White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (12 page)

“I tried to quit, but it hurt so bad,” I managed to croak out. “I called this morning to get help, but Jacques told me to take another damn dose.”

“Because stopping will
kill
you. Your parasite is addicted too.”

I stared, dumbfounded. “I
have
to stop! I've started having hallucinations, and my judgment is crap, and I'm eating enough brains to feed five zombies. I'm gonna fuck up everything if I don't—”

“Angel,” Dr. Nikas said sharply. “I know. I'll develop a non-addictive formula and wean you off the V12. It'll take time and experimentation to get it right, but as long as you're committed, we'll get there.”

I blew my breath out. “Does everyone know?”

When he shook his head, a thousand pounds of pressure lifted from my shoulders. “No one knows but Pierce, Jacques, and me,” he said. “Not even Reg, Brian, or Philip. And it will stay that way as long as you work with me honestly.”

“I will.” Gulping, I nodded. “I swear.”

“It's vital, Angel. For your sake. Pierce smelled it on you yesterday and alerted me.” Dr. Nikas paused. “He wanted you to have
in-house
rehab.”

In-house. Locked down in the lab medical wing until I was clean. It was a few seconds before I could speak around the panic that clutched at me. “You talked him out of it?”

He squeezed my hand, and I realized he was willing to trust me to the ends of the earth. I had no idea how I'd managed to earn that sort of faith—especially after this dumbass stunt—but it tripled my resolve to never let him or myself down again.

“In-house would be easiest and safest for others,” Dr. Nikas said. “But our world—the zombie world—is at a crisis point. Matters are heating up, and exposure is a very real possibility. Easy and safe are luxuries. Pierce needs you in the field as an operative. I need you.” He took a deep breath. “It would also likely cause more problems than it would solve for you to take an extended leave from your job, even if a suitable explanation was offered.” His eyes met mine, serious and unwavering. “But I'll lock you down myself in a heartbeat if you stray off course.”

Resolve shoved fear aside. “I'll do whatever it takes.” No more screwups, not when so much was at stake. Hearing of the exposure crisis straight from Dr. Nikas made it a thousand times more real.

“Your addiction has an upside,” he said, smile returning. “The dyslexia puzzle gave me new insight into parasite interaction with pharmaceuticals. I'm a half-step closer to pseudobrains.”

“That's awesome!” I gave a strained laugh. “But I think it's better if I don't make ‘exercising really poor judgment' a permanent research technique.”

Dr. Nikas chuckled. “Many great discoveries have been made quite by accident,” he said, but then his amusement faded. “The downside is that you have an addictive personality and need counseling. It's not optional.”

I gave a quick nod. “I'll do it.”

“I'd like you to speak with Jacques,” he continued. “If you prefer an outside practitioner, I'll arrange it.”

Jacques? He was the last person I'd have expected Dr. Nikas to suggest. “He told me he killed people he held dear.”

“I created him during the last days of the Franco-Prussian war,” Dr. Nikas said, expression sad and grave. “Less than six months later, he lost control and ate his wife and son.” He exhaled. “The parasite wouldn't allow suicide, though his pre-zombie addiction to laudanum drew him to the opium dens of Paris to try. He succeeded only in damaging his parasite and, between subsequent behavior and rotting in public, triggered an exodus. He has much insight to offer. As do I.”

If I ate my dad or Derrel or Nick, I'd want to kill myself too. My gaze went to where Jacques leaned against the hood of the Escalade, his thin shoulders drawn in. Though I couldn't see his face, I knew his eyes would have their characteristic haunted look.

“I'll talk to him.” I said. “Thanks.”

“Good. You can do so next week when I have your new formula ready. For now, take half-doses of V12 twice daily.” He leveled a stern gaze at me. “Do it by the clock, not by perceived need. And do not take less in a misguided attempt to wean more quickly.”

Gulping, I nodded. In return he retrieved a pill bottle from his jacket pocket and pressed it into my hand. “Take one capsule along with each dose. It will help withdrawal symptoms until I can reformulate for you. And if you feel yourself faltering, call me. Yes?”

“I will,” I promised. It was almost too good to be true, except that this was Dr. Nikas, and this was exactly how Dr. Nikas handled shit. I summoned up a crooked smile. “Speaking of field operative crap, today has been one hundred percent psycho.” I filled him in on the events of the last twenty-four hours: my suspicions about the decapitated Seeger, the list of zombie-related file names from Seeger's pocket, the possible involvement of Randy, Judd, and Coy, as well as my plan to check out more at the Zombie Fest.

He nodded as I wound down. “I'll pass the information on to Pierce. Call me next time, yes?”

The mild admonishment in his voice stung worse than any chewing out I'd ever received. I'd been an idiot to avoid him. “I've learned my lesson.”

“Good. Brian is available by text today for urgent matters, and Naomi is on surveillance at the Zombie Fest if you need physical backup.”

Absurd relief flooded me as if he'd handed me two lifelines. Though not a zombie, Naomi was a fierce advocate for our kind and worked as an operative for the Tribe. Brian was my usual go to resource but, with him off doing secret stuff with the other honchos, Dr. Nikas was the next in line. Even if I didn't
need
Brian or Naomi, it felt good to have them as options.

Dr. Nikas retrieved a handful of brain packets from the console and handed them to me. “That should help bolster your diminishing supply. Be careful out there.”

I shoved the packets into the bag that held the pig brains, opened the car door then turned back and threw my arms around him in a hug. He stiffened, and for an instant I thought I'd made a horrible mistake by intruding on his personal space, but before I could pull away his arms came around me and he returned the hug. It only lasted a couple of seconds, but it was full of warmth and comfort and support. It was the best goddamn hug in the history of hugs.

He released me, eyes glistening, and I suddenly wondered how long it had been since he'd been hugged.

“Take care, Angel,” he said, voice soft.

“You too, Dr. Nikas,” I whispered, then climbed out of the car and closed the door.

Philip turned to me as I exited. “You cool, ZeeEm?”

“I am now.” I paused. “I need to get something off my chest.” He frowned, but I forged on before I could chicken out. “It's my fault you've been feeling like shit. I was skimming your doses for my own use, but I swear I didn't know it would affect you like that, and I'm really really sorry.” The words tumbled out in a jangled rush, leaving me breathless and anxious at the end.

“Ah.” He flicked a glance toward the back of the SUV then to me, face as unreadable as granite. “Dr. Nikas is helping you?”

My eyes welled up again. Did he hate me? If so, I deserved it. Nothing I could do about it except not fuck up again. “Yeah. He is.”

“Good deal. I'd better get him on back to the lab.” He slid into the driver's seat. “I'll, um, catch you later.” He looked as if he was poised to say more, but closed the door instead.

“He'll be all right,” Jacques said. “You'll be all right.”

“What about you?”

His eyes told me everything I needed to know. My throat tightened as he climbed into the backseat of the Escalade. A smile flickered on his face. “It's not too late for you. Call me.”

The door closed, and the SUV pulled away. People—non-zombies—laughed and chatted and strolled toward Main Street for the parade. They had no idea they'd just passed four monsters living right alongside them.

And I would do my damnedest to make sure they never did.

•   •   •

My phone rang as I put the brain packets in the console of my car. I didn't recognize the number, but I answered with a professional
hello
since it might be work-related.

“Angel, it's Andrew Saber.” He spoke in an urgent whisper over muffled crowd noise and distant music.

I instinctively tensed. “Is something wrong?” Andrew had never called me before.

“No. I don't know. My sister isn't answering.”

“Is that all?” I relaxed again. After I saved his life by turning him into a zombie, he and the Tribe had forged a loose deal. We supplied him with brains and “new zombie” counseling, and in return he promised to give us the heads up if Saberton hatched any new nasty plans to use zombies in research. His twin sister, Naomi—formerly Julia Saber—was his usual Tribe contact. She'd fled Saberton after she witnessed their zombie atrocities and killed one of their researchers. Today she was busy at the Zombie Fest. If she wanted to contact him, she would. “So you stooped to calling me?”

“Grayson Seeger was murdered,” he said, still in the hoarse whisper. “What do you know about it?”

“Not much. Why?” If he knew anything regarding Seeger, I wanted to hear it without showing my cards. We had a truce, but we didn't have an open exchange of information.

“It has nothing to do with you,” he replied, to my annoyance. “I'll keep trying to reach Nao—” A sharp sound like gunfire erupted in the background, followed by cheers.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Zombie Fest,” he said as soon as the noise died down.

“Seeger got his head cut off,” I offered, throwing him a bone to keep him talking.

“Was he a . . . ?”

“Zombie? Nah. But it's possible somebody thought he was.”

“How? Why?” Andrew said, quiet tone ratcheting up in stress. “He called me yesterday out of the blue. Said he had important information for me and wanted to meet today. But if someone thought he was a zombie and—”

A hollow knock sounded on his end. “Mr. Saber? Is everything all right in there?”

“I'll be out in a minute,” he said in a normal voice then whispered to me, “I have to go.”

I burst out laughing. “If you gotta
go
, you gotta go. You're hiding from your goons in a goddamn porta-potty?”

“Shut up, Angel! It's not funny.”

“Yeah, it is. I'll find you later at the Fest.”

He made a noise of either relief or dread before he disconnected. A touch of guilt shimmered through me. He could be a dick, but I probably shouldn't have screwed with him. It had to suck living a secret zombie life right beside people who'd kill him or worse if they found out. But, then again, the same applied to all zombies.

Pedestrians hurried toward Main Street as I eased through traffic. Even with all the sucky stuff, the day was turning out to be pretty okay. I had a mental image of the mighty Andrew Saber hunkered down in a porta-potty, making an illicit call while his security people hovered outside. I had leads to follow on Mr. Seeger. I had a clear-the-air understanding with Dr. Nikas. I had pig brains and cool masks. On top of it all, I made it out of downtown before the cops barricaded the streets.

I headed for the morgue to meet Nick, heart lighter than it had been in ages.

I swiped my ID card and slipped into the morgue. Even when people had the misfortune to die during non-business hours, the on-call investigator and morgue tech rarely stuck around longer than the few minutes it took to stuff the decedent into the cooler and log basic info in the computer. And autopsies were performed on the weekend only when the need was critical. As a result, the morgue tended to be quiet as a tomb on the weekends. And, fortunately, today was no different.

I dropped my plastic grocery bag with my zombie costume clothes on the desk along with the butcher-paper wrapped pig brains, then checked the other offices and the cutting room to make sure no one was around. There was no valid reason for me to be poking through a body bag on my day off, so I needed to be one hundred percent
sure
I wouldn't get caught.

Not another living soul in the entire building. And a quick check of the computer reassured me that dispatch hadn't sent anyone out on a call, which meant I wouldn't be rudely interrupted by a body coming in.

Satisfied, I ducked into the cooler with the packet of pig brains, but left the heavy door open. If anyone came into the morgue, I'd hear the outer door. Besides, I wouldn't be more than a minute or two. Good thing, since the trip into town had taken longer than planned.

The cooler held just two bodies: Mr. Omentum-has-momentum Granger—whose organ bag I'd already raided, and Mr. Grayson-headless-Seeger. I yanked the zipper of Omentum's body bag open, but froze as I reached for the organ bag. The knot in the bag. Was that mine? It looked too tight. Then again, I'd been munching brains when I tied it. It was
possible
my zombie strength had kicked in. I worried my lower lip, uneasy. What if Allen had checked the bag after I went to lunch, found the brains missing, and retied it?

If he had, I was already up shit creek and a few pig brains wouldn't make any difference one way or the other. But if he hadn't, the little oinkers could save my scrawny zombie ass.

I worked the knot open, then tore the pig brains in half and dropped them into the bag. Organ stew with extra brains. Convincing enough. And, as far as I knew, once the body left the morgue, no one opened the organ bags. Score one for Angel.

Feeling pretty damn good about the whole thing, I grabbed my bag of festival clothes and headed into the bathroom. My fake zombie costume consisted of a pair of hole-y jeans and a ripped white tank top with old barbecue stains and fresh fake blood.

The door from the parking lot clanged as I finished slipping into the tank top. “Angel?” Nick called out.

“Be right out!” I checked my reflection and adjusted the tank top. Crap. Was my bra showing? And why the hell was I nervous? It wasn't as if this was a date. Nick and I spent loads of time together outside work, especially with all the tutoring. I stuffed my good clothes into the plastic bag, and headed out. “Okay, I'm almost ready for—”

Zombie Nick shambled toward me, arms outstretched. “Braaaiiins.” He wore a suit and tie frayed and aged to appear as if it had been moldering in a crypt for half a century. Grey makeup covered his hands, neck, and face.

I let out a delighted laugh. “Dude, that's awesome!” A hole in his shirt revealed a fake wound that wriggled with mealworms sealed behind a near-invisible mesh. “And seriously gross,” I added with a grin.

“Braaaiiins.” Slack jawed, he reached for me.

Laughing, I ducked under his arms and thwacked him with the grocery bag. “I'm a zombie too! Save it for the hunters. Besides, zombies don't eat zombie brains. Ewww!”

Nick grinned and ceased his shambling. “All right, Miss Zombie-Expert. I need a bit of help with this.” He held up a realistic dangling latex eyeball.

“Niiiice,” I said with a nod of approval. It would look great hanging out the eyehole of one of the zombie Mardi Gras masks I bought, if he wanted to wear one. “But you have to do my makeup first.”

“What? You don't want me slathering goop on you when I'm half blind?” He closed his eyes and groped toward my face.

I laughed and batted his hand away. “I want to look like a zombie, not a clown. And I don't want you poking makeup brushes in my eyes!”

“Chicken.” He grinned. “I'll grab my kit.”

I plunked down in the chair, still smiling. Nick returned, carrying a small plastic tackle box. He sat in the other chair and set the box on my thighs. “Let's see what we can do to ugly you up.”

I let out a tragic sigh. “You've got your work cut out for you.”

He flipped open the lid of the box, and I blinked in surprise at the contents. Makeup and brushes and sponges galore, and all of it appearing well-used. He fished a black stick out of the bottom. “Start simple. Sunken eyes.”

“How do you have so much makeup?” I grinned. “Do you do drag on the side?”

His lips twitched. “I'm not
that
good. I used to do theater. Did tons of plays with Tucker Point Little Theater up until I was seventeen.”

“That's so cool!” I breathed. That was the most Nick had ever told me about his background in all the time I'd worked with him. Other than his rub-it-in-your-face crowing about being pre-med and going to med school, he didn't mention his personal life much. “A friend and her mom took me there to see
Wizard of Oz
for my tenth birthday. It was amazing.”

Nick grinned. “You liked it, huh?” He rubbed the stick under my eyes then used his thumb to expertly smudge the color.

“Sure did. The way they did the smoke for the wizard. And the costumes!” I smiled, shrugged. “It was probably crap for real, but back then it felt like magic. I'd never seen anything like it. Real people singing and dancing and performing a
story
.”

“It wasn't crap.” He exchanged the black stick for a small pot of white goop. “That show won the Louisiana Community Theater award for best children's production.”

“You remember that?” My phone beeped with a text message. A quick glance told me it wasn't anyone in my contacts, which meant it could wait.

A smile played around his mouth as he dabbed goop along my cheekbones. “I sure do.”

My slow brain finally put two and two together. “Wait. Were you
in
it?”

“Yep.” He closed the pot then wrung his hands and screwed his face into a mask of worry.

“The cowardly lion!? That was you?” I stared at him in awe. “I loved the lion!”

Nick beamed as he brushed powder on my nose. “Really?”

“Yeah. You were great.” I sighed in happy memory. “Such a scaredy cat, then you found your courage.”

Nick's smile slipped a little. Had I said something wrong? But he seemed to be proud of the role. “How'd you get the tail to swish like that?” I asked. “It had a mind of its own.”

He perked up again. “A munchkin's dad rigged it up with fishing line and—” His phone rang. He glanced at the ID and couldn't hide a grimace. “Sorry, Angel. I have to take this.”

He hurried out, far enough to be out of human earshot. Of course, I wasn't exactly human. I pulled a baggie out of my pocket and munched a few dehydrated brain chips. And then a few more. The stupid V12 in my system meant I needed more brains than usual to activate my zombie senses. But hey, I wasn't
spying
. I was hungry.

Nick's voice carried to me.
I can't believe you want to do this today.

Pause.

No. That's not what I mean. I just don't—

Pause.

No. I told you, everything's fine. Monday's better for me.
I'm on my way to the—

The stress in his voice ratcheted up.

Okay. Okay. Sorry.

Pause.

No! Not your house. How about a restaurant instead. Crawfish Joe's.
It'll be good. And if we go at five, we'll beat the festival crowds.

That sure was a hard sales pitch for the restaurant instead of whoever's house. Public rather than private?

Yes. I'll be there.

Pause.

I said I will, so I
will
. I have to go.

The phone beeped as he ended the call.

Fuck. Fuck!

I barely got the brain chips back into my pocket before he swept in, his face set in his arrogant Nick the Prick sneer.

“Change of plans.” He slammed the makeup box closed and snatched it off my lap. “Something came up. You go. Your name's on the pass, so it's useless to anyone else.” For all his bluster, his voice shook.

I grabbed at his arm. “Nick, what happened? Is there anything I can do to help?”

He wrenched away from me. “Yeah. Mind your own goddamn business.” He threw a laminated Zombie Fest pass on the desk then stomped out.

Holy shit. Damn good thing I'd eavesdropped, otherwise I'd be chasing him down to tell him exactly how to shove his makeup kit up his ass. Sideways. Instead, I was worried. It sure didn't sound like he wanted to meet with the jerkwad caller. Plus, if they were supposed to meet at five, we'd still have several hours to go to the festival. But he was upset enough to bow out altogether. Was he in some kind of trouble?

I needed more info, and I knew one possible way to get it. Crawfish Joe's Cajun Cabin made a great catfish po-boy, and a girl had to eat. Who knows, maybe I'd feed myself there around five p.m.

First, though, I had business at the Zombie Fest. Why had Grayson Seeger wanted to meet with Andrew? Did it tie in to why Seeger had been so worked up? And did the Three Dumbass Stooges have anything to do with Seeger's murder? With luck, a little quality Angel-spying would put those questions to rest for good.

I had a VIP pass, and I wasn't afraid to use it.