White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (4 page)

Randy gave my arm a soft punch. “I was gonna give you a call later. Didn't expect to run into you.”

“I was heading to lunch and saw your car outside. Whatcha doing here?”

Randy swung a puzzled look around the store. “Dunno what you mean. I'm shopping.”

I snorted. “You hate shopping unless it involves car parts.”

Coy gave a low laugh. “She's got you there, dude. You don't even like doing beer runs.”

Randy chuckled. “Yeah, well, I wanna get ready for the weekend.” He patted the duffel he carried—one of the zombie hunter survival kits.

“You're going to the Zombie Fest?” I asked in disbelief.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “
Everyone's
going.”

I peered at the tag that dangled from the duffel's strap. “A hundred and fifty bucks? Are you crazy?”

“It's got a lot of great stuff!” He flipped the tag around to show me what the kit included. “It's good for any kind of disaster, not just a zombie invasion.”

My shock at the price eased as I read the list of contents. Three days' worth of emergency rations and water purification packets for two, a LifeStraw personal water filter, firestarter, multi-tool, paracord, rain ponchos, light sticks, first aid kit, compass, fishing hooks and line, knife, insect spray, sunscreen, whistle, and a survival blanket. And, to justify the zombie hunter survival kit marketing, a baseball bat and a machete. “Okay, that looks pretty cool,” I grudgingly admitted.

“I'm getting one, too,” Coy said. “It includes an equipment vest Bear had specially made for the zombie hunts at the Fest.”

The hunts? That explained the pile of gear heaped on the floor between the two. A big pile. This was more than an impulse purchase of a survival kit. I pressed my lips together to hold back the laugh. “You two are dressing up like zombie hunters for the Fest?”

Randy held up three fingers. “Me and Coy
and
Judd.” He gestured toward the long counter where a black-shirted employee—Judd Siler—was giving an animated demonstration of proper grip and sighting to a rapt audience of teen boys. Judd wasn't a bad-looking guy—decent teeth, tall and wiry, sandy hair in a military buzz-cut—but his arrogance tended to wear thin on me pretty quickly.

“You
three,
” I said. “Gee, sounds great.”

Randy grinned, unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm. “We got us a team together for tonight's hunt,” he said. “We're also signed up for two hunts tomorrow. You wanna join us? We got space for a fourth. It's gonna be a blast, and we're closing down Pillar's Bar after we kill all the zombies tonight.”

I couldn't hold back a laugh. “Randy, I've seen you shoot. You couldn't hit a broken-down bus with a target painted on its side.”

“We'll see what you say when I got a kickass zombie body count.” He flashed me a Randy smile. “Come with us. You know we always have fun.”

Despite the personal squick factor of “zombie body count,” a tiny part of me couldn't help but be intrigued. Randy's usual idea of fun was hanging out at a car show or smoking pot around his fire pit. He liked zombie movies, but I never thought he'd get into it on this level. Then again, the entire damn town was getting into it. How could I say no to that kind of enthusiasm? It was all about having a good time.

“Can't do tonight since I already have plans, plus I'm on call with the morgue,” I said. “But tomorrow might work. I'll buzz you in the morning and let you know.” No way was I dressing up as a hunter, though. That hit a little too close to home. “What happens if a zombie bites you? Do all your hunting buddies take you out?”

“I ain't gonna let no stinkin' zombie anywhere near me.” Randy lifted a hand and pretended to shoot me. “Kapow! Right between the eyes!”

My stomach jerked into a knot as I forced a laugh and batted his hand away. “Or, in your case, twenty feet to the left.” Would he shoot
me
right between the eyes if he knew I was a real zombie?

Coy gave me a wink. “Why do you think we wanted Judd on our team? He's a crack shot.”

“I ain't
that
bad,” Randy said. “But you won't know the truth if you don't join us, Angel. This paintball stuff is a blast and don't have much more kick than a BB gun.” His eyes lit up. “Bear's letting people try the paintball guns in the alley out back.” Before I could respond, he slung an arm around my waist and propelled me toward the counter. I cast a desperate look back at Coy, but he gave me a helpless shrug.

“Hey, Judd,” Randy called out. “Angel wants to try out the paintball rifles.”

I didn't give a crap about trying out rifles—paintball or real—but after one look at the excitement on Randy's face, I didn't have the heart to shut him down. Oh well, at least I had plenty of time left in my lunch break.

Judd gave a sharp nod. “Gotcha covered, bro.” He retrieved a paintball rifle from a shelf behind him, ducked through a gap in the counter then beckoned imperiously. “Come on, Angel,” he said as he headed for the back door. “I'll show you how to hit the target, and if you manage to not shoot yourself or me, I just might teach you how to use a real gun someday.”

I planted my feet and glared big pointy daggers at Judd's back, but Randy nudged me forward. “C'mon. He's trying to get a rise out of you.”

“I'll give him a damn rise,” I muttered but kept moving, only because I intended to show Judd how full of shit he was. It so happened that I had a fair amount of experience with paintball, thanks to the zombie Tribe. Not long after Hurricane Katrina, Pietro Ivanov had purchased two thousand acres of woods and wetlands. Though he maintained the property as a wildlife refuge, it was also the perfect secluded spot to conduct paramilitary-style training. Every other weekend since New York, I joined the Tribe security people and played paintball tactical scenarios.

Except that zombie paintball was a wee bit more hardcore than regular paintball. I suppressed a grin at the gruesome memory of the time Rachel I-Hate-Angel Delancey needed help removing a tree branch I'd driven clean through her torso. I probably shouldn't have enjoyed skewering her as much as I did, but I
really
didn't like her. Besides, it was her own darn fault. She'd missed her chance to nail me with a headshot—after peppering the rest of me with paintball rounds—so it was only fair that I retaliate realistically. It wasn't as if a little impalement would've
killed
her or anything.

I didn't particularly like Judd, either, but I'd be satisfied with making him eat his words.

Tactical Pants Man gave me a long look as I walked by him. He had incredible green eyes and a nice, rugged face that matched the rest of him. I had no idea why he was checking me out, especially since my Coroner's Office shirt didn't do much to show off my assets. Not that I had a whole lot of “assets” beneath the shirt. Still, I gave him a flirty smile, though as soon as I passed him I subtly checked to make sure my fly was zipped.

Yep, zipped. Good. I wouldn't have to slink off and die of humiliation.

Judd led us out the back door and into a broad alley with the rear entrance to Wyatt's Butcher shop to the left and a cinderblock-walled dead end fifty feet to the right. A large target spray painted onto it was heavily marked with hundreds of splotches of fluorescent color.

Judd leaned the rifle against the wall. “Thanks, Angel.” He grinned at my baffled look and pulled a flat case from a pocket. “Bear doesn't like us taking a bunch of smoke breaks, and I was getting the shakes.”

“Wow, so glad I could donate my break time to help you kill yourself.” I pointedly glanced at my watch, but he ignored me and removed a cigarette from the case.

“I roll my own these days,” he announced and held the cig up proudly to show off the little American flags printed on the paper. “Saves money, even with special-ordered paper like this. You should give it a try, Angel.”

“I don't smoke anymore,” I snapped. Not entirely true since I still occasionally enjoyed a smoke—despite the fact it burned up brains as the parasite cleared out the toxic shit. It wasn't a habit, though. And I sure as hell didn't get the shakes if I couldn't have a cig. Before I became a zombie I was as much of a nicotine addict as Judd was now, but I wasn't going to waste my time explaining the finer points to him. “Are we gonna shoot this thing or not?”

Judd produced a bright yellow lighter and casually lit the cigarette. “Don't get your panties in a wad.” He took a long drag and left the cigarette between his lips as he scooped up the rifle. “Watch and learn, little girl.” In a smooth motion, he lifted the rifle, sighted, and pulled the trigger three times.

Puht puht puht

Three new splotches appeared, right on top of each other in the center of the bull's-eye. Judd was an arrogant turd, but I couldn't deny he had serious skills.

Judd grinned around the cigarette and lowered the rifle. “Now, Angel, you gotta tell me if it's your time of the month, 'cause I got a policy of never giving a woman a weapon when she's crazier than usual.”

I fixed my mouth into a sweet smile. “Now, Judd, I can't be all that crazy. I was sane enough to never fuck you.”

Randy and Coy hooted in appreciation of my comeback. Judd's face tightened for an instant, but then he forced a laugh. “Okay, that was a good one.” He thrust the rifle at me. “Now let's see if you can even hit that wall.”

Still smiling, I took the rifle from him, handling it a bit awkwardly on purpose. The asswipe had flipped the safety on. If I'd been a total newbie, I'd've looked like an idiot while I tried to make it work.

Judd flicked ash off the end of his stupid red, white, and blue cigarette. “I'll give you a lesson if you want.” He laughed and pointed to his crotch. “Won't cost much.”

“Gee, lemme think about that,” I said and walked to the center of the alley. With Kyle Griffin's instructions ringing in my head, I hugged the butt of the rifle to my shoulder, nudged the safety off, and sighted.

Puht puht puht

Three pink splotches appeared within a foot of the center. Not as perfect as Judd's, but it was close enough.

Coy let out a whoop while Randy busted out laughing. “Hell yeah, Angel!”

Judd dropped the cigarette and ground it into the concrete. “You got lucky. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut—”

Puht

Judd squawked in pain as fluorescent pink bloomed an inch above his belt. “Jesus fuck! You bitch! You shot me!”

I stood with my hands clenched on the rifle, sparkles crowding the edge of my vision as Randy and Coy stared at Judd.

My pulse stuttered.
Oh, shit. I
shot
him.
What the hell, Angel?
I'd lost control again. Because of the V12? But that didn't make sense. It was only half a dose. I'd been using the stuff for months and never lost it this much. Then again, I'd also never had a hallucination other than sparkles and fireflies.

Crap. It didn't help that normal ordinary pissed-offedness at Judd the Jerk had kicked in as well. At least I hadn't aimed for his pecker. Or maybe I had and missed. It happened so fast, I had zero memory of any of it.

Forcing a smile, I blew imaginary smoke from the end of the barrel then handed the rifle to Coy. “Thanks for the demo, Judd, but I don't think I need you to teach me how to shoot.” With that I left the three men in the alley and slammed the door behind me. Good effect for them, not so much for Bear. He glared at me over the scope of an assault rifle he was showing Tactical Pants Man. I cringed and mouthed “sorry” then made it through the Bear's Den and out onto the sidewalk without getting shot in the back by either Judd or Bear. A small victory, but I'd take it.

Between stalking Marcus, chatting with Randy, and schooling Judd, I managed to burn enough of my break that I had to settle for a pre-made sandwich to-go from Alma's. Even so, I had only four minutes to spare by the time I made it back to the Coroner's Office. I sat in my car and gobbled down my turkey club, chased it with a couple of brain chunks from the lunchbox, and hit the morgue door with three seconds left.

Unfortunately, I now had no valid reason to put off meeting Allen any longer. Not without risking landing in more hot water. On the other hand, three staff meetings ago, Allen had gone on a tirade about departmental emails going unread. I smiled. Yep, I'd be the solid employee who followed every Allen-directive to the letter. Every one. Especially the one about checking my email.

I trekked up the hallway to the tiny office that the morgue techs shared. The morgue took up the back of the Coroner's Office building, with records storage and supply rooms serving as a buffer between it and everything else. As the Chief Investigator, Allen was senior staff with an office at the front of the building. Not only did that mean I didn't have to see him as often, but at the moment the distance allowed me to eke out a few more minutes before our meeting. Hell, I'd scrub the morgue floor if it would buy me more Allen-free time.

I stepped into the tech office then stopped at the sight of my coworker, Nick Galatas, leaning over my desk. I cleared my throat, amused when he jumped like a startled cat.

“Jesus, Angel!” He straightened to his full five and a half feet and gave me a mild glare. He was a nice-looking guy, with dark brown hair and green eyes, though it was only in the last six months or so that he smiled more than he sneered—at least with me.

“You'd better not be giving me more paperwork to do,” I said with a teasing smile.

“Nope.” He snatched a gaudy flier from the desk and jerked it behind his back like a kid hiding candy.

I moved toward him and tried to peer around him. “What's that?”

“Nothing.” He shifted away, scowling when I refused to give up so easily.

“You came in here to put nothing on my desk?” I snatched for the flier, but he was a hair too fast for me. “C'mon, Nick. Let me see.”

“It's stupid.”

I folded my arms over my chest and leveled my fiercest look at him. “Cough it up.”

His shoulders drooped as he accepted defeat and handed the flier over. “It's for the Zombie Fest.” Color crept up his face. “I have an extra VIP pass. And . . . I thought you could use it tomorrow. You know. With me.”

Awwwww. There was nothing in the world cuter than Nick the Prick squirming like a teenager. “Sounds fun,” I said, then winced. “But I'm supposed to join up with one of the hunter teams.”

“The hunters
suck,
” he snapped, mouth turning down as if he'd swallowed sour milk.

“Couldn't agree with you more,” I said, though I doubted my reasons were the same as his, whatever they were. “Look, my plans aren't firm, but no way in hell will I dress up like a hunter. Promise to go zombie, and we've got a date.”

His eyes widened in a priceless look of denial. “It's not a date!” he sputtered. “I just didn't want the ticket to go to waste.”

“I'm messing with you, dude,” I said, grinning at his reaction. “I'm totally cool with no strings.”

The whisper of panic faded from his eyes. “Good. Sure. Okay. As long as we understand each other.” He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “We can meet here tomorrow at one-thirty.”

He was all Nickitude and business now, but I knew that was a mask he put on when he felt out of his depth. “Only if you dress up for real,” I said. “No half-ass dollar store outfit. I need to
believe
you're undead.”

He gave a prim sniff. “That's a done deal. You need help with a costume?”

I smiled for reasons he'd never know. Let me go without brains for a while, and I'd show him a costume that would send him screaming for his mommy. Rotten flesh, a dangling eyeball, maybe even a bone-grating broken arm that flopped with every move. Of course, he'd have reason to run if I got hungry enough to be in that state, since prying his brain from his skull would be at the top of my to-do list. “I could use help with the makeup.”

He relaxed into a smile, genuine and open. “I have a kit. I'll fix you up when you get here tomorrow.”

I dropped the flier onto the desk, fidgeted. “Allen wants to see me. I, uh, better get going.”

“Yeah, me too. I need to write up the report on the hospice death from this morning.”

Neither one of us moved. An awkward silence threatened.

I scrambled for something neutral to say. “Have you heard back about your med school application yet?”

To my surprise, Nick stiffened. “No. Nothing yet,” he said, curt and sharp, then turned his back on me and stalked out of the office without another word.

Baffled, I stared at the empty doorway. What the hell? I hadn't even been trying to rattle his cage. For as long as I'd been working with Nick, he'd bragged nonstop about being pre-med. It seemed only natural to ask how everything was going. Grimacing, I tugged a hand through my hair. Crap. What if he'd been rejected and was too embarrassed to admit it? It'd be like him to get all defensive if he had to eat crow. He could be a dick, but most times it was all bluster and no bite.

Aggravated at the both of us, I kicked the wastebasket then had to scramble and pick up the crumpled paper that spilled across the floor. If not for Nick's relentless and patient tutoring, I never would have passed the GED and would currently be up shit creek in Biology 101. Nick was a solid friend, and it bugged me that I might have said something thoughtless. At least I'd be seeing him tomorrow. I'd try and find out then what bug crawled up his butt.

I dutifully checked my email then had no choice but to amble to the office marked Chief Investigator. Allen was on the phone when I poked my head in. I mouthed and gestured
I can come back later
along with what was no doubt a desperately hopeful look, but he shook his head and waved me in. Crap. My last hope of escape, gone.

He finished an irate conversation about a missing shipment of formalin and replaced the phone in its cradle with force. “Idiots.” He yanked an invoice out of a folder and made some angry notes on it. “Close the door and sit down.”

My stomach dropped. The only other time he'd told me to close the door was after I accidentally dumped a gurney and body bag into a rain-swollen ditch. The street had been dark and slick, and I never saw the pothole that grabbed the gurney wheel. All I could think was that I'd be written up or fired for losing the body, so I jumped right on into the ditch to grab it since I figured at the worst I'd get my pants wet.

Except it was a pretty deep ditch to begin with, and not only had I failed to take flash flood rainwater into account, but I'd also neglected to consider that there'd be a fierce little current. Could've been bad news if I was human but, after the first few seconds of panic, I stopped worrying about drowning, got hold of the body bag and dragged it out of the water.

Allen called me in the next day but, instead of giving me a damn pat on the back for saving the body and the gurney, he delivered a twenty minute ass-reaming lecture on safety and awareness and unnecessary risks and other stupid crap. Even told me I'd be fired if I pulled a “stunt” like that again. Asshole.

I clung to that slim thread of righteous anger like an emotional lifeline, sank into the chair in front of his desk and tried not to squirm. “So, what's up?” I tried for a casual tone, as if being in trouble was the furthest thing from my mind.

Allen pulled a Zombie Fest flier out of his drawer and dropped it on the desk in front of me. “You going?”

I couldn't have been more surprised if he'd asked me if my dad was an alien. This rated a closed door meeting? “Er, yeah, tomorrow with—” I caught myself before naming Nick. Allen might count it as a date and, if dating a coworker was against the rules, he'd milk it for ammunition to give me grief. “—with a friend.”

He leaned forward, eyes fixed on me. “As zombie or hunter?”

I fought back a twitch. “Why?”

“Curious.”

The curiosity of a cat about to snatch a mouse. “Zombie.”

Allen's expression remained inscrutable. “Why zombie?”

“Thought it might be fun to imagine what it'd be like. To be one. A zombie.” I pushed my mouth into a grin and stuck my arms out in front. “
Braaains
.”

Dude didn't crack a smile. He was seriously beginning to creep me out.

“How about you?” I asked. “Are you going?”

Allen pursed his lips. “Too real for me.” He paused. “Thought it might be for you as well.”

Too real? What was
that
supposed to mean? I knew for a fact Allen wasn't a zombie. I'd salivated over his very human brain many times before. And it was beyond impossible that a stick-up-the-ass like Allen would believe in zombies. “Everyone's going.” I shrugged in the way a completely unconcerned person would shrug. “It's all just for fun.”

A glower tugged his eyebrows down. “People get crazy.”

“Paintball and beer have that effect,” I said with a weak laugh and tried not to fidget in nervous discomfort. I couldn't handle much more of this Allen closed-door strangeness. “Is
this
what you wanted to talk to me about?”

He replaced the flier in the drawer, leaned back and laced his fingers together over his stomach. “There've been some irregularities with the organ bags.”

My lips felt weird, as though all the blood had drained from my face. Allen regarded me as steadily as if I was under the dissecting scope in the morgue. I waited for him to elaborate. And waited.

“What kind of irregularities?” I finally blurted.

“It's gone on long enough, and I don't want any trouble for the department.” His left index finger tapped a slow cadence. “You have anything you want to tell me?”

“Tell you?” My mind froze so hard icicles could've hung off my ears.
But if he knew about the missing brains, I'd be in the back of a cop car at this very moment, not having a cozy office chat.
That realization thawed my brain enough to squeeze out a reasonable response instead of a confession. “I've, uh, caught a few with leaks. I went ahead and double-bagged them.” I bit down on the urge to add more cover-my-ass lies. My ex-boyfriend and retired-cop, Marcus, used to tell me how a lot of criminals tripped themselves up by complicating their lies with details. Good thing was, I
had
found a couple of leaky organ bags. Bad thing was . . . organ bags.

Allen's glower didn't budge. “As I said, I don't want trouble for the department. I intend to ensure—” His phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID then muttered a curse. “I have to take this.” He snatched up the handset. “Allen Prejean.”

A brief reprieve. I scrambled to get my thoughts in order. None of this made any sense. He hadn't called me in to talk about leaky bags. That was minor stuff and wouldn't rate a closed-door meeting. Something else was up.

Not that it mattered. For whatever reason, Allen was paying attention to the organ bags, which meant he would eventually notice that brains were missing. Shit. What was I going to do? I
liked
this job, but if it dried up as a source of brains, I'd have no choice but to look for alternatives.

“Yes, sir.” Allen's face tightened but his voice remained calm. “I'll get the report to her this afternoon.” A pause. “No, sir. No. Let me explain. Hang on a moment.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Angel, we'll have to finish this on Monday. Be careful out there this weekend.”

I forced a sickly smile and fled, out of the building and straight to my car. I fumbled the lunch box open and grabbed the vial of V12. The few remaining drops caught the light. It was enough to clear my head, help me stop freaking out. Brains were awesome but they couldn't deliver this kind of chill—like the difference between a great hamburger and a Xanax.

I scrambled for a syringe and drew up the half-dose. Under the skin and . . .

Fireflies twinkled around my head. I relaxed back into the seat, felt the panic recede and my thoughts clarify. Allen didn't know I'd stolen brains, but he was on alert about the organ bags. This was fixable. I hadn't been caught yet, and from here on out I needed to make sure there was no chance of that happening. But
how
?

The V12 hummed through my system as I looked for a solution. I couldn't afford to lie low and stop harvesting. Maybe I could take half brains? Cut the rest into chunks to make it harder to see any was missing. Except, I only had a week's worth of surplus brains left, thanks to the V12 and the increased hunger side effect. I'd starve on half brains. Normally the Tribe would help me out, except no way could I say, “Hey, Dr. Nikas, I need extra brains because I kinda borrowed some of the V12 mod.”

But I couldn't risk Allen finding out that brains were missing. At this very moment, Mr. Noah Granger was tucked away in the morgue cooler along with a brain-free organ bag. He wasn't getting carted off until Monday, which gave Allen way too much time to check things out.

A laugh bubbled up from the very center of my being. Fireflies wheeled around my head in a merry dance. Duh. I didn't have to stop harvesting brains. All I needed was something to put in place of the brains I took—an imposter brain that would pass an Allen inspection. The only reason I'd never thought of this solution before was because, up until this week, there hadn't been a big ol' sign in the window of Wyatt's Butcher Shop.

Get Your Braaains Here!

I smiled. Tomorrow morning, I'd do me a little brain shopping.