White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

by Diana Rowland

  I turned my head to look up at him, gave him a smile. “You’re right. Thanks.” I knew all too well how much bad shit could happen in one day, and failing a test wasn’t even on the same scale. “It’s really not the end of the world if I fail.”

  “Nope, it’s not.” Then he put on a grumpy expression. “Except that you’d have to spend that much more time with me. That should be motivation enough to pass.”

  I laughed and gave a mock shudder. “Oh, god help me!”

  “Yep, you’re in trouble.” Then he cleared his throat and lifted his hand from my shoulder as if he’d suddenly remembered he was maintaining the contact. “Enough moaning. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Yeah, moved up in the world from bodysnatcher to big bad investigator,” I said with a smile.

  “It’s about damn time they recognized my worth,” he said, only half kidding as he headed out and back to the main building.

  I rolled my eyes and bent my head to continue studying.

  About half an hour later Allen Prejean, Chief Investigator for the St. Edwards Parish Sheriff’s Office, walked past the door of the office, gave me a sour look and made a point of checking his watch as he passed. Scowling, I deliberately waited another minute before putting all my books away. I still had three minutes before my shift technically started. I wasn’t stupid enough to do my tutoring and studying on company time. Or rather, I wasn’t stupid enough to do so in front of Allen. I studied in the van or in the morgue late at night all the damn time.

  Allen had worked for the coroner, Dr. Duplessis, for close to fifteen years, long before Duplessis was elected. As a former paramedic who was studying to be a physician’s assistant, he’d supposedly already been offered a position with Dr. Duplessis’s private cardiology practice once he graduated, and that day couldn’t come soon enough for me. Allen certainly knew his stuff when it came to death investigation, and he ran the office well enough. But he was also a dick. His call schedule seemed to be set up specifically to inconvenience me as much as possible, and he made no effort to be discreet about my drug history when requiring job-related piss tests—which I somehow ended up “randomly” selected for every damn month. There was no doubt he disliked me intensely, though I didn’t know whether it was a simple thing of not liking me because of my felony/pill-popping/loser background or if there was some other, more specific, reason. I knew he’d love to find an excuse to fire me, so I did my damndest to keep my nose clean, obey every goddamn rule, and go the extra mile when needed. And not simply because I needed this job for the access it gave me to my brain food supply, but more because there was no way I was letting Allen Prejean win.

  After getting my books and notes packed up, I left my borrowed study space and headed through the building to the morgue. The only body scheduled to be autopsied was head-squished guy from the movie set, and after garbing myself in scrubs, shoe covers, plastic smock, paper apron over that, hair cover, and latex gloves, I made quick work of getting him out of the cooler and into the cutting room. Sometimes it cracked me up to go through the whole rigmarole of protecting myself from biohazards. I sure as hell didn’t need to worry about Hepatitis or HIV since my parasite took care of that. There’d been plenty of times when I’d eaten brains straight from the body bag, while still protectively garbed—another one of those things that I did by-the-book, since ignoring safety protocols was a fireable offense.

  Blood from Mr. Brent Stewart’s smushed head had pooled in a sticky mess inside the bag, and when I pulled him from the stretcher onto the metal table the bag slid as well and poured a gooey stream of blood onto the floor. I let out a bunch of nasty words, sopped up as much as I could with towels which then went straight into the biohazard container, then fetched the mop and bucket to get the rest of it up before Dr. Leblanc arrived. I’d barely finished emptying the bucket out and putting the cleaning stuff away when the pathologist came in.

  “Shit, sorry, doc,” I said as I hurried back into the cutting room. “Had a blood spill, and I don’t have your tools set out. Gimme five minutes and I’ll be ready for you.”

  “Not a problem, Angel.”

  Dr. Leblanc was in his fifties with thin blond-grey hair, and sharp blue eyes that often sparkled with humor. He was unimposing physically—medium height and build with a bit of flab around the waist—but I knew he was tough as nails when it came to standing up for what he believed in. “You’ve spoiled me by usually having everything ready half an hour before I’ve even finished my morning coffee.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled at me. “In fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen you running late before. Is everything all right?”

  “Yep!” I replied as I set out his implements: scalpels, scissors, saw, forceps, rib shears, syringes. “I was studying in the investigator’s office. Had another tutoring session with Nick this morning.”

  “Ah, of course. Five more days.” He pulled smock and apron on, tugged on gloves. “Nick’s been helpful?”

  “Oh my god, more than helpful,” I said fervently. “There’s no way I could afford to pay a tutor for the amount of time he’s worked with me. And he’s actually really good at teaching this stuff. I mean he’s not, er, his usual self.”

  Dr. Leblanc’s eyes flashed with amusement. He knew exactly what I meant. There was a good reason why I used to mentally refer to Nick as “Nick the Prick.”

  “You make him want to be a better person,” he said with only a trace of facetiousness.

  I responded with a soft snort of derision. “Hardly. I think he simply enjoys the challenge of filling my blank slate.” I shook my head. “Anyway, it’s pretty amazing he’s willing to help. A year ago I’d never have imagined I’d have so many awesome people supporting me.”

  “You were just waiting for your moment to shine,” he replied. He moved to the table and peered down at Mr. Stewart, assessing.

  “Helps that I had so many people giving me a hand up along the way,” I said with a shrug.

  He glanced up at me. “That only works if you have your hand up and reaching.”

  “Well that’s damn near poetic,” I said with a laugh.

  He gave an answering grin. “I blame the formalin fumes.” He picked up a scalpel. “Let’s find out if there was anything amiss about Mr. Stewart’s death.”

  * * *

  Except for the crushed nature of Mr. Stewart’s head, he seemed to have been in excellent health. The autopsy went quickly, and I drew and packaged up blood, urine, and vitreous samples for later toxicology testing. The conversation I overheard at the stadium, about the death possibly not being an accident, replayed itself in the back of my mind, and the autopsy didn’t help put it to rest. While Dr. Leblanc had no problem listing the blunt force head trauma as the cause of death due to the extent of the crushing damage, he fully admitted there was little way to determine if it had been accidental or intentional.

  After he finished and left to go write up his notes, I returned Mr. Stewart to the cooler. It bothered me that we might never find out if he’d been murdered, though I knew there’d be slim chance the killer would ever be found and prosecuted, even if we knew for sure. Lots of murders went unsolved, and I had no doubt there were plenty of accidental deaths that weren’t, or overdoses that had been helped along.

  I guess all we can do is the best we can, I decided.

  The rest of my shift was busy enough to keep it from being boring, but I was glad to leave when it was over. Lightning flashed through the dark clouds of the late afternoon sky as I slipped out the back exit of the morgue, and I felt a bit of relief that the rain had taken a break for the moment. I started toward my car, then almost had a heart attack as a figure moved from around the corner of the building.

  “Angel,” the figure said, and it took me a couple of heart pounding seconds to recognize the speaker.

  “Jesus Christ! Ed?”

  He moved closer. “Yeah, sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “That’s cool,” I said, taking a deep breat
h to get my pulse under control. “I know you can’t exactly saunter up to the front door in broad daylight.” Ed was wanted for multiple murders. Yeah, he’d killed those people—all zombies—but he’d been played and manipulated pretty heavily by the ruthless Dr. Kristi Charish. She’d convinced him that the “zombie menace” needed to be eradicated and that killing known zombies would be a good and noble thing to do. It didn’t help that he’d seen a zombie kill his dad about a decade earlier—which Charish knew all about and gleefully exploited. The truly tragic part was that she only manipulated Ed into becoming a serial killer because she wanted zombie heads for her own screwed-up research. Bitch.

  I peered at him. When I first met Ed Quinn he looked like the typical boy next-door—tall and slender, reddish brown hair, scattering of freckles across his nose. After he went on the run he went goth as a disguise—dyed his hair black and spiked it, sported a variety of piercings, and dressed in skull-adorned clothing. Now he looked…ordinary. Dark brown hair in a conservative and boring style. Khaki pants. Dark blue polo-style shirt. Even the freckles were gone, either bleached away or hidden beneath a layer of makeup. I wouldn’t look at him twice, which was probably the point, I realized. “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m okay. I mean as okay as I can be while being hunted as a serial killer.”

  I winced in sympathy. “I guess no one’s come up with some brilliant way to get you cleared of all that yet, huh?”

  Ed exhaled, shook his head. “Nope. Never will be cleared legally,” he said, regret tingeing his voice. “Maybe a little redemption if the heads can be restored.”

  “Yeah. That would be great, for your peace of mind and for them.” After the fiasco with Dr. Charish, I’d insisted that Pietro recover the zombie heads from her lab with the hope that the bodies could someday be regrown. Dr. Charish had done it once, though not with complete success. But I hadn’t heard squat about the heads in the past six months. I made a mental note to check on that soon.

  Ed gave me a resigned shrug, and I could tell guilt ate at him. “Thankfully, Pietro has kept me well-hidden from the law.”

  “But you can’t stay hidden forever,” I pointed out.

  To my surprise a slight smile touched his mouth. “Actually, I can,” he said. “Not here, though. I’m leaving the country tonight. Pietro’s got me set up in Costa Rica. New identity. Fake passport and everything.”

  “Oh. Wow.” A sharp pang of loss went through me. I definitely considered Ed a friend. Sure, he’d tried really hard to kill me, but he then made up for it by helping me out when I was kidnapped by Dr. Charish. “Costa Rica, huh?” I fought for a smile and struggled to be happy for him. It really was the only option that made sense, and Pietro certainly had the resources to make it happen. “That’s awesome,” I managed, then bit my lower lip, met his eyes. “Will you ever come back? I mean…will I ever see you again?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, expression suddenly bleak. “Pietro and I talked about it. I’m going to have some plastic surgery.” He grimaced, rubbed his eyes. “I think I need some time away to get my head together. It’s been nothing but stress and confusion for a long time.”

  “Yeah, it’s been pretty weird,” I agreed, then sighed. “I’m gonna miss you. I mean, I know I’ve barely seen you these past few months, but I’ve always known that I could see you…and now you’re going so far away.”

  “I’ll miss you too,” Ed said. “That’s why I wanted to come say goodbye. I was really hoping you’d come out before I had to go.”

  A warm fuzzy feeling went through me that he’d waited here. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m really glad you came by. Maybe you can write. I mean, using your new name and all.” I frowned. “What is your new name?”

  He chuckled. “James Clement, and no, I’m not used to it.”

  “James.” I laughed. “Yeah, that’s weird. You don’t seem like a James.”

  “I know, but I can’t complain,” he said, shrugging. “Pietro really came through for me.”

  I made a sour face. “Well, he kinda owed you, big time.” Pietro had been the zombie who’d killed Ed’s father. Of course that was right after Ed’s father had killed Ed’s mother because Pietro was sleeping with her. Yeah, major zombie soap opera stuff.

  “He does owe me,” Ed agreed. “But owing and paying are two different things. I’m glad he didn’t take the easy road and get rid of me.”

  “Oh shit,” I breathed, shocked at the idea. “I never even thought of that. Yikes.” A shudder ran through me. “Damn. Yeah, I guess that would’ve been a lot easier. Says something about Pietro, I suppose.”

  “Exactly.” He gave me a smile. “Give me a hug. I’ve got to get out of here or I’ll miss my flight.”

  I wrapped my arms around him, hugged him tightly while I tried not to cry and failed miserably at that. “You be careful,” I sniffled. “And you’d better write. I want postcards, dammit.”

  Ed gave me a squeeze and kissed my cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You can’t get rid of me.”

  I finally released him and wiped at my eyes. “You’d better go.”

  “Yep. And I’m going to be sweating bullets until I get through airport security,” he said. “I’ve been assured that I don’t need to worry, but damn.” He flashed a grin.

  “If you get caught I’ll bust you out,” I promised, echoing his grin.

  He laughed. “Deal. But let’s not think about that.” He kissed my cheek again. “Gotta run. Take care, Angel.”

  “Always,” I replied softly as he turned and hurried to a waiting car. Was it possible to be happy and sad for someone at the same time?

  With a sigh, I headed for my car, happy and sad…but mostly sad.

  Chapter 4

  I raced home, showered and changed, even spent about twenty minutes on my hair and makeup and was mostly pleased with the result. I also made sure to chug down half a smoothie to give that extra glow of “yes, I’m really alive” to my skin. Nothing like grey and rotting flesh to kill a great look.

  I’d hit the thrift store before my tutoring date with Nick and totally struck gold in my quest for a properly stylish and dressy outfit to wear to the Gourmet Gala that wouldn’t break my pathetic budget. It helped that I was a pro at finding cool stuff for next to nothing. For about thirty bucks I walked out with a cream silk blouse, black dress slacks, and a really striking thigh-length jacket in a dark red velvet. And as rainy as it was, I intended to wear my black boots, and to hell with whether they were appropriate for the event. They had low heels, so would hopefully be dressy enough.

  My dad was in his usual spot in front of the TV when I came out to the living room. I plopped down on the other end of the couch and pulled my boots on. His gaze stayed on whatever show he was watching without even the barest acknowledgement of my presence. He had his feet propped on the coffee table, a position he claimed took the pressure off an old back injury he’d sustained a decade ago on an offshore oil rig. Years of hard drinking and smoking had left him looking way older than his actual age of forty-eight. Even though he’d made an effort to clean up his act in the past few months, it couldn’t erase the haggard look and sagging jowls that had been long in the making. His light brown eyes were clearer though, and these days he kept his face clean-shaven most of the time, a big change from the scraggly beard he used to keep so he didn’t have to bother shaving.

  “Have you eaten yet?” I asked.

  “If you’d be home sometimes you’d know.” He finally looked over at me, eyes narrowing at the sight of me all dressed up. “Where the hell you going now?”

  Scowling, I zipped up my boots. “I spend pretty much every night here, Dad. You don’t see me ’cause you’re not here in the evenings.” I gave him a hard look, cocked an eyebrow at him. “What, are you out feeding the poor or something noble like that?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “I can damn well be out if I want to be out.”

  I stood and pulled on my jack
et, reveling in the way it flared out and swirled as I moved. I loved that jacket. Loved the way it felt. Loved everything about it. “You know what I mean. You making the rounds of the bars again?”

  His expression darkened. “Well, what if I am?”

  My mouth tightened. “Yeah, what if you are.” I sighed, shook my head. “Whatever. I’m going out with Marcus tonight. He got tickets to the Gourmet Gala.”

  “Well, that’s some shit,” he said with a small sneer. “Act like you’re all worried about whether or not I’ve eaten anything and then go off with that asshole to stuff your face and leave me here to fend for myself.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Dad! Y’know what? I won’t ever ask how you’re doing again.” I stomped out of the house and slammed the door behind me, only to hit the steps and realize I’d forgotten my purse. Scowl deepening, I slammed back into the house, grabbed my purse, and then once again stomped out and closed the door hard. Didn’t help my mood that I thought I heard my dad give a snort of laughter. Yeah, so much for a dramatic exit.

  Plus, Marcus wasn’t even there yet, but I wasn’t about to go back inside to wait. Fortunately, for my own state of mind, it was only a few minutes before he pulled up. I dashed through the rain to the truck and climbed in as quickly as I could.

  “You look great, hon’,” Marcus said with an appreciative smile as soon as I had the door closed. He leaned over and gave me a kiss.

  “Thanks. Ugh,” I said, returning the kiss. “Sorry, the ‘ugh’ wasn’t for you. Let’s get out of here. Dad’s being a pain again.”

  “Uh oh,” he said as he pulled out onto the road. “I was wondering why you were huddled on the porch. I didn’t think I was running that late.” He slanted a glance my way. “What’s he doing now?”

  I heaved a sigh. “The usual. Defensive bullshit. Pissed that I’m with you. Whinery and bitchery. Same old same old.”