqualified for safety violations, none of your points count.”

  A six-foot-tall sign near the pickup had THE RULES emblazoned at the top. A quick scan showed plenty of sensible guidelines such as No open-toed shoes, No shooting point blank/within five feet, No touching or grabbing zombies, NO DRUGS OR ALCOHOL. A line at the bottom stated that Zombie Fest officials reserved the right to eject anyone at any time based on whatever criteria they wanted to use. Nice.

  “I gotta know,” I said to Randy. “Does Judd really think people believe he’s drinking ginger ale?”

  Randy’s mouth twitched. “Dunno what you mean. Looks like ginger ale to me.”

  Judd and Coy stood by a sign with a big red “13” on it. Coy tugged on his equipment vest while Judd checked his paintball rifle. Judd’s mouth tightened at the sight of me. He nudged Coy and murmured something. Coy glanced my way then suddenly became super concerned with the positioning of his gear.

  I spied a foam machete lying on the ground a few feet away. “You bringing this, too?” I asked Randy as I scooped it up.

  “Nah, that’s not allowed in the hunt,” he said. “There’s a group of people who do a kind of role-play zombie attack thing after hours where they bash each other with hard foam stuff. One of ’em must’ve left it behind.”

  “That sounds like fun.” I made a few chopping swings with the foam machete then let out a laugh. “Whack whack whack! Hack a zombie’s head clean off.”

  Coy’s throat worked. He turned away and busied himself adjusting the vest.

  “Put that down before you do something stupid!” Judd snapped.

  Gee, touchy much? I shifted to a two-handed grip. “C’mon, it’s foam.” I batted his arm. “How stupid can I get?”

  Judd made an angry grab for the machete, but I jerked it out of his reach. His face reddened, and he balled his fist as if he was ready to take a swing at me, but Randy stepped between us.

  “Hey, stop it! Both of you!”

  “Jeez, lighten the hell up, Judd,” I said.

  Coy seized Judd’s arm before he could respond and dragged him away. “Dude, you’re gonna fuck everything up,” he murmured, and it was only because of my recent brain snack that I could hear him. He tugged Judd back another step and toward the pile of equipment. “Get your shit on so we can get this over with,” he said at a more normal volume.

  Randy let out a strained chuckle. “Yeah, I’m ready to be done with the prep shit and get to the good stuff.”

  Judd muttered a curse, stomped to the equipment, and started rooting through a bag. A sinking feeling threatened to tug my heart right into the ground. This was supposed to be a recreational activity. Coy and Judd were a bundle of nerves, and Randy was obviously trying to cover for their odd behavior.

  Judd flipped open a small plastic case and began smearing on camo face paint. The sinking feeling abruptly tripled in strength. Green goop. Maybe it hadn’t been bug shit on the cigarette butt.

  “Y’know, I think maybe y’all will do better without me,” I said and dropped the foam machete. “I need to take care of a few things anyway.”

  Randy couldn’t hide his relief. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.” Not even a token effort to talk me into staying. He took my elbow to walk me out of the prep area, and I didn’t resist. “Sorry, Angel,” he said after we were a couple dozen yards away from the others. “It’s . . .” He sighed. “Sorry.”

  Stress carved his face into sharp angles, as if he was carrying the world on his shoulders. It seemed utterly wrong for him to look like that. This was Randy. Easy-going. Laid back. Barely ever worried about anything. “Randy,” I said, voice soft, “is everything okay? You know you can tell me anything, right?” Please, tell me, I silently urged him. Spill your guts so that we can fix this. I know something’s wrong, dammit.

  Indecision flickered in his eyes, but then he shrugged it away. “What’ve I got to tell?” he said. “Oh, yeah. Ol’ man Brody’s truck needs a new tranny, and I’m here instead of working on it.”

  He’d have told me everything if it was only about him. But he wouldn’t do that with others involved. IF they’re involved, I reminded myself. I didn’t know anything for certain yet. But, damn, the circumstantial evidence was piling up like crazy, and my zombie-senses were tingling.

  “Okay. Just remember I’m here for you if y
ou ever get in over your head.” I exhaled. “I’ll see you later.”

  He mumbled a goodbye then turned and walked back to the others, head bowed.

  • • •

  I stopped at the registration table on my way out, unsurprised to find that Randy’s team was signed up for the night hunt as well. Didn’t make sense to do so many hunts if they weren’t actually having fun. But it did make sense if they were doing these stupid things as a cover, to act natural and throw off suspicion.

  Fine with me. While they were busy hunting fake zombies, this zombie was going to hunt down a few clues.

  Chapter 15

  I had a few hours to kill before diving in to clue-hunting, since I wanted to be certain the boys would be occupied with the evening hunt while I snooped. That way I could count on at least a solid hour and a half to do my thing. Plus, it would be dark, which was always a bonus when doing a little lawbreaking.

  I debated heading straight home to wash the makeup off, but my hunger pangs—both normal and brain-related—were kicking up a fuss. Besides, there were plenty of other people around town with zombie makeup on. I’d blend right in.

  Not to mention, Nick was due to begin his mystery dinner meeting fairly soon. He could be secretive if he wanted. Dude was entitled to his privacy. Far from me to pry. Not my style. I never butted in where I wasn’t wanted. Ever. Yup, I was mind-my-own-business girl. It was sheer coincidence that I happened to be on the road to Crawfish Joe’s, and that I had a sudden craving for takeout.

  Crawfish Joe’s Cajun Cabin didn’t look like much—a squat, wood frame building with a corrugated metal roof and colorful fish painted on the walls—but it had a reputation for the best seafood in three parishes. Legend had it that Joe’s great granddad spent a week naked and alone in the swamp and came out with the secret recipe for the best seasoning ever.

  Nick’s car was in the parking lot—good thing, since I was so hungry I was going to get food here whether I could spy on him or not. Inside, half a dozen people waited for tables. Several gave me startled glances, which was when I realized I still had the skull fragment plastered to my forehead. Oops. The overworked hostess seemed relieved when I told her I wanted takeout, and waved me toward the bar. Several patrons occupied stools, and at the far end was a dude with green and white grease paint smeared on his face and wearing overalls spattered with fake blood. He glanced my way and gave me a thumbs up which I assumed was for my own far more professional and awesome makeup job. That or he could see my bra through the rip in my shirt.

  A low wall and potted trees separated the bar from the restaurant. I grabbed a spot by the wall and peered through the branches to covertly scope out the customers. It didn’t take me long to locate Nick. He sat angled away from me, enough that I could barely see the side of his face. But the mystery caller was . . . Bear?!

  Yup, no question about it. The burly owner of The Bear’s Den sat across from Nick. Bear had the remnants of a seafood platter in front of him and idly scooped fried shrimp through cocktail sauce. Nick’s plate held a soft shell crab sandwich, though as far as I could tell he’d only taken a few bites.

  The bartender handed me a menu. I ordered a Catfish po-boy and onion rings, then peered between the plants as soon as she left. Nick and Bear were too far away for me to hear their conversation, but it appeared pretty darn one-sided. Bear was doing most of the talking while Nick shrugged a few times and seemed to be focused on the sandwich he wasn’t eating. Though I couldn’t see much of his face, Nick’s body language telegraphed I’m not having fun, and I’m ready to go.

  Why had Nick agreed to what sure as hell seemed to be a not-very-friendly dinner? Job interview? Business deal? Maybe Bear was a second cousin, once removed, who Nick was forced to tolerate for the sake of family harmony? Whatever the reason, Nick looked miserable. Great, I was reduced to gawking through foliage at two people enduring a dinner together. Unexciting and uninformative.

  Nick pushed his plate away then spoke. Bear went quiet and kept his eyes on Nick, but as the seconds ticked by his expression shifted from calm to shock to disbelief and, finally, to stony controlled anger.

  The bartender brought my food out all nicely packed up, and I dragged my eyes from Nick and Bear long enough to hand over my debit card. When I resumed my spying, Bear was speaking through clenched teeth with an expression of Pissed to the Max. Not so unexciting anymore. I scooched my chair over a smidge to get a potted ficus between me and their table in case either of them glanced in my direction. Nick held his hands up, palms toward Bear, but whatever he said wasn’t enough to placate Bear, who jabbed a finger toward the door in a clear We’re taking this outside gesture.

  What the ever-loving hell?

  Shoulders slumped, Nick stood and headed for the door, his expression an awful mix of humiliation and anger and despair. I snatched up the menu and held it up to shield my face, but I had a feeling I could have been dancing naked on the bar and Nick would have been oblivious.

  Bear tossed bills onto the table and stalked after Nick. The bartender was busy taking a drink order, my debit card in her hand. So much for following the men outside and maybe finding out what was going on. I clamped down on my impatience as the bartender dealt with a spill before she finally ran my card. She looked frazzled when she brought me the bill, so I added a decent tip then grabbed my food and left. It was only my amazing self-control that kept me from shoving an onion ring into my mouth before I was outside.

  I dug in the bag for one as I walked across the parking lot then stopped in surprise at the sight of Nick’s car, still parked in the same place and unoccupied. Weird. I’d expected both Nick and Bear to be long gone by the time I finished paying for my food. Or maybe he left with Bear to—

  Muffled shouting issued from a big pickup on the far side of the lot. I stood between two cars, riveted in place by shock as I watched a red-faced Bear rant at Nick in the passenger seat. Snatches of the tirade drifted through the pleasant spring air.

  “. . . pea-brained decision . . .”

  “. . . how dare you . . .”

  “. . . plans don’t include . . . whiny bullshit . . .”

  Nick sat with his shoulders hunched, not yelling back. Or even talking back, as far as I could tell. In all the time I’d worked with him, I’d never seen Nick cowed by anyone. He was usually confident to the point of arrogance.

  At last Bear wound down and finished with a Get the hell out. White-faced, Nick almost fell out of the big truck as he complied, staggered a step, then pushed the door shut before stumbling off. Bear watched him go then slammed his hands against the steering wheel in either frustration or rage. In the next instant the truck engine revved, and Bear sped out of the lot.

  Nick fumbled his keys from his pocket and dropped them. The thud of metal against asphalt shocked me out of my daze. I lurched forward.

  “Nick?!”

  His entire body tensed as if I’d punched him. Face flooding with color, he snatched the keys up and hurried to his car, acting as if he hadn’t heard me. He yanked his door open and practically dove in, but I poured on the speed and wedged my body between car and door so he couldn’t close it.

  “Angel, I gotta go,” he gasped.

  “Nick.” I groped for words, a way to tell him I understood, that I knew how it felt to be called worthless and stupid and worse.

  Nick’s hands shook and his breath wheezed as he groped in his messenger bag. Damn it. I also knew how shitty it was when an outsider saw—when the private pain became public shame.

  I pulled his inhaler from his bag and pressed it into his hand. Waited for him to take a puff, then another. His breathing eased, but he continued to tremble and was as pale as death.

  “Nick,” I said. “How do you know Bear?”

  His distress increased to agonizing levels, as if he’d break into a million pieces if touched. He shoved his keys into the ignition and
started the car. “I gotta go,” he repeated, still refusing to meet my eyes. He reached for the door, but I didn’t budge.

  “Please listen to me,” I said, trying my best to project calm understanding. “I know a little about—”

  “YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!” Nick screamed, face blotchy and eyes wild. “Get out of the fucking way!”

  Goddammit, Angel. I’d pushed too far. Shit. I should have known better. I used to get pretty goddamn defensive when people tried to reach out to me. Throat tight, I stepped back and closed the door for him then walked away. Behind me, tires squealed on the asphalt as Nick peeled out in an eerie echo of Bear’s departure.

  As soon as I was in my car, I pulled out my phone. “Okay, Bear,” I muttered. “Who the hell are you to Nick?” I had a gigantic suspicion, but I needed to be sure.

  The owner of The Bear’s Den turned out to be Owen “Bear” Galatas. And a search on people associated with that name turned up Nicholas Galatas. Before tonight, I never would’ve guessed it in a million years.

  Bear was Nick’s dad.

  Chapter 16

  I sat in my car for several minutes, nerves jangling as I struggled to process the entire incident. It didn’t help that it hit way too close to home. My mother had been mentally ill, and I’d been the easiest and closest target whenever she lashed out. She’d gone to prison for it and died there—committing suicide on my sixteenth birthday. But life hadn’t turned perfect when she went to jail, not when my dad was an alcoholic who had no idea how to keep a screwed up kid in line. He eventually resorted to slaps when he reached the end of his rope, though by that time I was old enough to get away from him until he could sober up and cool down. But the emotional abuse and outright neglect were a lot harder to escape.

  Dad was better now, god almighty so much better. My zombification had helped him damn near as much as it had helped me, and we’d broken the horrific cycle of Angel-fucks-up followed by Dad-doesn’t-know-how-to-help which would inevitably lead to Dad-gets-pissed.