White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (20 page)

He gave me a sweet and lazy smile, closed the door then started limping with Coy toward the gas station. I watched them for about a minute then pulled back onto the highway and zoomed past.

Thirty minutes until Judd was expecting me to meet him. I had no desire to disappoint the prick.

“Lock Three” was local slang for the area at the end of Hickory Horn Road by the Kreeger River's third river-control lock. It was also a damn good place for a clandestine meeting, which raised my estimation of Judd's smarts ever so slightly. Not only was Lock Three in the middle of nowhere with the nearest house at least two miles away, but this particular chunk of “nowhere” was at the ass end of the parish, where cell phone service and police presence were equally spotty.

I stopped where the road ended at a broad field by the river. Several unnamed dirt roads radiated off the field, along with over a dozen four-wheeler trails, creating more escape routes than you could shake a stick at.

The sun wasn't due to set for another hour, but it was low enough to cast long shadows of pines across the field like dark claws. This was a prime spot for teen hormones to rampage, and I was confident that more than a few parish residents had been conceived in this very field. Fortunately, it was still several hours shy of prime nookie time.

It's not too late to call the Sheriff's Office
, my conscience whispered. With Randy and Coy most likely in custody by now, every cop in the parish would be on the lookout for Judd. All I had to do was find another pay phone and make an anonymous call.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. No, there wasn't enough time for the Sheriff's Office to mobilize and discreetly set up a trap. Not to mention, I needed the stupid flash drives. A whole lot of zombie lives could be affected by those files, and if Judd had the drives with him—which I sure hoped—the last thing I wanted was a bunch of redneck cops watching the videos. Especially since at least one of those videos convinced Judd I was a zombie. Besides, if all went according to plan, I'd be wrapping up Judd's worthless butt like a Christmas present for Ben Roth and the Sheriff's Office. I'd waited too long to tell Ben what I suspected, and this was the best way to fix all that.
And
avoid getting myself busted for interfering with an investigation.

Judd was nowhere in sight, though my gut told me he was watching from the treeline. I was a few minutes late, thanks to a couple of vital errands. The first was a detour to Marcus's house—which I still had a key to—where I borrowed his ballistic vest. It was at least ten sizes too big for me and easily the most uncomfortable thing I'd ever worn, but I needed every possible advantage I could scrape up. I'd also hoped to borrow a gun from Marcus, but he'd acquired a fancy new gun safe and wasn't dumb enough to leave the combination written down anywhere. Damn it. I wasn't thrilled about meeting Judd without firepower, but I had no other way to score a gun quickly. Then again, my parasite was already one hell of a weapon.

My second errand was to BigShopMart where I shelled out fifty bucks for Judd-conning supplies and a butcher knife that could fit up my jacket sleeve. Back in the car, and wearing gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints, I bundled the newly acquired gardening machete and cheapo baseball bat into a couple of black garbage bags then wrapped them up tight with duct tape. Best case scenario was that he'd never touch the bundle. But, if he did, it had to feel like the right stuff.

Ideally, a third errand would have been to my storage unit to stock up on brains from the last of my freezer reserves. I only had three packets with me, but the side trip would have cost too much time. Forty minutes late would make Judd think I'd gone to the cops. But he'd wait it out for at least five. He wanted the murder weapons.

He also wanted me dead—hence the borrowed vest. At least, if I was him I'd want me dead. Loose ends, and all that. Judd would hopefully be operating on the assumption that Randy and Coy were still chained up in that cabin—two more loose ends to snip as soon as he took care of me. I was counting on the fact that he'd want to be sure I had the weapons and wouldn't simply sniper me in the head from a few hundred yards away. After all, he wasn't stupid. If he killed me and I'd left the weapons elsewhere, he'd be up shit creek.

All I needed was to get close enough for my zombie skills to matter. Knock his ass down a few times, get the damn flash drives from him, wrap him up in duct tape, then—anonymously—let the cops know where to find him.

Right. Easy. So why was my heart pounding a mile a minute?

I scarfed down two packets of brains. Time to get this show on the road.

As soon as the all-is-well brainy tingle set in, I drove to the middle of the field and stopped, doing my best to not look at all anxious as I scanned for any sign of Judd. The field was big enough that it was next to impossible to sneak up on anyone waiting near the center. Yet another reason why this was a good spot for a meeting of this sort.

About half a minute later, a dull blue car cruised slowly from one of the dirt roads. It wasn't Judd's pickup, but I knew it was him. He stopped about fifty feet from me, climbed out and stood behind his open door. I took up a similar pose behind my own car door and silently prayed that it and the dim light would hide that I had the bulky vest on under my jacket.

“You have the stuff?” he hollered, scowl visible even from this distance.

“Sure do,” I replied. “But I don't see Randy or Coy in your car.”

“They're not far from here,” he said. “As soon as I have the package in my hands, I'll tell you where to find them.”

Lying sack of shit
. “Guess I don't have a choice.”

Judd grinned, cocky. “That's right.”

What an ass. But I was fine with letting him think he had the upper hand. For now. I opened the back door, slipped the butcher knife up my sleeve and scooped the garbage bag bundle off the seat.

“Bring it over here,” he ordered.

I clutched the bundle to my chest and walked toward him. I knew he had a gun—probably in a back-of-the-pants holster. He made no move to meet me halfway, but that didn't matter. All I needed was to get within twenty feet of him before he reached for his gun. From that distance I'd be able to pour on the zombie speed and take him down before he could react. Forty feet, thirty. He watched me, tense. I kept my face expressionless.

He stepped from behind his car door when I reached the halfway point.

Shit. Still too far away!
I tossed the bundle of decoy weapons aside, pulled the knife from my sleeve and charged him. But instead of reaching for his gun, Judd lifted the badass tactical crossbow he'd been holding out of sight behind the car door.

The vest won't stop a crossbow bolt!
Adrenaline punched through me at the horrid realization, but it didn't come with the surge of zombie super-speed I really fucking needed. Goddamn V12. Panic robbed me of breath as I ran full out at slug-ass human speed. Judd should have been gasping on his back with my knee in his chest and the knife at his throat, but instead he raised the crossbow and sighted in a smooth and practiced motion.

Oh god. Not a headshot. Please.

The bolt punched me hard in the chest, followed by searing agony. The knife flew from my grasp, and I stumbled and fell hard to my hands and knees, then stared at the purple and gold fletching two inches from my jacket.
It went through me
, I thought in near-hysterical annoyance. Through the front panel of the vest, through my chest, and would have continued on out the back if it hadn't smacked into the rear panel of the vest. Way easier for my parasite to deal with the injury without a bolt in the way, but how was I to know Judd would bring his friggin'
crossbow?

Blood bubbled into my mouth as I fought to get up. The pain dimmed slightly as my parasite trudged into action, and I willed it into higher gear.
Any
gear. If I didn't get my shit together quick, Judd would be able to take me out with a head shot. My parasite would really have its work cut out for it then.

“Figured you'd pussy out and wear a vest,” Judd said with a nasty sneer. He retrieved the bundle of decoy weapons then tossed it and the crossbow into his car. Numb shock turned my limbs to lead when he pulled a gun and started toward me again.

He's going to finish me off now. One in the head won't kill me dead-dead, but only if someone shoves brains into me. No one's here to do that. What if I end up at the morgue? Will my dad know what to do when he finds out? But Judd knows I'm a zombie. He'll chop off my head and chuck it into the swamp.

No.

Fuck this prick. I lurched to my feet. Zombie speed or not, I wasn't going down without a fight.

Judd's eyes narrowed as he lifted the gun and fired. The bullet smacked into the vest like a giant fist, sending me sprawling and knocking what little breath I had from my lungs. The crossbow bolt grated against ribs, and fresh pain seared through me as even as I reeled in confusion. Judd
knew
I was wearing a vest,
knew
I was a zombie, so why shoot me in the chest instead of between the eyes? Not that I was complaining but, what the hell?

I sucked shallow breaths through gritted teeth and managed to roll to one side. Hunger clawed my belly as my parasite struggled to deal with the damage. Judd holstered his gun then yanked a set of handcuffs from a pocket. My thoughts moved sluggishly, refusing to make the connection, and I stared stupidly at him as he seized my left arm.

“You're coming with me, you fucking monster-freak bitch,” he snarled as he snapped one cuff around my wrist.

The cold touch of the steel jolted me from my daze as effectively as a bucket of ice water.
That's why he didn't shoot me in the head. He's capturing me.
For Saberton? Someone else?

Didn't matter. Wasn't going to happen.

As Judd reached for my other wrist, I jerked my cuffed hand back, yanking the handcuffs from his grasp. He let out a surprised cry that turned into a yelp of pain as I whipped the unlocked side of the cuffs across his leg like a mini-flail. My zombie superpowers were being lazy little shits at the moment, but I'd scraped my way up to two whole stripes on my white belt in
jiu jitsu
, and I had a black belt in redneck pissed-off-bitch dirty fighting.

“Shit! You fucking b-aaagh!” Judd went to his knees as my kick slammed into the back of his leg. Red-faced, he groped for the holster at the small of his back. My chest was a fiery ball of agony, but I knew if he shot me again it was all over. No way was I going to let this asshole take me down.

With a cry of primal rage, I shoved up past the pain, launched myself at him and slammed my elbow into his face as hard as I could. Cartilage crunched in beautiful melody, bringing a manic grin to my face. While Judd roared in pain, I wrenched his gun from the holster and flung it as far into the gloom as I could. I hated to throw a weapon away, but I didn't want to give him a chance to wrestle it from me.

“Bitch!” Blood fountained from Judd's nose, but apparently he was equally determined to not go down without a fight. He smacked his head into mine hard enough for me to see stars, then followed up with a heavy punch to my ribs. White hot pain seared through my entire body, and I crumpled, whimpering. Yet the scent of his brain wrapped around me, taunting the hunger, and my whimper turned into a growl.

Judd let out an ugly laugh. “Think you're tough, huh? I can't wait to break every fucking bone in your body. Twice.” He grabbed the dangling cuff and gave my arm a vicious tug.

My parasite wasn't doing much to control the pain, but when he yanked my arm it was as if my precious little brain-starved zombie parasite dumped one last dose of “fuck this asshole” into my system. I lunged, clamped my teeth onto his forearm, and bit down as hard as I could.

Judd screamed and released the handcuff. I held on like a tick and bit down through skin and the top layer of muscle. He screamed again, a high-pitched sound of panic and revulsion, then jerked back, dragging me to my feet as I clamped down harder and my mouth filled with blood. Beating at me with his free fist, he thrashed, struggling to shake me loose.

I let go and retreated a few steps. No point in losing my teeth to this prick for something as trivial as an arm. Not with his luscious brain waiting for me. My growl burbled with blood as he staggered back. I shambled in pursuit, then fell to my hands and knees, still reaching for him.

Face pale and eyes wide, Judd stared in horror at the bleeding wound on his arm. He jerked his eyes to me as sheer terror flooded his face, then he let out a strangled cry and fled to his car. I gathered myself to dodge if he tried to run me over, but instead he peeled out in a sharp turn and sped off toward the highway.

The sound of the engine died away, leaving the rasp of my breathing and the croak of frogs by the river. I spat blood into the dirt, wiped at my mouth with a shaking hand, then stumbled to my car while pain and hunger raged through me.

Every breath sent lava through my veins. I dragged myself half onto the driver's seat and fumbled a brain packet from the console. My hands shook too much to tear it open, but my teeth got the job done. I sucked the packet dry then shuddered as my parasite went to work and dulled the white hot edge of the pain. Not enough, though.
More. Need more
. I searched the console and the glove box, scrabbled through pens and maps and receipts. Nothing.
I'm out.
Shit.

Not the end of the world
, I told myself firmly, though panic scrabbled at the edges of my mind. No need to freak. The situation was ten tons of fucked up, but that meant I was justified in calling for backup. Brain delivery in thirty minutes or it's free. A manic giggle slipped out as I grabbed my phone off the dash and—

No Service

A sob escaped before I recovered the shreds of my composure. Okay. Fine. So I didn't have backup. That meant I had two choices: give up, or save myself. And fuck giving up. I'd take this step by step, and the first step was to get my ass out of here before Judd checked the stuff in the garbage bag bundle and realized it wasn't the murder weapons.

I shifted to sit upright, and pain flared like a red-hot coal in my chest. With a breathless scream, I jerked forward to take the pressure off the head of the crossbow bolt then hugged the steering wheel. Tears snaked down my cheeks as I shuddered.
Hey, moron, you can't lean back and chill when you have a triple-bladed bolt head sticking out of your back!

Seconds ticked by, but at long last the red haze of agony lifted enough that I could work through a plan of action. I needed to be able to drive without leaning on the wheel, but the fucking bolt had a carbon shaft that I couldn't break with my ordinary wimpy Angel strength. And, with that barbed tip in place, no way could I pull it out from the front. Desperate, I twisted my arm up behind me only to discover that, because the vest was so damn huge, the bolt hadn't gone through the back panel. Couldn't pull it out with the vest in the way, but the good thing was that the front and back panels attached with Velcro. It took me half a minute of agony and cold sweat to remove my jacket and the back panel, but then, even though I managed to get my fingers on the bolt, I had zero leverage to pull it out.

Great. From bad to worse.
Nice going, Angel
. The front vest panel was still nailed to me, and several inches of carbon shaft currently protruded from my back—with the tip poised to snag the seat every time I shifted.
This is gonna suck.
Straightening, I clenched my hand around the purple and gold fletching, gritted my teeth, then tugged. Pain raced through my chest, and brain-hunger twisted my gut in a vicious dance, but I didn't stop until I felt the blades touch my back and six inches of bloody shaft stuck out the front.

My breath came in shallow gasps. I let my hand drop then clenched it into a fist. Home was a twenty-mile drive away, and here I was barely able to see straight through the pain and hunger. Maybe it would be better to head to my storage unit instead? I had more brains there, though that wasn't saying a whole lot. But the storage unit was farther away, and I already knew it was going to be touch-and-go to simply make it home.

A dose would help.
V12. Hell, pain control was part of its design. My reminder alarm wouldn't go off for another two hours, but then again, Dr. Nikas had simply said “twice a day.” A little early shouldn't matter, and this
was
an emergency.

With the ease of habit, I injected a dose then chased it with a capsule. Barely a hint of the feel-good whispered through me, and a scant handful of faint sparkles glimmered on the dash. The hunger only calmed a tiny bit, but the pain eased off to dull numbness as my parasite stumbled into action. Good enough. Now I could get the hell out of here.

Driving while sitting up perfectly straight was way more awkward than I expected, but leaning back was out of the question. I kept my hands clenched on the wheel and drove as safely and law abidingly as possible since, not only did I have zero plausible explanation as to why I had a crossbow bolt sticking out from below my right tit, but I had a feeling my reputation with the police might suffer if I
ate
whichever unlucky officer pulled me over.

I drove the three miles back up Hickory Horn Road then another two on the narrow, unlit country highway before I saw another vehicle. I hunched as the headlights approached, even though I knew the chances were nonexistent that anyone would catch sight of the crossbow bolt as we passed. Still, best to play it safe—

The church van zoomed by, and the scent of warm brains swirled in its wake. A brief whiff, but enough to stoke the hunger to full flame. It scorched nerve endings, fanned higher every time a car passed, while I stared straight ahead and counted the miles. Ten miles left. I'd managed to hold on so far, passed half a dozen cars without chasing anyone down to peel the vehicle open like a can of tuna. I could hold on a little while longer. Thank god the night was chilly enough that most people were driving with their windows up.

As if to mock my gratitude, a pickup rattled by with its windows wide open. The heady bouquet of a redneck brain caressed me, wringing an ugly rasp of a growl from my throat. I bared my teeth at the piece of shit truck in my rearview mirror. A quick U-turn and I could chase down the driver, get the brains I needed.

Pull it together, Angel!
So fucking hungry. And no point calling the lab at this point, either. They were on the other side of the parish. The closest refuge was home, and that's where I needed to go. Brains waited for me there, my emergency stash and—

I pulled onto the shoulder and fumbled for my phone, breathed a
thank you
for the two bars. “Dad!” I gasped out the instant the call connected. “My f-fij.” Shit. My speech was going. “Fihj!” Combination. I needed to give him the combination to my mini-fridge, but the numbers jumped and jumbled in my head. Change of plan. “No, feesa. In feesha. Bag of fash . . . foshen bussa spouss.”

“What? Brussel sprouts? In the freezer? Why the hell do we got brussel sprouts? I hate those things.”

“Yesh. Thassa point. Put bahg . . . on pash.”

“Put bag where? Angel, what the fuck's going on?”

“Porsh.” Just a few more miles left to go, but only if I could get him to understand me. “Bahg on porsh.” I focused everything I had on each word. “Lohck . . . door. Lohck me . . . awt.”

A beat of silence. “Shit. Brussel sprouts on the porch, and lock the door 'til you're yourself again.”

I'd have wept if I had any tears. “Yesh.”

A rustling came through the line, then the closing of a door. “Okay, it's done. Now get your ass home.”

A motorcycle whizzed past as I ended the call.
Brains.
Before I even realized I was moving, I opened my door and stuck one foot out, then froze as I fought the instinct that urged me to chase down my prey on foot. Shaking, I pulled my foot in, closed the door and locked it.

Maybe going home was a bad idea? But what choice did I have? My other options would take too long. If I didn't do something about the hunger real damn soon, I was going to go full monster.

No.

My fingers felt like clumsy lumps of cold dough as I drew up a syringe of V12. I hesitated, breath wet and raspy. Two doses less than fifteen minutes apart. I'd never taken so much so quickly.
I don't have a choice. I'm not going to make it without a second dose.
I stabbed the needle in, jammed the plunger. Within seconds, the hunger settled, and my breath eased.
Okay, I got this.

For added insurance, I dug a Bayou Burger napkin out of the console, tore it in half, twisted the pieces and stuck them in my nostrils. A zombie won't eat what a zombie can't smell, right?

I tensed as headlights approached and prayed I was right about the nose plugs. The car whizzed past, and I relaxed as the chase instinct didn't trigger.
Paper boogies for the win.

Weird heat like an alcohol rush abruptly surged through me. Pain faded, and the black night outside lightened to eerie late twilight. Whirs and chirps of insects mixed with the distant huff of an eighteen-wheeler's air brakes. A laugh built in my throat. I knew what this was. Zombie super-powers, high on overdrive.
Aw, yeah. I can do anything.
I gripped the steering wheel and gave it an experimental torqueing tug. It creaked, and I had no doubt I could break it if I wanted to.
Yeah, baby.
Grinning, I pulled back onto the highway.

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.”