White Trash Zombie Gone Wild (5 page)

The rest of my shift whizzed by without a hitch, and I happily clocked out at two p.m. on the nose. I hit the road and cranked up the radio, then proceeded to sing at the top of my lungs with the kind of teen-pop music I'd never in a million years admit I actually listened to. But hey, that shit was
catchy.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the gravel parking lot of a faded blue cinderblock building—the front for Dr. Nikas's super cool zombie research lab. Research
for
zombies, not
on
zombies. The only other vehicle in the lot was a dull bronze '79 Chrysler Newport that belonged to Raul, one of the full-time lab security zombies.

The camera by the front door was a decoy, with a cracked cover and dangling wires to make it appear totally useless. Even though I knew that the real—and well-hidden—cameras had picked me up the minute I turned off the highway, I still gave the door a pert salute as I approached. A second later security buzzed me through and into the drab, threadbare waiting room with its decade-old magazines. A faint odor of mildew hung in the air, adding to the impression that the room and the rest of the building held nothing of interest. I continued through and down a hall with the same dull color scheme, punched my code into the keypad beside the door at the end then proceeded into the “kill zone” corridor that led to the main complex. Its kill-zone-ness had been beefed up in the last few months, after a team of Saberton operatives made entry during an ultimately fruitless attempt to steal hibernating zombie heads. I waved at the mirrored window on the wall and pressed my thumb against a sensor plate, then entered as the thick security door slid open.

No more boring beiges and stuffy odors. Recessed lighting revealed a blue and gold hallway that continued to my left and right. Cool air carried a fresh scent that didn't come from any cleaning product. Across the hall and behind bulletproof glass doors was the central hub of the lab complex. The doors slid aside with an effortless
whiss
as I approached and whispered shut as soon as I passed through. A far cry from the creaky sliding doors at the local BigShopMart.

The central hub looked like a kickass science fiction movie set, with nifty computers and shiny equipment, but the open floor plan and high-domed ceiling made it feel comfortable and homey. And no wonder. Dr. Ariston Nikas and his two assistants made their homes here. Though the hub was unoccupied at the moment, instruments and computer screens flashed with work in progress, including a screen that showed a series of status updates along with progress charts and projected growth rates for Kang—the zombie who got his head chopped off by a serial killer and was now being regrown.

One of my jobs at the lab was tending to him, but he could wait. My bones were starting to itch. It wouldn't take long to complete my most important task for today—replenishing my V12 supply.

I headed down the corridor that led to the medical wing. Through the open door of the second treatment room I spied my zombie baby, Philip Reinhardt, sitting on the exam table. Not a real baby, of course. I'd turned him into a zombie about a year ago—forced to do so by Dr. Kristi Charish during one of her unethical experiments. I'd never zombified anyone before then, but my zombie instinct kicked in before Philip could die of Saberton-inflicted gunshot wounds. I turned into a nightmare monster, mauled and bit until the parasite spores took root to save him. If I'd failed, Philip would have died, just like a second volunteer
had
died when I couldn't turn him. But Charish didn't care. To hell with human or zombie rights. All she wanted was documentation and data to impress Saberton Corporation and establish herself as the queen of zombie research.

After I zombified Philip, she'd used him as a guinea pig for her untested fake brain formula and royally screwed up his parasite. He'd suffered physical consequences ever since but, thankfully, Dr. Nikas's treatments kept him relatively pain-free and functional. It was like having a debilitating disease successfully managed by meds. Currently, the V12 mod kept him physically stable—and me chilled and dyslexia free.

Except Philip didn't have to use a needle. Dr. Nikas had recently implanted one of his special zombie mod ports into Philip's chest—a clever bit of biotechnology that fused along a rib and allowed a syringe to screw straight onto a reservoir. The mod port worked in cooperation with the parasite to dose out combat, sense enhancement, or any other zombie pharmaceuticals. I planned to write a long letter to Santa this year explaining why I totally deserved a shiny mod port of my very own.

The empty vial beside Philip told me he'd just received a treatment. I'd last seen him a week ago, and he'd been his typical buff and handsome self. But his hands trembled now as he buttoned his shirt. His blue eyes were sunken, and his skin an ugly grey. A full-blown case of pre-rot.

“You okay, ZeeBee?” I stepped into the room and frowned at him. “I thought Dr. Nikas's treatment was doing the trick for you.”

Philip gave me a smile. I winced as the corner of his mouth fissured.

“It was until a few days ago,” he said, voice rasping. “He doesn't know why it stopped working.”

I shifted, unsettled by the idea that Philip's pre-rot might be caused by V12. But then again, he took ten times what I did,
and
he had a screwy parasite. Plus, I was super careful. There certainly wasn't enough risk to make me stop using the V12. I was sure. “That sucks,” I said with a wince. “Does Dr. Nikas have a plan?”

“He's going to reformulate.”

Reformulate.
My gut clenched. Dr. Nikas had cooked up the original version of the “super-mod” in a kitchen in New York as a combat enhancement. I'd used it during the high-stakes rescue of Marcus and Kyle in New York, which was when I discovered that, not only did the super-mod heighten senses and reaction times, it also delivered a serene calm and increased focus. After several attempts, Dr. Nikas had refined the overkill supercharge of the mod into a useful pharmaceutical for Philip's treatment—Version 12. I'd experimented with it until I found just the right dose for everyday use as well as for an occasional pick-me-up. It was by sheer accident that I discovered it countered much of my dyslexia. I'd have to hope and pray that Version 13 would have the effects I needed.

“Will Dr. Nikas still use the super-mod as the base for your new treatment?” I asked oh-so-casually.

“I don't think so.” Philip gestured toward his very zombie-looking face. “Fresh approach because of this.”

Crap. The super-mod base
worked
. That was what I needed, not a new concoction. When Dr. Nikas reformulated, I'd be cut off. No supply. What the hell was I going to do when I ran out? The chances that a completely new recipe would work the same were slim. I couldn't live without—

“Angel?”

Philip's worried voice cut through my flailing thoughts. I caught myself hyperventilating and took a slow, focused breath. “Sorry. I, uh, hate that you're going through this again.” That much was true. I glanced beyond him to the glass-doored fridge and the tray inside that held three full vials. “Are you still using the old V12?”

“This was the last time. Dr. Nikas increased the dose, and it stopped the deterioration.” He stood and re-tucked his shirt. “It didn't reverse it, but at least now I don't feel as bad as I look. He'll have the new formula ready to test in a couple of days, and I'll be back to working security in no time.”

“Glad to hear it.” I smiled, genuinely relieved for him, if not for my own predicament. I moved to the counter by the fridge and straightened containers of supplies. “I saw Marcus, Pierce, Brian, and Kyle earlier today. The FBI is sniffing around funeral homes.”

“There's shit stirred everywhere,” Philip said with a shake of his head. “Those four left here about twenty minutes ago.” He moved to a mirror on the wall and peered at the fissure by his mouth.

My eyes narrowed. “Three hours ago they were supposedly off to the airport.”

His eyes met mine in the mirror. “Plans had to be shuffled. Pierce showed up here in a
mood
, then he got a call from Rachel. Kristi Charish surfaced in Portland this afternoon. That's where they're heading first now instead of the out-of-state funeral homes and other business.”

I let out a low whistle. After I managed to escape Charish's lab, the Tribe had captured her and put her to work with Dr. Nikas. Then, a few months back, Nicole Saber—CEO of Saberton Corporation—ordered a major strike on the Tribe, during which they grabbed Charish, along with Pietro, Marcus, and two other zombies. We'd rescued Pietro and Marcus from the New York lab, but Charish and the other two zombies had been sent to the Saberton dedicated zombie research lab in Dallas. The Tribe conducted a raid there and successfully freed a number of zombie captives but failed to recapture Charish. As far as I knew, today's appearance in Portland was the first time she'd been seen in months. No wonder Pierce had dropped everything to head to Oregon.

“If they do track her down, are they gonna . . .” I swiped my finger across my throat.

Philip grimaced, either at my question or his reflection. “I think they'd prefer to capture her. But our security resources are stretched thin at the moment, between Saberton, FBI scares, and the exodus project. Whatever our head honchos decide, they need to do it fast—and without making any waves—so they can move on to the next fire that needs dousing.”

My mind scrambled back a few seconds. “Wait. Exodus project? Exodus of what?”

He turned back to me, expression serious. “The Tribe. It's vital that we have a plan in place in the event the Saberton or FBI shit hits the fan and it looks like we're close to being exposed. The logistics of how and where to go to ground is the honchos' big project.”

I gulped. “Temporarily, right? Until the threat blows over?”

“If and when we go, we vanish for good.”

“No.” I shook my head, mouth dry. “It won't come down to that.”
But it might
. I couldn't deny the possibility.

Philip exhaled. “Pierce says he goes through an exodus once or twice every hundred years, on average. Sometimes more often.”

“Whenever regular people find out about his Tribe's zombie-ness,” I said in dismay. Mob mentality was ugly stuff. “But it's in Saberton's best interests to keep the zombies secret. Their hands are dirty. Plus, once word got out, every bio-tech or pharmaceutical company in the world would be racing to study the parasite in the hopes of making billions on cures of diseases and old age.” I licked dry lips. “Saberton wants that monopoly. And they'd likely get scooped on the whole super zombie soldier idea as well.” The ultimate point of Saberton's secret and inhumane zombie research was to make a buttload of money from the parasite in any way possible. It helped my peace of mind to know that, if push came to shove, I had a passel of naked sex pics of Saberton CEO Nicole Saber that she knew I'd cheerfully upload to every website in the world if she screwed with us. But she wasn't the only head on the Saberton monster, just the biggest one—at the moment.

“As it stands now, Saberton has no reason to out us,” Philip said with a nod of agreement. “But they're only one worry.” He sighed. “The thing is, non-zombie friends and family members are notorious for stirring shit. That's why Pierce advocates keeping the number of humans who know the real story to a minimum. That number has been growing recently.”

The truth of his words slid home like a knife to the gut. Families fell out over all sorts of things, even after years of harmony. What better way to get back at the sister who slept with your husband than to expose her as a brain-eating monster? And, whether malicious or not, it would only take one wrong thing said to the wrong person to bring about a totally different kind of zombie apocalypse.

In the last six months, I myself had told two people about zombies—my dad and Pietro's ex-fiancé, Congresswoman Jane Pennington. I trusted my dad with all my heart, and I'd trusted Jane as long as Pietro was alive. Unfortunately, I hadn't seen her since Pietro's faked death. I had no idea if Pierce had broken the news to her that he was her lost love in a hot new body. Jane was an amazing woman and deserved to know the truth, but a shocking revelation like that could be a deal breaker and put her on shakier ground.

Now I understood why Pierce had shot Marcus a
look
earlier today when I told them how Allen nearly caught me stealing brains. One step closer to discovery—and to exodus.

“Well, it's good they're making a plan. Like Bear and his survivalists stocking up on ammo and food and stuff in case aliens invade,” I said with fake cheeriness. “Disaster preparedness and all that. Like a fire drill.”

Sympathy swam in Philip's eyes. “All I know is that a few weeks ago the exodus plans shot to top priority. Makes me think we're on the verge, even if not yet there.”

My chest ached. “Pierce will keep all this under control. He always does. He's just being cautious.” I waved my hand as if to disperse the unpleasant thoughts. “We'll keep doing what we've been doing.”

“Angel, I've never seen Pierce overwhelmed. Ever. But after he got the report that Charish had turned up in Portland, he was like a shell of himself. Too much on his plate.”

I remembered his weary sigh at the funeral home—and that was
before
he'd been forced to add “hunt Kristi Charish” to his to-do list. Pierce looked young and vibrant, but it was easy to forget that he was
old.
Hundreds of years, at the very least. I used to think it would kick ass to be immortal, but now I wondered how horribly
exhausting
it must be, especially with his sense of responsibility for his people. “He'll pull it together.”

Philip put on a reassuring smile. “Sure thing. No worries.” He said it as if he was humoring a kid, but I didn't get mad. No matter how much I tried to deny it, the reality was that the Tribe
did
teeter close to being outed. Even if Nicole wanted to keep a lid on the zombie stuff, we still had to consider the Saberton guards and techs who witnessed or participated in atrocities against captive zombies. Mutilation. Amputations without anesthetic. Vivisection. What if one of those pieces of shit decided to sell secrets to another interested company? Or interested government? Or, what if one of them grew a conscience and decided to publicize the plight of the zombies? Then again, Nicole was smart enough to have anticipated all of those possibilities. Knowing that bitch, she had something nasty up her designer sleeve to keep her underlings in check.