How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (28 page)

At the bottom of the shaft, a dim bulb brightened pitch darkness to gloom, but it was enough light to see that we were in a grungy tunnel about eight feet wide. Pipes and conduits ran along the ceiling, and more bulbs dotted the tunnel every fifty yards or so.

I noted with grim satisfaction that Andrew's hands were cuffed behind him. Philip looked unhappy, but I assumed it was simply the usual we're-in-really-deep-shit until I saw Naomi sitting against the wall, face contorted in pain as she clutched her ankle.

“I landed wrong,” she blurted. “God, I'm so
stupid!
There's a broken place on the ladder. Shit.”

I echoed her curse then turned to Philip. “Can you carry Naomi?” He nodded and moved toward her. I reached for Andrew's arm then froze and inhaled deeply. The scent of his fresh human brain filled my senses, and I began to salivate like a dog at a barbecue.
Shit.
I didn't know a lot about this spy business, but I was pretty sure eating a hostage wasn't cool.

“Burned myself under the car,” I told Philip through clenched teeth. “I don't think it's serious, but it hurts like a mother. How many packets of brains do you have left?”

“Two,” he replied. “And you still have two, right?” I nodded, and he continued, “Better eat one on the move. The pain could screw you up if we get in trouble.”

If we get in trouble.
What the hell did he think we were in now? But he was right. Pain along with brain-hunger would distract me at crunch time. I fished a packet from my side pocket and grabbed Andrew's arm. “Naomi, you said you know these tunnels. Where to?”

She hissed out a breath as Philip lifted her. “Go down to the third junction and take a left, then right at the next one after that.”

A screech of tires from another car filtered down from above. I ripped the packet open with my teeth and tightened my grip on Andrew.

“I'd rather get lost than captured,” I said. “Let's move.”

“I think we're clear,” I said, peering behind us. Or rather, I couldn't see, hear, or smell anyone in pursuit. We'd been fleeing for close to half an hour, taking turns as Naomi directed and blindly trusting that she knew where the hell to go. I wasn't even sure we were in New York anymore, but Naomi insisted that a hatch we'd passed about a minute earlier was close to the Lincoln Center.

Philip looked back and gave a nod. “I agree.” He carefully set Naomi on her good foot and helped her to sit on the floor of the tunnel.

I pointed to a spot that looked fairly clean. “You. Sit,” I ordered Andrew. A wave of queasiness shuddered through me as he complied, and barely a second later Philip turned, stumbled several steps away and retched.

“You okay, Philip?” I asked as I did my best to keep my own nausea from showing on my face. It had to be the MegaPlague imprint shit if I felt it as well. A few seconds later my queasiness faded, and Philip straightened, wiping his mouth.

“I'm fine now,” he said, voice strong. I glanced at him as he returned to us. His eyes looked hollow, but he was doing his best to maintain a tough façade in front of Andrew.

I turned and crouched by Naomi. “We need to get your boot off before your ankle swells too much.”

“Right.” She clenched her hands into fists as I loosened the laces and removed the boot as carefully as possible.

“Oh, man.” I winced at the sight of the mottled purple bloat that was her ankle. “That looks pretty awful.”

“That's a great bedside manner you have there,” she said with a strained laugh.

“Sorry. My patients are usually dead.” I resisted the urge to poke at the swelling. “It looks bad, but I don't
think
it's broken.” Not that I had a clue, but I didn't want her even more worried. “I think the boot saved you from fucking it up more,” I added. Felt weird not to say,
Chug some brains, and you'll be right as rain!

“Can't walk on it either way,” she said with a black scowl. “God! This is
stupid.
”

“Yeah, I'm usually the one to do stupid shit like this,” I said and gave her a crooked smile. “Why the hell are you stealing my thunder?”

She tried to smile back, but her face twisted instead. I knew it wasn't because of pain.

I lowered my voice. “We'll get Kyle back. I promise.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “He's tough. He'll . . . be okay until we get there.”

“Of course he will.” Neither of us wanted to speak the truth. He was a former operative for Saberton, and even though he hadn't sold them out, it was doubtful they'd see it that way. It was tough to kill a zombie, but it was easy to torture one.

“We need to call Brian so we can get out of this mess,” I told her.

She nodded, pulled her phone out of a pocket and hit the speed dial for Brian's number. A few seconds later she frowned and shook her head. “Straight to voicemail. He must have it off.”

“Try my number,” I suggested.

She gave me a puzzled look, then grimaced and nodded. “Right. I forgot he had yours and you have Kyle's.” She made an annoyed noise as she hit the speed dial for my phone. “Damn, I'm really off my game.”

“Gimme a break,” I replied, a little sharply. “No one who's off their game could've managed that awesome bootlegger turn
and
remembered all the twists in these tunnels.”

A corner of her mouth twitched up as she held the phone to her ear. “Yeah, that was all right.” But a few seconds later she lowered the phone and shook her head. “Straight to voicemail.”

“Shit,” I muttered. “Maybe it ran out of charge.”

“Both of them?” Naomi said, brows puckered.

“Who the hell knows,” I replied. “Doesn't matter. I still know where and when to meet him. It's possible he turned the phones off for security.”

Andrew shifted and made a low noise in the back of his throat.

I shot him a glare. “You got a fucking problem?”

He glared right back. “I need to take a piss,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Oh.” I blinked, then looked over at Philip. “Um, can you take care of that?”

Philip's lips twitched, and I
knew
he was resisting the urge to suggest I “handle” it, and only because it was probably poor form to joke and tease around a hostage. But just knowing he wanted to joke helped lighten my own mood a tiny bit.

Philip helped Andrew to his feet and walked him down the tunnel until they were lost in the gloom. Naomi let out a shuddering breath, gaze following the pair.

“He doesn't know me,” she murmured, an odd combination of grief and amazement playing over her face. “This close, and he doesn't know me.”

“You don't look or sound like his sister,” I reminded her. “Not to mention, he thinks his sister is dead. He's not expecting to run into her.” I punched her lightly in the arm. “Especially not in a sewer.”

“It's a steam tunnel, not a sewer.”

“Whatever. It has bugs and rats, and it smells funny.”

She let out a choked laugh, but tears welled up in her eyes. “I was holding it together right up until now.” She dashed away the tears and looked up at me. “I don't know if I can keep hiding myself from him.”

I grimaced. “Babe, you
have
to. At least until we're safe.”

She blew out her breath and visibly composed herself. “Right. And it would be a shame to waste all this plastic surgery.”

“Absolutely.” I reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “We
can't
risk your mother finding out you're still alive.”

Naomi shuddered at the thought. “No way. She's—” She stopped as I held up my hand at the sound of returning footsteps. A few seconds later Philip and Andrew stepped from the shadows.

“Everything cool?” I asked as I stood.

Philip nodded then sat Andrew down about ten feet away from Naomi, making sure to position him so the light was between them. With Naomi mostly in shadow, it would be almost impossible for Andrew to see more than a vague shape. No need to give him more opportunity to recognize her.

I motioned for Philip to come with me farther down the tunnel. “I need to go meet Brian,” I said in a low voice as soon as we were out of human earshot. “Everything will be easier once we hook up with him, and then we can get Naomi's ankle taken care of properly.”

A frown creased his forehead. “I don't like you going out alone.”

“I know,” I said. “But with Kyle gone, we can't let Andrew go free. We
have
to hold onto him as a possible ace in the hole if we want to stand a chance of getting back in to rescue Pietro and Kyle.”

“And with Naomi injured, someone needs to stay with her and keep an eye on him.” He grimaced. “I'm getting worse. The weakness is constant now, and when it flares I can barely lift my head.”

“That's why I want to go sooner rather than later.”

He obviously wasn't happy about it, but he didn't continue to argue. “All right. Make sure we have a way to get him,” he jerked a thumb toward Andrew, “out and to wherever Brian and Dr. Nikas are, without too much of a scene.”

“Andrew's trouble waiting to happen,” I said. “Probably need to secure him more and have a gag ready in case anyone happens to come down this way.”

“I'll take care of it.” Philip sent a chilling look in Andrew's direction.

“I'll be back as soon as possible.”

He pulled me into a hug. “You be careful, you hear me?”

I returned the hug, let the comfort of it peel away a bit of the worry and stress. “You know me. I'm always careful.”

“Let's not go there.” He gave me a squeeze then released me and dug in the side pocket of his pants to produce a map of Manhattan. “You'll probably need this.”

“Y'think?” I smiled. “Now you can double down on your awesomeness by showing me where I'm meeting Brian and which trains to take.”

He chuckled softly, then spread the map against the wall and patiently showed me exactly where to go and how to get there. To my relief there was no need for me to change trains or anything that would stretch my redneck brain.

“Now get going,” he said. He folded the map again—successfully, which amazed me—and stuffed it into my side pocket. “I'll hold down the fort.”

With a parting smile, I turned and loped off down the tunnel to the Lincoln Center hatch.

A crisp wind ducked between the buildings and snuck beneath my light jacket, bringing with it the scents of bread and coffee and some sort of greasy who-knew-what from a food cart on the corner. I pulled my hood up and hoped the wind would take some of my own stench away in the process. Hours of running and sweating and all sorts of anxiety-making activities hadn't left me feeling as fresh as a daisy. Fortunately, it seemed New Yorkers weren't the type to pay attention to a scraggly waif in their midst or, at least, didn't feel obliged to say anything about a little stink.

I had no doubt I looked like the greenest tourist in existence as I worked my way through the touch screen menu to get a MetroCard, but I finally managed to pay my fare and board the train I needed without having to ask the homeless guy sitting against the wall for help. A small crowd was already waiting for the train, but I continued farther down the platform and managed to score a car with only a few people in it. An Asian woman sat at the far end, headphones on and lips moving as if silently singing along to her music. A few seats away a black man in a business suit knitted something blue and complex. A man with reddish-brown hair and wearing sunglasses sat in the middle of the car, a German Shepherd sitting quietly at his feet.

The dog lifted its head and let out a low growl as I sidled past. I froze.

“Hush, Marla,” the man murmured, and the dog subsided and laid its head on its paws again. “It's because you're a pretty girl,” he continued, not moving except to speak. “Marla gets jealous of pretty girls.”

All right, so apparently he wasn't blind since he knew I was a girl. Though maybe he
was
blind since I was far from pretty at the moment. “Yeah, well, tell her I'm not your type,” I said, probably a bit more grumpily than I'd intended, but blind or not, the dude creeped me out a little, though I couldn't put my finger on why. I tugged my hood a bit lower, quickly continued to the end of the car and stood by the door before looking back at the pair. The man hadn't moved and still seemed to be staring straight ahead, but Marla watched me intently. When my stop came I hurried off, weirdly relieved when they remained on the train.

Maybe Marla used to be a cadaver dog?
I mused as I trotted up the steps of the subway station. Ed Quinn's girlfriend, Marianne, had worked search and rescue with a dog who'd been trained to find corpses. Ed had used the dog's ability to smell rotting flesh to find zombies, who he'd then stalked and murdered.

I shuddered, glad to emerge from the subway even though the sun had set and I didn't know the turf. It was beyond unlikely that some random guy on a subway in New York would figure out I was a zombie—or even know about zombies in the first place—but the encounter still left me weirded out.

At the risk of looking like a tourist again, I consulted the map and peered at street signs to get my bearings. Fortunately, I looked raggedy enough that I didn't make a tempting mark for pickpockets or muggers. Or maybe the ever-so-faint scent of rot wafting off me kept assailants at bay. Hey, whatever worked. Stuffing the map back into my pocket, I tugged my hood down low again and slouched east on Canal Street. Surely Brian would have enough brains with him that I could top off. It wouldn't solve my spongy patches, but I'd take what I could get at this point.

After another quick peek at the map, I continued for several blocks on Canal—which wasn't much like the Canal Street in New Orleans at all—then headed north on Greene. After half a block I slowed my pace and let myself drink in the charm of the area. With wrought-iron lamps, cobbled streets and granite blocks instead of pavement, the street instantly gave off a vibe of
sedate and classy
. Narrow buildings four or five stories high crowded together on either side, many with carved and columned store fronts, and with fire escapes painted the same color as the rest of the structure. The occasional bit of graffiti dotted a wall, but less frequently as I continued up the street. It was quieter along here, and even the thrum of car tires over cobblestones seemed almost melodic.

And, best of all, I spied the sign for Grand Street at the end of the block, as well as one for Betsy's Bakes.

Hot fucking damn, I actually found it.
I smiled.
Look at me, getting the hang of this big city shit.

An elderly man strode by, humming softly to himself. A cyclist wove between cars and darted through the intersection with a Fuck You to traffic laws. A couple of young women exited Betsy's Bakes, and a man talking on his phone on the opposite corner watched them for a few seconds before turning away again. The man's bomber jacket looked like poor Chris Peterson's, and a tug of grief went through me.

The man turned his head to glance down the cross street, and my heart gave a quick double-thud as his profile registered.
Boat Launch Guy
—Edwards
,
the security guard at Saberton who'd helped escort Jane out. He wasn't in uniform now, but rather a dark green sweater, khaki slacks, and the jacket stolen from a murder victim. But I didn't believe for a second that he was off-duty.

Pulse racing, I stopped and pretended to consult something on my phone while I continued to scan.
Saberton.
Did they have Brian? Or had Brian sold me out? Were they waiting for me?

I had no answers, and I also had no way of knowing if any of the other pedestrians were bad guys. No way was Edwards here staking this place out on his own, but he was the only one I recognized. And if I didn't get the hell off the street, it was only a matter of time before they recognized
me.

Doing my best not to appear suspicious, I ducked into the nearest shop and quickly closed the door behind me. Some sort of antique shop or interior design place, judging by the furniture and knick knacks and décor shit. I edged past a settee and a table full of globes to where I could peer out the window, angling so that I could watch Edwards on the corner as well as the entrance to Betsy's Bakes. Another man ambled toward the intersection from farther up the street, and I caught the quick glance he exchanged with Edwards before he crossed. He had his hands tucked into the pockets of a tan trench coat. I had no trouble imagining weapons in them.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” a clear voice asked.

Startled, I spun around to see a sharp-featured, thirty-something man in a dark grey suit regarding me with a wary expression. “I don't want any trouble in here,” he stated, then pointed toward the door. “Take it outside.”

I shot a quick look at the man in the trench coat, pulse quickening as he began strolling toward the shop.
Shit!
Had he seen me? Or was he simply walking and patrolling, or whatever it was called when bad guys did it? Either way, my level of “I'm fucked” was rapidly climbing.

I quickly moved away from the window and toward the shop dude. “I'm sorry,” I mumbled even as I cast another furtive look over my shoulder. I couldn't see where Trench Coat had gone. “You got a back door I can use?” I asked him, not faking the desperation in my voice one bit. “I swear to god I'm not running from the cops.”

His eyes narrowed as they raked over me, and I had no illusions about what he saw. I looked like a homeless waif, possibly a drug addict. And not from New York either, not with my southern accent waving the not-a-Yankee flag. I half-expected him to reach for a phone to call the cops, but to my surprise he jerked his head toward the back.

“Thanks,” I breathed, then darted toward the little hallway that led to the rear of the shop. At the end of the hall was a small bathroom and a storage room, and to the left was an office with a loveseat crammed in a corner and a desk against the far wall. A brass coat rack held a black wool coat and a tweed fedora. But I didn't see a back door anywhere.

I turned to Shop Dude in time to see him click the lock on the front door and flip the sign to
Closed
. That done, he turned and headed my way, an ugly smile on his face.

I'd almost been raped once, though I was drugged at the time and managed to almost die before it could happen. Since then I'd processed the various thoughts and feelings about that incident any number of times and wondered what would have happened if the guy who'd spiked my drink hadn't taken that curve too quickly and died in the resulting car wreck, wondered what would have happened if I'd survived the cocktail of drugs in my system and he'd done the shit he'd wanted to do to me. I still had the occasional nightmare, even though I survived the experience in every way that mattered.

But all that shit came swimming back up to the surface as Shop Dude came toward me, confident and cocky. He was about to get himself a piece of southern tail from the pathetic homeless waif who'd wandered into his shop late on a Sunday afternoon. He knew he was in control. Maybe he'd threaten to call the police if I fought back, accuse me of theft or prostitution. He looked like a fairly respectable man, not at all sleazy or smarmy. Cops would believe his side of it, no doubt.

“C'mon, man, where's the fucking back door?” I said, then ducked into the office as I saw Trench Coat walk past the shop. Shit. Maybe I was reading the whole situation with Shop Dude wrong. Anything was possible, right?

“What's your hurry?” he asked, stepping into the office. He closed the door behind him, eyes traveling over me with a combination of distaste and nastiness in them.

Nope. Wasn't reading the situation wrong one little bit. Damn it. I backed away out of pure instinct, stopped when I came up against the desk then lifted my chin.

“Seriously?” I loaded my voice with exasperation, though it sounded high and shaky to my ears. “Is this where I have to give you a BJ to get out of here?”

“For starters,” he replied, then reached behind him and locked the office door, a move that I knew damn well was meant to intimidate me.

I pushed the hood back from my face and bared my teeth. I had a gun, but a gunshot would bring the Saberton guys running. “You do this often?” I asked. “You see girls in trouble and figure you can get some action?”

He shrugged as he unbuckled his belt, eyes remaining on me in a way that made my skin want to crawl off and take a hot shower. “All I see right now is you,” he said, unzipping.

I looked down at the semi-hard cock that flopped out of his pants. “I'm gonna take that as a yes,” I said, then returned my attention to his face. “No way is this your first time.”

“Suck my dick, you little whore,” he sneered, “or I call the cops and tell them I caught you shoplifting.”

Even though I'd
known
he was going to say that, it still robbed me of my breath for an instant. My pulse raced as old fear yammered in the back of my head, trying to tell me I was weak and small and couldn't possibly fight back against this guy. Old insecurities joined in, adding that I wasn't worth fighting for, that it would be easier to let it happen and try and put it behind me later.

I heard a low growl and realized it was coming from my own throat. Fuck the fear and fuck the insecurities. I was worth fighting for.
Every
woman was worth fighting for. Didn't matter if they were trash or addicts or rich or popular. Didn't matter if they dressed like a homeless waif, or in tight skirts and heels, or in jeans and flannel. No one deserved to feel helpless and worthless the way this goddamn asshole wanted me to feel and, I had no doubt, made other girls feel.

“If you're going to call the cops to report a crime,” I said, flexing my hands, “it should be for something more interesting than theft.”

A flicker of hesitation passed over his face, but he recovered and let out a chuckle before giving his stupid cock a couple of strokes. “You think I'm scared of a little whore barely half my size—”

The rest of his sentence died in a gurgling cry of pain as I punched him as hard as I could in his pretty nose.

He staggered back against the door, hands automatically going to his face and the gush of blood. I fell back into a stance and
without
a broken hand, which meant that my success with Carol Ann at the bar hadn't been a fluke.
I guess all those drills on the punching bag paid off!

This guy wasn't a weenie like Carol Ann, though. It only took him a couple of seconds to recover, anger burning through the pain. He pushed off the door to grab me, one hand reaching out like a claw.

Time didn't slow down or any crap like that. I didn't have a cloud bubble above my head with my
sensei
telling me what to do. But I still grabbed that extended wrist with one hand, seized his shoulder with the other, yanked his balance onto one foot, and then executed the prettiest damn
osoto gari
any martial artist had ever seen.

Okay, it wasn't actually all that pretty, since the office was cramped, and Shop Dude had no idea how to fall properly—shame on him. But I did manage to sweep his leg—to my unending shock—and sent him crashing to the floor. And if I happened to lose my balance and land on him with my elbow in his solar plexus, well, shame on me.

His breath whooshed out, and he turned some pretty shades of purple. I replaced the elbow with my knee and grabbed his throat as I knelt on top of him, then reached my other hand down to grab hold of his balls. A part of me wished I could bring myself to bite his damn cock off, but,
eeew.

“I'VE HAD A REALLY SHITTY DAY,”
I yelled, my face inches from his. “And then you come along, and you try to make it worse? Are you fucking kidding me?”

He made a strangled sound, and I loosened the grip on his throat a bit—just enough to keep him from turning blue.

I silently counted to ten in order to regain some calm. Or at least the Angel-version of calm. “Let's try this again,” I said, keeping my voice nice and even and friendly-like. Well, maybe not all that friendly, since I had my fingers dug into the sides of his neck, and the grip on his balls . . . well, that wasn't friendly at all. “Listen close, asshole. I want to be damn sure you understand what I'm about to tell you.”