White Trash Zombie Gone Wild

  Five miles down the road, the overdrive kicked me out of the airplane without a parachute. I swerved and barely managed to stay out of the ditch as pain returned with crushing force along with a bone-deep exhaustion.

  Wonderful. Half a dozen minutes of kick all the ass, followed by the zombie hangover from hell.

  My world narrowed to keeping it together enough to make it home. Eyes on the road, obey the speed limit, ignore passing cars. Try and distract myself by naming all the functions of organelles. Nucleus, chloroplast, ribosome, lysosome . . .

  Home.

  Home and Dad. Just a few more miles to go. Or light years. Felt like I’d been driving forever. Cars whizzed by, but I barely noticed them, thanks to the V12 and napkin-nose-plugs.

  A couple dozen antique and classic cars filled the parking lot of Chicory Chick Coffee and Wings, along with twice that many people. Holding my breath, I punched through the thick cloud of brain scent. Didn’t fool the hunger. It sensed the drifting molecules and burst out of its restraints, surging up like an alligator gar ambushing a tasty duck. I let out an anguished scream and hit the gas. Home. Feed at home.

  Home. I parked and ripped the napkin from my nose. Stumbled out of the car and sniffed the air, took in the scent. Brains. Hunger vibrated through me and dug sharp nails into every cell. Brains, in the house. A twitch of movement in the window. Prey. Mine. I lurched toward the house, snarled as the prey moved away. Up the steps and onto the porch. Brains. Cold brains. But in the house was a fresh brain. Yes. Want fresh. A door, closed. I hammered my fists on it, clawed and yowled. I smelled the fear of my prey, but the door stayed closed. Feed. Needed to feed. I turned back to the cold brains, ripped at the bag. Feed.

  The frost raked my mouth, froze my gullet as I chewed and swallowed. Yes. Oh god, yes, that’s it.

  The hunger settled down, content as a kitten full of milk. A shiver racked me as I sat on the porch and scraped out the last pieces of my emergency-only brain stash. Too close. That had been way too close.

  “You better, baby?” Dad shouted through the door. Blood streaked the wood, as if rotting fingers had clawed at it.

  “Yeah,” I called back. My voice still held a raspy edge, but my hands looked whole enough. “I’ll finish off the burrito in my fridge, and I’ll be good as new.” Well, except for my pointy body modification.

  Dad opened the door with the chain on and met my eyes through the gap. “Y’look grey as a concrete slab.”

  I sighed. “The bad part’s over. I promise.”

  Apparently he believed me. He closed the door and took off the chain, then pulled it open long enough to drag me inside. His eyes widened at the sight of the crossbow bolt. “Jesus fucking Christ, Angel.” He gulped. “Sit. Goddamn. You need to sit. I’ll get the burrito. Holy fuck.”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said with a weak smile, but I went ahead and sat gingerly on the couch.

  He gave me an exasperated glare. “Well that don’t mean shit, ’cause it looks godawful fucked up.”

  “I’ll be okay as soon as I eat,” I reassured him then rattled off the combination.

  “Got it. Be right back.”

  I watched him fondly as he trotted down the hall. I had one more emergency bag of brains labeled as brussel sprouts in the freezer, but those had to stay untouched, now more than ever. Use only in event of monster-mode. I didn’t want to think what would have happened tonight if my dad’s brain had been the only one available.

  My vision swam and I struggled to focus.

  “Angel!”

  I was sitting on linoleum, staring at the . . . dishwasher? Kitchen. On the floor in the kitchen, right shoulder leaning against the fridge. But how? My left hand throbbed, and I saw that three nails were ripped off. I blinked stupidly at my hand then registered the frigid air flowing over me. Above me, the freezer door stood wide open.

  I gulped. No. The freezer door was on the other side of the room. I scrambled to my feet, clutched the counter as I swayed. The freezer door hinges hung, twisted, and broken.

  “Angel?”

  Dad stood a foot from the linoleum, eyes wide as he took in the damage. In one hand he clutched a foil-wrapped half of a burrito.

  “Oh god.” I swallowed, aghast. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

  “I do. But you better eat while I talk.” He tossed me the burrito which, by some miracle, I managed to catch. He waited until I started eating before he continued. “I’d just got into your fridge when you started caterwaulin’ like a bear with a hornet up its ass. I grabbed your food and ran back out in time to see you trying t’get into the freezer.” He gestured helpfully. “But you was yanking on the wrong side from the handle. Next thing I know, you done ripped it clean off.”

  My gaze went to the bag marked “brussel sprouts” resting in the center of the freezer. Still full, to my relief. I’d been going for the brains in there, I was absolutely certain. A blackout. I’d had a few of those before, at the peak of my drug use. But not like this. It didn’t make sense.

  Or did it? Huge loss of impulse control. Crazy strength. Aftereffect of the double-dose overdrive from the V12? That had to be the culprit.

  “I’ll pay for a new one, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

  “Never you mind,” he said. “I mean, yeah, we gonna need a new one, but first let’s get you taken care of.” He shepherded me back to the couch and got me settled again. “Wait right here, and don’t tear up any more appliances.”

  “You’re going to give me grief about this forever, aren’t you?”

  “’Til the day I die,” he shot back with a wink. He returned to the kitchen and a few seconds later came back with a hacksaw. “I seen on the news that Randy and Coy got themselves into some trouble,” he said conversationally as he pulled up a footstool.

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.” He squinted at the bolt, frowned.

  “Cut the head off,” I suggested. “Then you can pull it out from the front.”

  He blew out a breath, nodded and set the blade against the bolt at my back. “Yep, Coy turned himself in for the murder. Him and Judd done it.” His face darkened as he sawed. “Though we all know it was mostly Judd. Seems Randy talked Coy into going to the cops, but Judd didn’t want no part of that, so he kidnapped ’em both. Chained those two boys up in the Pichon’s old fishing camp.” Dad paused. “Turns out they found a can of compressed air in a drawer. They froze the chains to break ’em and escaped.”

  “Wow. Pretty darn clever of them.”

  His mouth twisted. “Uh, huh. Real clever. And real lucky. Judd woulda killed those two, no question.” The head of the bolt thumped to the floor. Dad set the hacksaw aside then moved in front of me and took hold of the fletching. “There’s a big ol’ manhunt going on for Judd now.” He pulled the bolt free in one swift move, wringing a gasp from me. After a few seconds to catch my breath, I gave him a weak thumbs up.

  Dad tossed the front panel of the battered vest aside, then handed me the rest of my burrito. As I ate, I tugged my shirt aside and peered at the wound in my chest. It was closing, but it sure was taking its sweet time.

  My dad cleared his throat. “Do I need to worry about seein’ you on the news?”

  “I think it’s going to be okay.” I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

  His eyes were misty as he smiled. “Anytime, Angelkins.” He helped me up then gave me a gentle hug that damn near had me bawling.

  “I need to take care of one thing,” I said then moved to the kitchen, hoisted the freezer door and stuck it back into place. “Break out the duct tape. I don’t want to lose all this food.”

  “A redneck toolkit,” he said with a snort. “Duct tape and WD-40.” He grabbed a roll from a drawer and taped the door in place, then stepped back and regarded our handiwork. “Well, at least it ain’t a driveway
paved in crushed beer cans.”

  I laughed. “We’re hicks with standards.”

  “Damn straight.” He carefully looped an arm around my shoulders. “How ’bout I draw you a hot bath?”

  “With bubbles?” I asked with a cheeky grin.

  “The only way you’re gettin’ bubbles is if I put dish soap in there.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Chapter 25

  Jangly music cut through my sleep, pushy and obnoxious. I groped for my phone to shut off the V12 dose alarm then let out a long groan as the light streamed through the blinds and stabbed my eyes. My entire body was one gigantic ache, and my head pounded like the worst hangover ever. Thank god today’s Lundi Gras and a holiday.

  This was the first headache I’d had since becoming a zombie, and I struggled to pull my thoughts together. I hadn’t meant to sleep so late, not with Judd on the loose with the flash drives. And I still needed to track down Dante Rosario. Judd’s call had interrupted that plan. Now half the morning was shot.

  Squinting against the light, I dragged myself up and blearily pulled on clothing. My wound was healed over—one less thing to worry about—but I didn’t have the slightest idea where to start searching for Judd. He would have heard by now that Randy and Coy had gone to the cops, and was smart enough to stay away from his trailer and his usual haunts. Hell, he could already be halfway to Canada. On the plus side, with Randy and Coy spilling their guts to the cops, and Judd’s picture splashed all over the news, he had no reason to come after me.

  I frowned as I buttoned my jeans. But he knew I was a zombie. He’d been trying to capture me, not kill me. So why had he run away? I backtracked through memory fogged by brain hunger. Handcuffs. A struggle and threats. Judd’s scream of horror. His blood in my mouth as—

  “I bit him,” I murmured. A laugh started in my belly and worked its way out until I collapsed on the bed, tears streaming. Judd ran away like a little bitch because he thought he was going to turn into a zombie.

  I wiped my eyes and grinned. He should be so lucky.

  My amusement dribbled away when I stepped out of my front door. My car was parked—for lack of a better word—cockeyed and with one wheel in the flowerbed. A garden gnome lay smashed to bits except for one eye that stared accusingly up at me, and tire tracks revealed that I’d missed crashing into the porch by inches.

  My head pounded as I scooped up the gnome pieces and chucked them into the trash bin. I had approximately zero memory of my arrival home, which I didn’t like one bit. But, hey, at least I hadn’t taken out the mailbox.

  The V12 vial and capsules were right where I’d left them, in my lunchbox, but I didn’t draw up a dose. Instead, I called Dr. Nikas and proceeded to give him a semi-coherent account of the clusterfuck with Judd, the flash drives, and the whole fight at the lock, then told him about the awful hunger and my reasons for taking a double dose, and finally finished with everything I could remember about the V12 overdrive superpowers and how it affected the hunger and pain.

  Dr. Nikas listened without interrupting until I trailed off. “I am truly relieved you made it through the ordeal,” he said. “Though I’m surprised by the headache. Philip only suffers them after a high dose, but then again his parasite is damaged in a way that yours is not.”

  “I’ve taken as much as three doses in a day without any problems.” I lifted the vial and swirled the liquid. “Maybe the headache this time is because the doses were so close together?”

  “It’s possible. I don’t—”

  “Wait.” I stared at the vial, then scrabbled for the other two. “I . . . I think I took more than two doses. At least four are missing. How could I have taken four doses? I took one at the lock, and I stopped one time. Two doses. I remember—”

  “Angel!” he said, calm but firm. “What size syringe did you use?”

  “The size I always . . .” Memory of the chaotic stop on the side of the highway shifted into focus. “Oh god. I wasn’t thinking straight and drew up a full syringe. That’s a triple dose! And I’d already had a regular dose.” Shit. No wonder I felt hungover.

  Dr. Nikas let out a long breath, and I imagined him rubbing his temples. “Any other side effects? More hallucinations? Changes in the dyslexia?”

  I shifted to peer at myself in the rearview mirror. “I’m grey, almost to pre-rot,” I told him, fighting to remain clinical and not burst into tears. “No hallucinations, and I haven’t been reading much so I don’t know about the dyslexia. No sparkles since the big dose either, and that’s a first.” I rubbed my eyes. “How bad did I screw up?”

  “I don’t know.” Not the words I wanted to hear from Dr. Nikas. “You’re the only normal zombie to have used V12.” He muttered to himself in Greek for a bit before continuing. “The V12 has a cumulative effect. Take no doses today. But continue to take the capsules. Return to the twice-daily half-dose regimen tomorrow. And don’t let yourself go hungry. Do you have brains?”

  “I’m heading to my storage unit as soon as I hang up. I have enough for a few days.”

  “Good. If you truly get into a bind, there’s a Tribe emergency stash at the swamp training ground. A case of eight ounce packets.” He gave me instructions on how to find it then added, “If you take any, let me know so they can be replaced.”

  “I will. Thanks for everything.”

  “It’s my true pleasure, Angel.” He paused. “In, ah, other news, you should know that Kristi Charish is in full swing negotiations with both Saberton and the Tribe.” While I listened in growing outrage, he explained how Kristi was trying to use herself as a hot commodity bargaining chip. It wasn’t a stupidly bad ploy, since both organizations needed her damn research expertise, even if she was a heartless psychopath. But it meant that everyone involved was now scrambling to gain advantage and protect themselves. Saberton had sent goons to Portland, and the Tribe had everyone available deployed in a variety of locations.

  I thanked Dr. Nikas for the update and hung up. Time for me to get my ass in gear, stock up on brains, and do my part locally. I’d start by checking out Dante Rosario at the Zombie Fest. Lucky for me, between the Fest and zombie Mardi Gras, I could get away with the grey skin as makeup. Pleased with that solution, I fished black eyeliner from my purse and smudged it under my eyes. Even better.

  I’d made it only halfway to the storage unit when my phone vibrated, and I groaned at the sight of Allen Prejean on the caller ID. I’d forgotten all about the organ bag issue. Obviously, he hadn’t.

  “Hey, Allen,” I said, all casual and pleasant-like. “What’s up?”

  “I need you to come in.” Firm. Not even a hint of a smile in his voice.

  “Oh, man. I sort of have plans with my dad. Y’know, ’cause it’s a holiday?”

  “This is important. I need to see you. Now.”

  That was his asshole I’m-the-boss voice. Technically, since I wasn’t on call, I could play the holiday card and not go in. But I knew that if I did, he’d make my work life hell when I came back. I sighed. “Sure. I’ll change my plans. See you in an hour? There’s a parade today, and traffic’s going to be a bitch.”

  “Get here as soon as you can. I’ll be in the morgue.”

  I gave my phone the finger after he disconnected. What a prick. At least I was already up and out, and still had enough time to swing by the storage unit freezer and load up my cooler with the last of my brain stash.

  Because no way did I want to deal with Allen Prejean on an empty stomach.

  • • •

  A sawhorse stood in the middle of the morgue parking lot entrance, bearing a sign that threatened death, doom, destruction, and a hefty towing bill for all unauthorized vehicles in the lot. A must for parade days, when hundreds of cars fought for space within easy walking distance of the parade route. Apparently the sign had the desired effect. The only cars in the lot were Allen’s and a dark
green Chevy Impala parked beneath the overhang at the morgue entrance. I skirted the sawhorse and backed into a space in the second row, then slugged the rest of a brain smoothie. Allen was guaranteed to stress me out, and I really didn’t want to add “ate my boss” to my list of lifetime accomplishments.

  I shoved the cooler onto the passenger side floorboard to get it out of direct sun, locked my car and headed for the entrance. I slowed as I neared the Impala, noting government plates and dark-tinted windows in the back. Did the driver have anything to do with why Allen called me in? Curiosity and caution prickled, and I made sure my path to the entrance included a casual stroll alongside the vehicle and around its front. A well-used leather file case sat on the passenger side floorboard, and a stack of papers rested on the seat. But it was the FBI parking pass on the center console that sent my gut plunging.

  What if Allen called them about the missing brains? I’d be walking right into an ambush. But that didn’t make sense. Law enforcement wouldn’t sit around and wait for me to come in if they had something on me. And they certainly wouldn’t park in front of the door if they were lying in wait. Jesus, Angel, stop being a paranoid twit! Most likely the visit had to do with Ben’s request for the FBI to process evidence from the murder. Or, possibly, whatever investigation had the feds poking around funeral homes. Neither of those involved me. Not directly anyway.

  Inside, the intake area was quiet and empty, but my almost-tanked zombie hearing picked up voices from the direction of the cooler. I eased down the hall then stopped when I was close enough to make out the words.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” Allen.

  “Is this all you have?” A woman’s voice rasped as if air had to fight its way through her vocal cords.

  The cooler only held two bodies at the moment, and one belonged to the murder victim, Grayson Seeger. There was only so much I could learn by eavesdropping. I needed eyes on this, too. I pulled the cooler door open. Beside Allen was a tall black woman with close-cropped graying hair. A keloid scar ran from the angle of her jaw down across the front of her throat.