How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (3 page)

I tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Hey, I'm going to be by that booth by the back wall,” I told him. “Come find me when you're done? I have some people I want you to meet.”

He nodded acknowledgment, and I headed back toward Pietro and Jane. Pietro was a rich-as-fuck local businessman, and also uncle to my boyfriend, Marcus Ivanov. But more importantly, Pietro as head of the local group of zombies, devoted himself to their survival and welfare, at times by whatever means necessary. I didn't always agree with the “necessary means” Pietro and his organization used, but I'd also learned that none of the issues they dealt with were black and white.

Plus, I didn't have much room to talk. Less than five months ago I'd bashed a man's head in with a baseball bat and then feasted on his brains. Sure, he'd been shooting me seconds before, but there was no denying I'd used
necessary means
to remove the threat.

Pietro watched me approach, a relaxed smile on his face that only seemed to make its appearance around Jane. Sixtyish-looking, stocky but fit, he complemented her effortless elegance perfectly. Half-finished cups of coffee and the remains of a shared pastry sat on the table in front of them. I gave Pietro a nod of greeting then smiled to Jane. “I didn't know you were in town.”

“I'm not really,” she said with a quiet laugh. “Only passing through to take care of a little business in my district and see Pietro.”

I glanced over as Nick approached. “This is my friend Nick Galatas,” I told them. “He's one of the death investigators at the Coroner's Office, and he's also totally responsible for me finally passing the GED.” I grinned. “Nick, this is Congresswoman Jane Pennington and Pietro Ivanov.” I didn't try to hide the hint of smugness in my tone that I knew such cool people. If the situation was reversed, Nick would be all over it.

Nick did the handshake thing with both of them, seeming totally confident and comfortable. “I helped a little with Angel's preparation and studying,” he said, “but Angel was the one in the test room. She worked hard and earned it.”

A little heat rose in my face at the praise. I
had
worked hard, dammit, but it was still cool to have it recognized. “It's too bad you can't be here a little longer,” I said to Jane. “You're going to miss the oh-so-awesome Nutria Festival this weekend.”

Pained amusement lit her eyes. “Believe it or not, I gave a speech there last year on the condition of our wetlands.”

Pietro laid his hand over hers on the table, gave it a squeeze. “We met at an incredibly tedious fundraiser only a few days after that. Jane stopped me from slitting my wrist with a broken champagne glass to escape the boredom.”

A
joke
from Pietro? If he didn't watch out, having Jane as a girlfriend was going to turn him into a normal person.

Jane laughed. “I'm not sure it was quite so dramatic,” she said.

“You were still a state senator then, if I'm not mistaken?” Nick asked.

Pietro smiled broadly. “Right up until the now
former
Congressman Dale Grubbs was caught taking kickbacks.”

“I couldn't have possibly won the special election to replace him without your help and support,” she told Pietro, voice warm with affection, then gave me a smile. “And as much as I regret missing out on nutria jambalaya,” she shuddered, “I'm off to New York this afternoon for a few engagements before The Child Find League Fundraiser Saturday, then back to DC. Committee meetings, staff meetings, and more meetings.” She shuddered once again.

“You're on the House Judiciary Committee, right?” Nick asked, in a way that made it clear he already knew the answer. At Jane's nod he continued with a smile, “Congratulations on that. Impressive feat for a freshman Congresswoman to score a spot on such an influential committee, but I suppose having doctorates in Political Science and Law helped considerably.”

I tried not to look as surprised as I was at the two doctorates thing. And here I'd assumed she was a medical doctor. Duh.

Jane chuckled. “It certainly didn't hurt, though I'm still getting used to the maneuverings and behind-the-scene deals that aren't taught in the classroom.”

Nick gave a knowing nod. “Your detractors who are complaining that you're not doing enough to secure a defense contract for Saberton don't understand how the system works.”

An expression of true regret swept over her face. “I would love to wave a magic wand and reopen the factory so that all those people could be rehired,” she said, referring to the employees laid off after Saberton bought a farm machinery company and then failed to obtain a hoped-for defense contract. “But the sad and brutal truth is that in order to ensure Saberton lands that contract, I would have to expend every bit of political capital I've acquired in the past few months, and owe quite a few favors besides.” She sighed. “I can't afford to ‘blow my wad' on the Saberton contract.”

Nick nodded again. “Not when there are bills coming up for programs and funding that have far more impact on this area,” he said. “Wetlands, drilling rights, flood control. It would be a short term fix with long term issues.”

I glanced over at Nick, probably with my mouth hanging open, impressed and surprised that he had a clue. Hell, more than a clue. I caught the gist of what they were talking about, and as much as I wanted to see those factory jobs come back, I had a hard time getting behind anything that helped Saberton Corporation in any way. I figured Pietro couldn't either, not with their track record of fuck-y'all exploitation of both zombies and regular people. Yet Jane's reasoning seemed logical and sound, and not at all based on an “I Hate Saberton” point of view. Then again, as far as I knew, Jane still knew nothing about the zombies. I had no idea if or when Pietro planned to tell her, but that sort of thing was
waaay
into the sort of none-of-my-business that I actually abided by.

Jane smiled at Nick, genuine and appreciative. “You know my pain. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. I'm going to have to find other solutions for the unemployment situation.” She sighed. “It's a frustrating dance.”

Pietro leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “One you do with poise and grace, my dear.”

Jane gave Pietro a warm smile accompanied by a soft-eyed look that left no doubt how she felt about him.

Time for Nick and me to leave the lovebirds to do their thing. “We should get going,” I said. “It was great running into you two.”

Jane reached and touched my arm. “It was wonderful to see you, Angel, and a pleasure to meet you, Nick.”

We made our goodbyes and headed to the counter. I picked up the box with pastries and glanced over at Nick. “How did you know so much about that stuff?”

“I read a lot,” he said with a shrug as he collected the carrier with the drinks. “And this is a hot topic, locally.”

“I'm saving up for a computer,” I said as we headed to the door. “Maybe I can watch news videos or something.” A gust of wind sent leaves scuttling along the sidewalk as we stepped out.

“It's important to keep up with what's going on,” he replied with a knowing nod.

“By the way, thanks for asking me to come with you. I needed the distraction.”

He shot me a smug look. “I know.”

Laughing, I punched him in the arm, hard enough for him to feel it, but not hard enough to spill the coffee and chocolate he carried. I had my priorities.

He made a show of rubbing his arm, but we were both smiling when we returned to the office.

The living room was empty when I walked through my front door, but I heard the shower—our
only
shower—running. Crap.

“Hey, dad,” I yelled through the bathroom door. “You gonna be much longer?”

“Be a coupla minutes,” he hollered back. “I just got in.”

Double crap. No way could I fake it and go to the lab without a full shower. Not with bone dust in my hair and the smell of
yuck
clinging to me. “I gotta be somewhere,” I shouted. “And I'm all dirty from the morgue.”

“Yeah, well, if you stop shouting at me I'll be a lot faster,” he shot back.

Sighing, I bit back an obnoxious comeback. He'd only get revenge by staying in the shower even longer. Stripping off my clothes as I went, I headed to my room and killed some time finding stuff to change into once I no longer reeked of morgue-funk. Well, killed a couple of minutes. Didn't take long to go through my miniscule wardrobe. So far I'd managed to replace the necessities I lost in the flood: work uniforms, bras and undies, socks, a couple of pairs of jeans and some miscellaneous shirts. And I had exactly one nice outfit—a butt-hugging skirt and a silky blouse, with some fuck-me pumps that I'd scooped up on clearance, beating out a busty redhead who'd been reaching for them.

I resisted the very silly urge to put on the skirt and blouse and pumps since they'd be incredibly inappropriate for going to the lab, and pushed down the totally crazy bit of wondering how Philip would react to me in the outfit—and where the hell had
that
come from anyway? Instead I found jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. But with my clothes all nicely laid out, I had nothing left to do except wait with increasing aggravation as the shower continued to run. And now my dad was singing.
Singing!
Scowling, I wrapped a towel around me and marched back down the hall.

“C'mon, Dad!” I yelled with an accompanying pound on the door. “I'm gonna be late! What the hell's taking you so long?”

“I'm washing my goddamn hair!”

“Y'only got about twelve hairs on that head of yours!”

His response was to start singing again. Loudly and badly.

It was war.

I tested the doorknob. Locked, and I had a feeling he'd nipped out and done so while I was going through my clothing. Sneaky bastard. But I could be devious too. I ran to the kitchen and turned the cold water on full blast, then went to the half-bathroom near the front of the house, turned
that
water on, and flushed the toilet for good measure. Listening, I waited, and about fifteen seconds a yelp and cursing rewarded my efforts, followed by the shower going off.

I quickly turned the water off in the bathroom and kitchen, then returned to the hallway outside the main bathroom, leaned against the wall and folded my arms over my towel-covered chest. I heard grumbling and muttering, but also a rustle of sound that I hoped was a towel drying flesh.

My dad yanked the door open and gave me a dark scowl, but I thought I detected a gleam of appreciation in his eye. “You're lucky I got somewhere to be, Angel,” he huffed, then marched off toward his bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist, leaving a trail of wet footprints down the hallway.

With a smug smile, I claimed the shower, and didn't even mind that I had to clean out the drain first.

Since I was already running late, I made do with a quickie shower that was enough to wash the smell of death off me. Probably a good thing I raced through it, since even at super speed the water temp edged toward not-even-close-to-hot by the time I rinsed off. I dressed quickly, shoved my fingers through my wet hair along with a bit of gel, swiped some mascara across my lashes, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.

Then stopped dead at the sight of my dad standing in the kitchen, buttoning his cuffs and
whistling.
I sniffed. Cologne? And, wait, cuffs? Not a t-shirt or sweatshirt?

Nope, Dad had on black denim pants—not raggedy jeans—a plaid shirt that actually looked stylish, and cowboy boots. His hair was combed, and his face free from stubble.

“Do you have a job interview?” I asked.

His smile was nothing sort of
smug.
“Nope. Got me a date.”

It took me a second to re-engage my brain, and I barely stopped myself from saying,
With a woman?
“With who?” I managed instead.

“Tammy Elwood,” he replied. “She tends bar down at Kaster's.”

“I don't know her,” I said, unable to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

The look he gave me was tinged with amusement. “I bet I know lots of people you don't, Angelkins.”

I knew I was being silly, but damn it, my dad simply didn't
date.
“How long have you known her?” I asked, trying a different tack.

He slipped a jacket on. “Not long. It's actually a double date with Belluci and his lady. They're kinda settin' us up together.”

Oh, lordy. Rick Belluci was a loud redneck with a huge beer gut who seemed to know every racist, sexist, and otherwise inappropriate joke in existence. He and my dad used to be drinking buddies, staying out every Thursday night until the bars closed or kicked them out. I could only imagine what kind of woman Belluci would think was right for my dad.

“Are y'all going to a bar?” I asked, trying hard to be casual, but I heard the edge of worry in my voice. Dad had been doing pretty good with controlling his drinking lately, and I wanted it to stay that way.

He gave me a faint smile, understanding in his eyes. “We're just gonna go see a movie and maybe get a bite after, I promise.”

“Well, call me if you're gonna be out too late.”

To his credit he didn't laugh. “Only if you promise to do the same.”

That was fair, I supposed. “Deal.” I moved to him, gave him a kiss on the cheek. God, but we'd come so far. He responded with a hug, then left the house, a spring in his step that I didn't think I'd ever seen before.

My dad has a date.
How weird was that?

I wanted a distraction from my worries about Saberton's experimentation, and the universe happily obliged. I rubbed my arms against the frigid air of what I called the Head Room as I peered into the vat. About two feet across, the container looked like an oversized stainless steel crock pot, but I sure as hell didn't want to eat what was cooking in it.

“
That
,” I said with a shiver of disgust and delight, “is seriously gross.”

Thick, dark pink liquid like blood-tinged mucus oozed its way around the vat, while something resembling a deformed fetus drifted below the surface of the snot. Stubby little hands curled up by its chest, and misshapen lumps like developing organs formed a weird pot-belly. Uneven legs splayed out in opposite directions. No umbilical cord, and the heart wasn't beating, but I had the weirdest impression the entire thing was vibrating, like a buzz from a beehive.

From neck to butt, the fetus-thing was about two inches long, but the truly weird and gross part was the full-sized head. Wisps of dark hair clung to the skull, waving sluggishly in the thick liquid. The face had Korean features, though it was hard to tell right now with the blotchy grey and shriveled skin.

Kang. The first zombie I ever knew, besides myself. Or rather, the first zombie I ever knew who I
knew
was a zombie. Kang had taught me a lot about survival as a zombie: how often I'd need to eat human brains, how exertion increased the hunger, and how my mental faculties would degrade along with my body if I went too long without eating brains. But Kang hadn't listened to me when it counted, and he'd ended up the victim of a serial killer who'd been targeting zombies and chopping their heads off.

And
that
was one hell of a seriously complicated story.

I pulled my gaze away from fetus-Kang. His vat was one of six in the dimly lit room. A pale and thin man with dark wavy hair crouched by a control panel as he made adjustments—Jacques Leroux, the lab tech and Dr. Nikas's assistant. On the other side of Kang's vat stood Pietro, the relaxed smile of earlier now hard and flat as he looked down at Kang.

Dr. Nikas stood next to Pietro, his arms folded loosely over his chest as he peered into the vat. Average height and unimposing, the director of the lab had light brown eyes set in a kind face, and brown hair pulled back in a ponytail that hung to his shoulder blades. I didn't know exactly what Dr. Nikas was a doctor of, but I figured it was a lot of different things, especially since I had a strong suspicion he'd been around for more than a few centuries, even though he didn't look older than late forties. While Pietro ran things, Dr. Nikas was the heart and soul of the lab and, from what I'd seen, had final say on what happened within it. On the outside, the lab was a drab industrial building smack dab in the middle of Nowhere, Louisiana with nothing but pines and swamp for miles in any direction. However, within those boring walls was a high tech research lab and small medical facility, like something out of a science fiction movie.

“Kang grew that much in only one day?” I asked Dr. Nikas. “I changed the fluid yesterday morning and he was still a prune-skinned head. Same as he's been for months.”

“Amazing, isn't it?” Dr. Nikas said. “My theory is that he hasn't been quiescent at all, but rather, preparing.” He leaned over the vat and peered with avid delight at the deformed thing that could have been straight out of a horror flick. “Assessing resources and checking the DNA blueprints one might say.” He lifted his head and gave me a warm smile.

The hard line of Pietro's mouth flattened even more. “Ari, how long before you know if the memory is intact?”

Dr. Nikas straightened. “I don't know when I'll be able to determine anything about
his
memory or cognitive function,” he said, and I didn't miss the emphasis on “his.” This wasn't an impersonal lab experiment to Dr. Nikas. Each vat in here contained a severed zombie head, and every single one was a person with their name on the vat handwritten on a card in elegant script. Little personal touches like that told me Dr. Nikas gave a shit. “It may not be until he fully regrows,” he added.

“How long will that take?” I gestured at fetus-Kang. “I mean, this happened in less than a day.”

“It's one of the many things we still don't know,” Dr. Nikas said with gentle indulgence. “This growth happened very quickly, but he has been in stasis again for the last six hours.” He spread his hands. “It may come in spurts. Or it may not happen again until we move him into the full vat where he has ample resources.” He gestured in the direction of the new coffin-looking container on the other side of the room. “It's all very new territory. Theoretically, the potential is there for full regrowth to happen quickly—perhaps within weeks. We'll know more after he grows again.”

Jacques moved around the vat to check another control panel, and I stepped back and out of his way. “You'll, uh, track the rate of growth over time and then make a projection from that?” I asked Dr. Nikas. A year ago—hell, six months ago—I wouldn't have known what any of that meant.

Dr. Nikas's smile widened. “That's right, Angel,” he said. “Jacques can show you how to access the charts and raw data on one of the workstations. You can see our current projections and watch as they adjust with additional data.”

Pietro frowned in obvious impatience. “Can't the EEG give you some indication of what memory or cognitive function Kang will come back with?”

Annoyance whispered across Dr. Nikas's face. “It shows us nothing more than it did before the growth,” he stated. “With the parasite fully encapsulating his brain, this is what we get.” He nodded toward a screen that showed flat lines alternating with wild spikes every few seconds. Even I could tell it was screwy. “Until the parasite activity returns to baseline, I can't tell what Kang's functional level is.” He exhaled. “Remember, he came in from Kristi, and her initial preservation and handling was far from optimal.”

I didn't bother hiding my sneer. Dr. Kristi Charish was the neurobiologist who'd kidnapped me then used me for her psycho zombie experiments. She'd been under Pietro's house arrest ever since he'd captured her after the secret lab fiasco and, like Dr. Nikas, lived at the lab 24/7. However, unlike the good doctor, she wore a tracking anklet and had round the clock supervision by one of her three assigned guards. Kristi had shown herself to be an unstable, reckless, and treacherous bitch, and had broken more laws than I could count, but we couldn't exactly turn her over to the cops.
Yes, officer, this respected scientist kidnapped me and made me chew on a couple of almost dead guys. Why? Oh, y'see, I'm a zombie and eat human brains, and she . . . Wait, what are you doing with that Taser? Hey, stop! Ow!

It would only go downhill from there.

She was currently working with Dr. Nikas to develop a nutritional substitute—a.k.a. fake brains—that zombies could survive off of instead of human brains. I had little doubt that if Kristi wasn't such a sharp researcher Pietro would have made her disappear rather than keeping her, and I suspected that was the only reason Dr. Nikas tolerated the outright slavery under his roof. Setting her free simply wasn't an option.

Dr. Nikas gave me a nod. “You can close it now, Angel.”

Pietro backed away from the vat as I replaced the lid, but his gaze lingered on fetus-Kang for another few seconds before shifting to Ari. “I want to be kept apprised of
any
changes,” he stated, then pivoted and briskly exited the room.

Dr. Nikas and I followed him out, leaving Jacques to finish his adjustments.

“Angel, I'll meet you at the central lab in about five minutes,” Dr. Nikas said tightly as we reached a cross-corridor. “I need to have a brief
chat
with Pietro.”

“Gotcha.” I didn't mind being left out of that particular chat. I continued straight while Dr. Nikas turned left, but when I passed the door to the lounge off the central lab, I spied Pietro's head of security, Brian Archer, sitting on the couch and flipping through a decade-old magazine.

“Hey, you missed the freak show,” I said, ducking into the lounge. “Kang's head is
way
gross.”

Brian set the magazine aside. “I think I get enough
freak show
without an extra dose,” he said with a casual smile. Brian didn't have the kind of looks that turned heads, but he made up for it in presence. He looked like he was in his forties, but he once told me he'd been a zombie for a little over fifteen years, and I'd never worked up the nerve to ask him his age. I'd never seen him looking sloppy or dressed casually, and today was no different. Dark navy suit, cream-colored shirt with a tie that coordinated without calling attention to itself. Short brown hair and deep brown eyes. Nails neatly trimmed. No jewelry of any sort. Not a man to be fucked with.

“Yeah, I guess you do,” I said with a laugh as I flopped into a chair. “What are you doing out here? Haven't seen you in a while.”

“I have a security meeting not far from here in a little while,” he explained, then tapped his upper chest. “I figured now was a good time for Dr. Nikas to check out my port and test a new mod.”

I'd only found out about ports and mods a few months ago, but I was seriously considering putting them on my Christmas list. Mods—modifiers—were specialized drugs that revved up or toned down parasite activity as needed. The port itself was implanted beneath the skin and provided an easy way to get a mod into the body. With a port, mods could either be delivered quickly, dumping into the system all at once, or the drug could be stored and set to release slowly. Mods could have some pretty awesome effects, such as more efficient brain usage, or better senses, or resistance to the kind of tranquilizers that worked on zombies. All sorts of useful stuff.

The drawback was that only one or two mods could be used at the same time, and some couldn't be mixed at all without big side effects. They were a lot like regular human drugs in that respect.

“Everything go okay with that?” I asked.

“Some kinks with the mod still, but it's looking promising,” he said. “It's designed to be a short term turbo charge of zombie abilities. Speed, strength, reflexes, senses, that sort of thing. Would be nice to have for emergencies.” He stretched and stifled a yawn. “But right now I'm simply waiting to see if Mr. Ivanov has anything for me before I take off.”

“Don't let the excitement of it all overwhelm you,” I said with a grin. “How's everything else going?”

“Business as usual in the zombie security world,” he said, which I figured was his way of saying he couldn't talk about anything. “Never a dull moment with the Tribe.”

The Tribe. Pietro Ivanov's organization was actually a number of corporations—a chain of funeral homes, real estate, construction, and even health care clinics that disguised the zombie research. And probably a ton I didn't have a clue about as well. Up until a couple of months ago I'd privately referred to the whole deal as “The Zombie Mafia,” yet after some time working steadily in the lab, I discovered that the people
in
the organization—humans and zombies alike—referred to it as “the Tribe.” After some thought—and with the greater knowledge I had of Pietro, his people, and his goals—the reality of the whole common-ties-common-support thing settled in, and I grudgingly agreed that Tribe was a better nickname.

Most of the time, at least. There were reasons the whole Mafia tag had come up in the first place, and that undercurrent was still alive and kicking.

I peered at Brian. “Don't you ever get to go off and play on your own?”

Brian's eyes widened in exaggerated wonder. “You mean . . . not be on call?” Then he laughed. “I have down time, sure, but I'm never truly off duty.”

“Well, that sucks,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “When do you get to be your own person?”

“I'm doing what I want to do,” he said, giving me a reassuring smile. “I have a couple of hobbies to fill in the gaps. I can't imagine a different lifestyle.”

I wondered about the gaps. As far as I knew, he didn't have a girlfriend. At one time he'd seemed seriously interested in my best friend, Naomi—formerly known as Heather—but that fell flat when she hooked up with Kyle Griffin, one of Brian's top security guys.

Brian seemed content enough, though, and I knew it really wasn't any of my business. Not that I'd ever let that whole “none of my business” thing stop me from being a nosy buttinsky before.

“Well,” I said, “if you're okay with your schedule, I guess I won't need to have strong words with Pietro after all.”

Brian grimaced, obviously not
entirely
sure I was teasing. “Not on my account.”

“I'll behave,” I said. “Don't worry.”

He wiped his brow in mock-relief, though maybe not totally
mock.
“Don't go getting me into trouble,” he said, then stood as a tall, black woman with braids that hung to mid back entered the room. Radiating ultra-confidence with a dash of scary calm, Rachel Delancey was Brian's second in command, and one of the few female zombies Pietro had working for him.

Her gaze slid over me as if I was a steaming pile of dog shit on the carpet before it came to rest on Brian. Yeah. We weren't going to be best buds anytime soon. Her idea of security probably didn't include a new zombie like me hanging around at the super secret lab. But I had a niggling feeling there was more to it than that. She'd seemed okay with me at first, then gradually went colder than a polar bear's ass. I'd tried a few times to be friendly but got nowhere. The only thing I could figure was that she'd found out about my loser past and thought I was a security risk. Or maybe she thought I was going to take advantage of Marcus or Pietro or Dr. Nikas. Whatever the deal was, I couldn't see any way to change her opinion of me. Oh, well. Her loss.