How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

by Diana Rowland

  A tall and angular man with close-cropped red hair slid to a stop in the doorway—Reg, his head swiveling this way and that as he took in the scene. Jacques barked out a couple of orders for an ice pack and “brain formula ninety-nine,” and Reg disappeared again.

  My cheek started itching, and I fought the urge to scratch it—partly because I wasn’t supposed to move and mostly because of the fear it would be gross and rotten like Philip’s.

  Dr. Nikas returned to us with three syringes in his hand then injected them, one after another, into Philip’s IV. I waited anxiously for them to work and let out a breath of relief when Philip relaxed about a minute later. Reg entered with the needed items in hand and passed the ice pack to Jacques.

  “Philip, count backward from one hundred. Odd numbers only,” Dr. Nikas said.

  “Ninety-nine, ninety-seven, ninety-five,” Philip responded, voice a little rough but steady.

  “Good,” Dr. Nikas said. “Reg has brains for you with additives. Eat both packets and hold the ice pack on your jaw for about ten minutes, and you should feel much better.”

  Calm and collected as though nothing happened, Jacques moved to me and began reattaching the wires I’d pulled loose. All in a day’s work. Reg efficiently tidied the counter top and straightened the remaining syringes, then departed as silently as a ninja. A zombie ninja.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Dr. Nikas released a breath. “An overreaction by Philip’s parasite to the stimulation by your parasite,” he explained as he took a syringe from Jacques. “With the imprint link between you two, Philip’s parasite reflected the reaction of yours but, because of its damaged state, it responded inappropriately. That said, the whole episode helped me understand better how to assist his parasite to normalize.”

  “You mean the whole face falling off thing was good?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Not much fun,” he replied with a slight smile, “but, yes, it was good since it was under controlled conditions and gave me a great deal of information. I’ve made adjustments and suspect it will be smooth sailing through the remainder of the procedure.”

  “I’m all for smooth,” I assured him. “That was enough excitement for one day.”

  “I understand completely, Angel,” Dr. Nikas said. “The good news is that there’s nothing you need to do but be still for about half an hour while the parasites commune.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “You’ll need to be still for about half an hour while the parasites commune.” His eyes flashed with amusement.

  “Are you accusing me of being fidgety?” I made a show of trying to roll my duct taped chair. “Jacques made sure I wouldn’t break anything this time.”

  Dr. Nikas laughed and shook his head, then moved off to check the monitoring equipment. “Philip, how are you feeling now?”

  “Good. I had a killer headache during the procedure, but now I feel better than when I came in,” he said, his voice clear again. “The leg pain is gone, and I’m not as tired.”

  “Excellent.” Dr. Nikas made notes on the whiteboard and muttered to himself. “Excellent,” he repeated a moment later as he stepped back to take in the whole of what he’d written. “Thank you, Jacques. That’s all I need for now.” The lab tech nodded and departed, and Dr. Nikas glanced our way. “Everything appears stable, so at the moment we’re simply waiting. Philip, keep the ice pack on your jaw.”

  His cell phone rang, and he answered with a simple “Yes?” then listened for a few seconds. “Now?” He frowned, glanced back at us, then to the whiteboard. “Are you—? Yes, all right.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket, glanced at us and gave a vague smile, then departed.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I asked Philip.

  “Bright and shiny, Zombie Mama,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to do that every day, but if it helps me, I’m not going to complain.”

  “Good deal,” I said, truly relieved. “You sure are full of surprises.”

  He snorted. “If I heard right, it was your parasite that overreacted.”

  “And yours that couldn’t cope,” I teased. Laughing at the horror of it made it easier not to freak about it.

  “Angel, you need to hold still,” Philip reminded me, and I realized I’d started fidgeting and swiveling the seat. I needed something to distract me.

  “Damn,” I muttered. “I left my phone with my audiobook in the central lab.”

  “What are you listening to?” Philip asked.

  “Uh . . .” I racked my brain for something that didn’t sound as stupid as what I was actually listening to. “Moby Dick,” I blurted.

  There was a moment of pregnant silence before Philip spoke again. “Really?”

  I groaned. “No. I lasted about five minutes into that book before I gave up on it. Now I’m listening to Passion of the Viking.”

  He made a strange cough that I knew damn well was him choking back a laugh. “Is his helmet horny?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Does he go all berserker with her?”

  “I swear to god, I will cut you.”

  He snickered, but wisely held back any more commentary.

  I busied myself by counting tiles on the floor, then tiles on the ceiling. Thankfully, Jacques entered right about the time I was trying to figure out how many speckles each floor tile had. I gave him an expectant look, but his full focus was on the readings on the computer screen. Not that I expected him to be all chatty. He wasn’t exactly known for being overly talkative. But it was still better than counting tile specks.

  “Almost done?” I asked hopefully.

  “Forty seconds,” he murmured, eyes glued to the screen.

  “Good,” I said with a sigh of relief. “I’m starving for some real food.”

  I felt Philip shift at my back. “You want to grab a bite?” he asked. “There’s a great cafe in Tucker Point, and I’m heading that way.”

  “Sure thing!” I replied.

  “Time,” Jacques said and began to turn off and disconnect the various monitors.

  “It’s not fancy,” Philip continued, “but the food is good.”

  I gave Jacques a smile of thanks as he removed the IV and the last of the other stuff. “Good food works for me.” But my eyes went to Jacques as he returned to stare at the whiteboard. “Everything cool, Jacques?”

  His brow furrowed, gaze remaining on the whiteboard for another few seconds, then he moved to the cookie sheet of injectables to check what was there. He finally looked up and gave me a nod. “You can go.”

  I stood and stretched to work out the kinks in my back. “Is Dr. Nikas still around?”

  “No, he left to meet Mr. Ivanov,” Jacques replied with a tiny smile. “Forgot to tell me he was leaving. Again.”

  I snorted, smiled. “I guess that happens often?”

  “Often enough over the years,” he replied with a resigned shrug.

  “Well, tell him to give me a buzz if he needs anything more from me.”

  Jacques gave a distracted nod, brow furrowing as he looked at the whiteboard.

  “That was almost a conversation,” Philip said as we headed out.

  “I could barely get a word in edgewise.”

  We exited the security doors. Philip stuck sunglasses on as soon as we were outside. “So far I’m not sick,” he said. “That’s promising.”

  “It’s a good sign,” I agreed. “But if you do get sick, warn me so I can avoid splatter, okay?”

  Philip winked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “I can think of all sorts of things that are more fun without puke splatter,” I shot back. “Where are we going?”

  “Nice little café called Top Cow,” he said, and somehow I kept my expression even. That was the first place Marcus and I ever had lunch together, though we hadn’t been toget
her-together at the time.

  As if the thought of him had been a summons, my phone rang with the Marcus ringtone.

  I glanced at Philip as I pulled it out of my purse. “Hold that thought?” He nodded, and I stepped a few feet away before answering, even though I knew it was silly to be self-conscious about talking to my boyfriend in front of Philip.

  “Hey, babe,” I said as I answered. “What’s up?”

  “Just checking on my favorite zombie,” Marcus said, a smile in his voice.

  “Ooh, do I even outrank your uncle on that scale?”

  He laughed. “Well, I know which one I’d rather see naked.”

  “Jeez, now I have a mental image.”

  “Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “Actually, I was calling to see if you wanted to grab an early supper.”

  “Perfect timing.” I winced as soon as I said it. “I mean, I’m leaving the lab right now, and Philip and I were about to head to Top Cow Café since we’re kind of starving. Would you be okay with joining us?”

  “Yes, sure thing,” he replied quickly, but I heard the slight catch in his voice. He’d never been to the lab—had never even been invited. I also knew he wasn’t exactly thrilled to pieces about my spending time with Philip. It didn’t even matter that it wasn’t a whole lot of time. Philip was, well, Philip.

  “We should be there in about twenty,” I told him. “Meet us there?”

  “Will do,” he said. “Love you.”

  “Love you too.” The words tripped from me with the ease of habit. I hung up and turned back to Philip. “Marcus is going to meet us there. I hope that’s okay?”

  He smiled beneath the sunglasses. “Totally.” I tried to hear if there was anything beneath his words—jealousy, resentment, annoyance—but he seemed completely fine, and I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed.

  Oh, god, I groaned to myself. I’m going to lunch with my hunky boyfriend and my also-hunky zombie kid. Awkward City, party of three. I kept the smile on my face, but the second I was in my car and on the road I stuck my headset in my ear and hit the dial for “Naomi Comtesse.” Naomi worked for Pietro, but she wasn’t a zombie. Hell, she wasn’t really “Naomi” either.

  I’d first met her when she was stalking me—taking pictures and generally being kind of suspicious. After I confronted her she told me her name was Heather Miller, however, it turned out she was really Julia Saber, daughter of Nicole Saber, the CEO of Saberton Corporation. Following in her grandfather Richard Saber’s footsteps, Julia worked industrial espionage for Saberton as Heather Miller for nearly a decade. In fact, a little over four years ago, it was Heather who stole documents from Pietro that allowed Saberton to learn of the existence of zombies. She came to regret that, big time, after she stumbled onto the uglier side of Saberton’s zombie research, and in a tangled twist of events during the filming of a zombie movie, she defected from Saberton, came into the Tribe, and became Naomi Comtesse.

  But more importantly, she became my best friend.

  “Hey, chick,” she said with a bright lilt to her voice. “Calling to hear me gloat about my trip to Tahiti? Totally magical, I tell you!”

  “Oh, sure,” I replied sourly. “Please do tell me all about your tan lines, or lack thereof. But later. Right now I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, instantly completely serious.

  “I’m about to have lunch with Philip and Marcus. Together,” I said. “I need you there. And maybe Kyle should be there too. And it might not hurt to pick up some of the day workers hanging out in front of the hardware store to bring along for some more manpower.”

  “You . . .” She laughed. “How the hell did you get yourself in that situation?”

  Scowling, I gave her a quick explanation. “C’mon,” I whined. “Don’t you owe me some favors?”

  “Under any other circumstance, being the human shield between two testosterone factories would burn up any and all favors owed, but I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Amusement resonated in her tone. “I’ll roust Kyle, and we’ll meet you there.”

  “You are beyond wonderful,” I said fervently.

  “And you’re pathetic,” she shot back.

  “Guilty!”

  Chapter 6

  The Parking Gods decided to be nice and left a spot on the street open for me less than a block from the restaurant. They even placed it near the corner so that I didn’t have to embarrass myself by demonstrating to the world that my parallel parking skills sucked ass. Totally cool of them, and I offered a heartfelt prayer of thanks as I slid my car into the space.

  Unfortunately, the Car Gods didn’t like me anywhere near as much, as demonstrated by the way my car lurched and died before I could turn the ignition off. And, when I tried to start it again, it clicked and nothing more. I’ll deal with it after I eat, I told myself while silently praying that, whatever the issue, it wouldn’t cost more to fix than the car was worth.

  I grabbed my purse and left my stupid dead car behind. Marcus was already there, waiting outside and leaning against the wall beneath the Top Cow Café logo. The restaurant sign had been repainted at some point in the last year, but I suspected the painter had been high or drunk. The cow looked more like a blotchy meerkat on its hind legs, and the top hat perched on its—were those supposed to be horns?—looked more like a crouching walrus.

  The restaurant itself was a hole-in-the-wall, with tables and chairs crammed so close together the waitresses barely had room to squeeze through. Apparently the tight quarters made it impossible for the servers to carry any sort of pleasant attitude as well, and it was widely known that one came to Top Cow for the excellent food, not sunny dispositions and bright smiling faces. If the waitress cursed you out, you probably deserved it and, even if you didn’t deserve it, the food was still good, so shut up and get over it.

  “My car died,” I told Marcus when I reached him. “I may need a ride home. Or a flamethrower.”

  He chuckled and gave me a kiss. “Ride, yes. Flamethrower, not so much,” he said. “I put us on the waiting list. Should only be a couple of minutes, since we’re early for the supper rush.”

  “Thanks, but it’s going to be five of us now,” I said with an apologetic wince. “Naomi and Kyle are coming as well.”

  A wave of obvious relief passed over his face, and I realized he knew damn well how uncomfortable it might’ve been with only the original three. One point to me for inviting the others!

  “Not a problem,” he said. “I’ll go tell the hostess.” He slipped past the other waiting people and inside, then returned about half a minute later, though he kept twisting his head awkwardly to look behind him.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Do I still have an ass?” He grinned. “I think the hostess just chewed half of it off.”

  “I’ll be glad to check later,” I offered with an appropriate leer.

  He opened his mouth to say something that I knew would be nice and naughty, but then he closed it, expression shifting to polite and bland as Philip walked up.

  “You snagged the last parking place in three blocks,” Philip said to me, then turned to Marcus. “Hey, man. Good to see you.”

  “You too,” Marcus replied, acting for all the world as if Philip was a guy pal he hung out with all the time. Which I didn’t think they were. Were they? That would be weird as all hell. Or, was I reading too much into their reactions to each other? The whole “two hunky guys must obviously be jealous of each other because of me” thing was a bit conceited and self-centered, if I stopped and thought about it.

  The hostess hollered Marcus’s name, and we obediently followed her to a round table in the corner set for five. Marcus and Philip started some silent jockeying for who would get to sit with their back to the wall, which I solved by scooting forward and claiming the wall-seat for my
self.

  The two men exchanged a look that clearly meant Great. Now we’re all fucked if terrorists storm the restaurant, but managed to seat themselves without overt conflict—Marcus to my left, and Philip across from us with an empty chair on either side of him. Smart man.

  A waitress with purple streaks in her hair and rings in her eyebrows slapped menus onto the table and tapped her foot impatiently as we gave her our drink orders. As she stalked off, Naomi bopped in with a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes that told me she was ready to stir up some shit. Six or seven years older than me, she’d seen the world a hundred times over and had plenty of opportunities to perfect her troublemaking skills. Defecting from Saberton had meant faking her death and a Pietro-funded change in appearance. Hair color, facial plastic surgery, and even a tasteful boob job. Her Heather identity had worn hazel contact lenses, but she’d fiercely refused to even consider shifting to green or brown for the Naomi persona, declaring that contacts were too much of a pain in the ass to bother with. She was one of a handful of non-zombies who worked for Pietro. Philip had been another until I’d turned him. I knew there were several others scattered throughout the organization, but I had yet to meet any of them since their jobs tended to be fairly specialized.

  As Naomi made her way toward us, she gathered her chestnut hair into a ponytail and wrapped it with a scrunchie. Kyle moved more sedately in Naomi’s wake, tall and lanky with dark skin and smooth, catlike movement, calmly exuding an air of danger without even trying. The other patrons in the restaurant edged away from him, probably not even aware they were doing so. He scared me a bit as well, but I totally approved of the way he looked at Naomi—caring and thoughtful and deeply affectionate.

  “Move, Zoldier,” Naomi said with a teasing grin to Philip. “I wanna sit next to Kyle.” Pietro had even bought her a new voice, a little deeper and throatier. I hadn’t even known that was possible.

  She plopped down in the empty chair beside Marcus. Crap. Of course Philip was too nice to stand his ground and tell her to piss off, which meant he shifted over to the only available seat—beside me. I fixed a smile on my face and gave Naomi an exasperated You were supposed to HELP! You did that on purpose! look which she acknowledged with a wink. Just my luck to land a BestFriendForever who thought trouble and mayhem were fun.