How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

by Diana Rowland

  “What the hell is wrong?” Naomi asked, a hair shy of demanding. Kyle and Philip exchanged glances but remained silent, obviously way too smart to get in the middle of this.

  The last thing I wanted was to cause a scene—or more of a scene. With a jerk of my head toward the door, I stood and walked out, only realizing after I exited the restaurant that if she didn’t follow me I’d end up looking like a jackass. More of a jackass.

  I walked to the car and leaned against it, and a few seconds later Naomi exited and crossed the parking lot toward me, though I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved. She stopped a few feet away and gave me an expectant look. Hell, I wasn’t sure how to explain all the shit going through my head.

  Here goes nothing. “I know you don’t mean it,” I said, “but when you act as if my money problems are bullshit it makes me feel like you think I’m trying to get attention or that I’m making a big deal out of nothing. It’s not nothing to me.”

  She blinked in surprise, then frowned. “Hold on one damn minute,” she replied. “I never said or implied your money problems are bullshit. However, it’s a solvable problem in the moment, and I don’t get why you have to do shit like not eat to prove whatever point you’re trying to prove.” She folded her arms over her chest and glowered. “I get it that the ATM didn’t work for you. What I don’t get is the rest of it. What’s your grand plan if the bank doesn’t get it sorted out? Not eat for the whole trip? Be a martyr scraping by on a dinner roll while the rest of us have steak? You think any of us are going to feel good about that? I got you covered, but why can’t you put your pride on the back burner for one minute?”

  “It’s not pride,” I shot back, throat tight, but then I shook my head. “Shit. Maybe it is. When you don’t have anything else, sometimes pride is all that’s left. When you wear the same pair of jeans to school for a week all you can do is try and hold your head up when the girls are whispering behind your back. I just . . .” I trailed off and sighed. I didn’t even know anymore what point I was trying to make.

  “I’m not making comments behind your back,” Naomi insisted, “and I sure as hell didn’t mean to make you feel bad. There’s tons of other stuff going on I can’t control, but this is something I can actually help with.”

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets and kicked at the asphalt. “I’m not trying to be a martyr.”

  She nodded. “All right, we’re clear that I’m not one of the high school girls, and that you don’t want to be a martyr.” She angled her head. “What can we do to fix this? You need to eat. And we all need more clothing and supplies. That’s part of the mission.”

  I folded my arms in a mirror of her pose. “Could you stop getting annoyed with me when I ask to do something like mailing the phone, or stopping at an ATM? Cause you kind of have been, and it makes me not want to mention shit like ‘Oh, hey, I have two bucks to spend on breakfast.’”

  “The phone thing annoyed me,” she admitted. “But I got over it after you said your piece.”

  Sure didn’t act like you got over it, I thought, but she wasn’t finished speaking.

  “And, it wasn’t asking about the ATM that annoyed me,” she continued. “It was refusing an easier alternative, and pushing it when it wasn’t necessary and when we weren’t planning a stop. It didn’t matter much in that particular situation, but jeez.”

  My frustration rose. Pushing it? I’d asked once, and Kyle had okayed it. “Look, maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m in way over my head,” I said. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I know damn well the only reason y’all are bringing me along is because you have to, for Philip. So maybe when I do something wrong or that you think is fucked up you could, I dunno, cut me some slack, since I don’t have training and experience and all that?”

  She looked chagrined at that, and I knew it was at least partly because I’d hit the nail on the head about why I was coming along in the first place. “That’s not the only reason you’re along, but whatever,” she said. “I’ll do my best. But you also need to ditch the stubbornness about accepting help.”

  I still wasn’t sure she understood the point I was trying to make, but it wasn’t worth fighting about anymore. Plus, I was getting hungry.

  “Fine,” I said. “But if you roll your eyes at me again, I get to smack you.” I smiled to show I was teasing. Mostly.

  “I smack back,” she warned with an answering smile.

  “Yeah, but I heal faster,” I pointed out. “C’mon, enough of this shit. Let’s get waffles.”

  “Hang on,” she said, expression abruptly serious. “So there’s no confusion between us, a few meals and some clothes doesn’t touch what I owe you.”

  It took me a second to figure out what she meant. Oh, yeah, that whole saving her from Saberton baddies as well as helping Brian find a reason to avoid having to kill her outright. I sure as hell didn’t do any of that so she’d owe me, but I understood where she was coming from. Still, I made a point of rolling my eyes at her. “You don’t owe me shit.”

  “Riiiiight,” she said with a laugh. “Whatever.”

  I snorted. “C’mon. Waffles.” I hooked my arm through hers.

  “I’m buying,” she stated as we headed back to the restaurant.

  “Whatever.”

  Chapter 14

  Naomi took the wheel after breakfast. I joined her up front to let the boys take the backseat, and within less than a mile both were asleep. I tried to do the same, without much luck. The scenery was a bit more interesting during the daylight hours, but there was only so much staring out the window a body could do before crashing boredom set in.

  “Are we there yet?” I whined. “How much faaarrrttthhher? I’m sooooo bored.”

  Naomi glanced my way, smile twitching. “Don’t make me stop this car.”

  “Can I drive? You should let me drive. I’m a very good driver.”

  “No.”

  “I really am a good driver,” I insisted. “Never even got a speeding ticket.”

  Naomi chuckled. “I’m sure you are, but . . .” She scrunched up her face. “You can’t take this personally, okay? But if somehow the Tribe or Saberton found us on the road and tried to cause trouble, it’s probably better if it’s either Kyle or me driving.”

  “I hate it when you make sense,” I grumbled.

  “There are a couple of books in my bag down there by your feet,” she said. “You’re welcome to ’em.”

  I dug through what she had. “I can’t believe you don’t have Passion of the Viking.”

  She laughed. “Oh my god, would you believe I’ve actually read that book?”

  “No way!”

  She grinned. “Yes, way. I’m a total romance novel fiend.” She nodded toward the bag. “Try Kilted Pleasure. It’s even better.”

  I dug it out, and contentedly lost myself in the perils of Lady Stonewall.

  Fourteen pages into the hijinks of the rogue Rory MacTavish as he tried to win the heart of the bonny Lady Fiona Stonewall—while she apparently wanted only to find out what Rory wore under his kilt—a slightly brilliant idea hit me.

  “Krewe,” I announced. “We can call ourselves the Krewe since we’re not really the Tribe right now.”

  Naomi gave me a doubtful look. “Crew? Seems a bit boring. Why not gang or herd or gaggle—”

  “Murder,” Kyle murmured from the back seat, eyes closed. “Like a murder of crows.”

  “Murder? Really?” I asked, surprised. “That’s what a bunch of crows is called?” I shook my head. “That’s really weird, but I don’t mean crew like a road crew. Krewe—like the groups of people who put on Mardi Gras parades. So, y’know, a bunch of people who are wild and fun and might even cause some trouble.”

  “A krewe of zombies,” Philip said with a smile. “That actually makes sense.”

  Ridiculously pleased with myself
, I once again submerged myself into the book.

  At some point in the afternoon Naomi left the interstate in what seemed to be the absolute middle of nowhere. When I asked her where we were going she simply responded, “More supplies,” and then proceeded down a narrow country highway even deeper into Nowhere. About half an hour later she pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a building that looked even more ramshackle and run down than Randy’s garage.

  I peered at the weather-beaten sign and the hay stacked in a big shelter off to the side. “Maybe this is too nosy, but what the hell do we need from Gatlin’s Feed and Seed?”

  Naomi grinned as she leapt from the car. “Wait and see. And don’t touch anything.”

  I clambered out at a much less enthusiastic pace, then followed Philip and Kyle inside. Gatlin’s Feed and Seed was pretty much exactly like every other feed and seed store I’d ever been in, which was good since I loved feed and seed stores. There was something about the rich scent of mulch and soil and hay and grain that seemed to sing with life and growth.

  Memories whispered to me as I trailed my fingers along the racks of seed packets. My mother had loved these stores as well. Every Friday afternoon, back when I was in kindergarten, she’d bring me to one not far from the house and let me pick out a packet of flower seeds, and then we’d go home and plant them somewhere around the yard. By the time I started first grade the yard was a crazy and glorious jumble of every type of flower that could grow in south Louisiana.

  She didn’t take me to the feed store as much during first grade, with weeks and then months between trips. Then one day in spring I must have asked to go once too often. That was the first time she hit me, as far as I could remember—a sharp smack across the face that left a red mark on my cheek for over an hour and a stain on my trust in her—a stain that never faded.

  Yet the flowers remained, most of them perennials that stubbornly returned every year despite shocking neglect. And even though I never forgot that slap, I also could never forget how she would go and sit in the back yard, in the middle of those flowers, as if that was the only place she could find a moment of peace from the chaos in her head.

  Kyle and Philip idly poked around racks of dusty farm tools while Naomi moved to a back counter and spoke in a low voice to a grizzled man with an impressive beer gut beneath threadworn overalls. About half a minute later she glanced back and beckoned to us.

  I obediently followed the boys over and even gave the man behind the counter a nice smile. He returned a toothless one then gestured, with a hand missing its last two fingers, toward a door behind him. Naomi thanked him, and then we all went through the door and into a storeroom filled with what must have been every piece of broken crap from the last fifty years. Lamps, typewriters, three-legged chairs. Junk.

  The hell? Mystified, I looked around, certain I was missing the point of this—especially since the other three simply stood in the middle of the storeroom as if waiting for something.

  Apparently the something was the closing of the door. Seconds after it clicked shut, a section of the far wall swung out to reveal an entirely different variety of merchandise. I’d been to the police supply shop with Marcus a few times, but this place was that times a dozen—an absolute bonanza of tactical equipment and electronics and protective gear and clothing and all sorts of other stuff that I had a feeling was illegal to sell without all sorts of licenses and background checks, which pretty much explained the whole secret door thing.

  I quietly browsed and touched things I wasn’t supposed to touch, while the other three went on their secret agent shopping spree. When they finally finished, I did my best not to openly goggle at the amount of cash Naomi handed over, then I helped carry the bags—marked “horse feed”—out to the car and into the trunk. Philip quietly informed me that we’d transfer the purchases into our suitcase and duffels only after we’d been on the road at least an hour and were certain of privacy. I gave a sober nod of understanding, as if I did this only-in-the-movies shit all the time. Hell, zombies were real, so why not secret black market stores?

  After we finished loading the car, the boys took the front again, and we continued on our way. Naomi reached into her purse and pulled out four new phones that were a lot nicer than my old one. “I’ve already loaded our numbers into each phone in the contacts,” she said as she handed them out. “No calls to anyone besides the four of us unless it’s an emergency.” I expected a Significant Look from her, but she was nice and kept it to herself.

  I waited until we were back on the interstate before asking the question that had been nagging me since we left the very odd store.

  “Do we have a plan?” I asked. “Or are we going to go knock on Saberton’s door and say, ‘Yo, dude, you got my homie?’”

  “Saberton Tower would be a hard nut to crack,” Kyle remarked.

  “We can check out some things when we get there,” Naomi said as she fiddled with the charger for the computer tablet she’d bought at the secret store. “It’s Thursday, and the weekend would be best for getting in there if we decide that’s the way to go. Would be tough on a weekday with so many people around.”

  “What kind of things will we check out?” I asked.

  “Kyle will see if he can pick up any info or chatter on their security channels,” she said. “No point in hitting the building if nothing we want is there. Philip will look for any chinks in their system that might allow us to slip in, and I’ll make some calls and see if I can track down Andrew’s and my mother’s schedules.”

  I waited a few seconds before speaking in case she had more to say. “What do you need me to do?”

  “There’s nothing you need to do initially,” she said with a light shrug. “Not until we have some information and a direction.”

  In other words, I can make the coffee, I thought with a mental sigh. “What’s the deal with your mom’s and brother’s schedules? How will that help?”

  “Don’t know yet, but it sure can’t hurt to know where they are, at least in general,” she replied, eyes on the screen in her lap. “Getting into one or both of their homes might be useful too.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense.” I racked my brain for some way I could help and came up with nothing. Hey, making coffee is important, dammit. “Do you think Andrew’s involved in all this?” I asked. “I guess if he’s second in command, he must be.”

  Naomi grimaced. “I know he was involved with the zombie research before,” she replied. “I saw him on those videos, right there with my mother. I wish I could say he wasn’t, but . . . yeah, he probably is.” She swallowed and looked out the window. “He sure is stupid for being so smart.”

  “I’ll smack him and tell him so when I meet him,” I said, trying to get a chuckle or smile from her and failing.

  “I’m not going to see him, am I?” she said quietly, still looking out the window.

  “You’ll see him,” I told her firmly. “He won’t see you, but that was his own stupid choice.”

  “I hate him,” she said, voice catching, and it was obvious she didn’t mean it.

  I gave her a light punch in the arm. “Yeah, I’ll definitely smack him for being such a poopoohead.”

  “We’re never going to talk again,” she said, voice growing less steady. “Even after he gets smacked.”

  The whole thing was really hitting her hard. Now that we were heading into his turf, her loss grew more and more real. Her ties to her family were cut and gone, and the grief was beginning to set in. She was almost certainly right—she would never again speak with her brother. And I had no idea what to say to make it better.

  But sometimes nothing needed to be said. I hit the release button on my seat belt, scooched over, and wrapped her up in a big, obnoxious, smushy hug. A laugh hiccupped out of her, and then it turned into a total bawling sobfest. I knew all about crying and emotional release and shit like that, and I ke
pt on holding her and generally being there for her.

  I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Philip, silently handing a packet of tissues back to me. I took them with a grateful smile, then returned to the holding and soothing noises thing.

  Naomi finally sniffled and lifted her head. I had a tissue ready for her, which she noisily blew her nose into.

  “Thanks.” She took another tissue and wiped at her eyes. “Before, I could pretend I was off on a job, that’s all. But now I’m going to where he is . . .” Her voice caught again, and she snatched at another tissue.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I know you’ll get through this. We all have your back, and you’re a total pro.”

  She blew her nose again. “Sure, I’ll get through it. Andrew got through it.”

  “And you’re a lot tougher,” I stated firmly.

  Her lower lip quivered briefly, and for an instant I saw beyond the tough mask to the forlorn and grieving woman. “It might be a little hard sometimes,” she said a bit hesitantly, as if afraid to admit it.

  I hugged her again. “If it wasn’t, I’d be worried about you.”

  “So instead you’ll squish me?”

  “I’m squishing you with my love.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Chapter 15

  To my delight New York was almost exactly like in the movies. The city had the tall buildings, yellow taxis, the strange mix of people walking along the sidewalk, and food carts on the corners, even this early in the morning. It was chilly outside, but I cracked the window so I could get a sense of what everything sounded like and smelled like. Naomi gave an amused snort, and I gave her my I’m-a-tourist-so-get-over-it glare, but no one told me to close the window.

  And the traffic. Holy shit, cars everywhere. Philip explained that we were arriving at the beginning of rush hour, but damn. Kyle drove with a lot more calm finesse then I would’ve in that kind of traffic. No way in hell was I getting behind the wheel in this city, that was for sure. Naomi pointed out some of the landmarks along the route—Empire State Building, the theater district, Central Park—but even I was too tired and cramped from the long drive to want to do a bunch of sightseeing. A real bed. Yeah, that was the tourist attraction I wanted to see.