White Trash Zombie Apocalypse

by Diana Rowland

  “Sounds like fun,” he said with a mild shudder. “I’ll call you when I get off work.”

  “You’d better!”

  He kissed me, then watched as I started my car and drove off. I glanced back in the rearview mirror as he climbed back into his cruiser. Yeah, maybe it was time for us to officially become boyfriend-girlfriend. Hell, everyone assumed we were already. And he’d sure as hell come through for me last night.

  I made it home to a dark house, with only my dad’s snoring to break the silence. I’d texted him before going to bed last night to let him know I wouldn’t be in and to not worry. He never responded, so he was either annoyed that I spent the night with Marcus or too busy drinking or whatever the hell else he was doing. Screw it. I had a feeling I’d be spending a lot more nights away from home.

  For a brief moment I considered going right back to bed, but by this point I was pretty damn awake. Exerting a bit of maturity, I spread my books out on the kitchen table and settled down to work through a practice GED test. That killed a couple of hours, but I managed to pass it by the skin of my teeth and rewarded myself with a mental high-five.

  Yet my euphoria faded as the memory of the previous night’s fun and games rose again. Hell, this whole week had been weird, with the attack at the boat launch being the shit-flavored ice cream on top of the crazy pie. Though it had been less than thirty-six hours, it seemed like forever since I was out on that rain-soaked highway with Heather and facing down the company men. Was she recovering all right? Was the Saberton Corporation still looking for her?

  Jeez, it’s corporate espionage on steroids. And brains.

  I sat back and considered the various connections, then abruptly remembered that I’d planned to call Pietro about Kang’s head. The clock over the stove read nine-oh-five. A more than reasonable hour to call.

  Before I could lose my nerve, I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed Pietro’s number.

  To my surprise he picked up on the first ring. “Hello, Angel. How are you doing this morning? I was just thinking about you.”

  “Uh, hi, Pietro,” I said, trying to recover from the mild shock that he had my number in his contacts. “Better. All the weird weakness is gone, and I feel pretty much my normal self.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.” He said, sounding like he actually meant it. “How can I help you?”

  Crap, I probably should’ve rehearsed what I was going to say before calling and sounding like a moron. “Um, I was calling to find out if there’s been any progress with the heads.” It had been six months since his people recovered the zombies’ heads from Dr. Charish’s lab at NuQuesCor—heads of zombies Ed had killed.

  “You mean with regrowth?” he asked, again surprising me by actually knowing what the hell I was talking about. I could be talking about heads of cauliflower for all he knew.

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “Is anything happening? I haven’t heard any news, and, well, Kang was sort of a friend of mine, and I’d really like to be kept in the loop.”

  “The regrowth itself hasn’t been attempted yet,” Pietro informed me. “It will be as soon as the right medium is developed.”

  “Right medium?” I asked, puzzled. “You mean what to grow them back in? Why can’t you just put them in a big vat of brains?”

  “According to one who knows far more about this than I do,” he said, “a big vat of brains wouldn’t be sufficient. Coming back from a head alone isn’t exactly natural. Kristi Charish was on the right track when using the pseudobrains mix to regrow Zeke Lyons, but she hadn’t tested it thoroughly and, as you know, the results were tragic. Finding the right formula is proving challenging, but we’re getting closer.”

  “Oh. All right.” Disappointment curled through me, but I also understood. Zeke Lyons was one of Ed’s decapitation/murder victims, but when he was regrown he came back all screwed up—appearing at least twenty years older, and with a parasite that couldn’t heal the damage from the closed-head injury he sustained after a fall down a flight of stairs.

  I resisted the urge to sigh. So much for getting answers from Kang, at least any time soon. “Will you please let me know once you have any news?”

  “I will,” Pietro said, “but perhaps you’d like to get some direct answers? Maybe even see the heads yourself?”

  I sucked in an excited breath. “Seriously?”

  “Completely,” he replied, and I thought I heard a smile in his voice at my delight. “We did lose one, but the others are relatively stable.”

  “I would love to see the heads!” Then I bit my lip. “Wait. Which one did you lose? Please don’t say it was Kang’s.”

  “No. Kang is stable. It was Peter Pleschia.”

  I racked my memory for which one that was. Oh yeah, the pizza guy. “Oh, whew. Er, I mean, not great for him, but…well, you know.” I made a face at my own idiocy. “Anyway. So, when can I go and see them?”

  Pietro chuckled. “It’s all right. I know what you meant. Do you work today?”

  A thrill of anticipation ran through me. “No. I’m off today, work tomorrow, then off again on Saturday, but I have the GED that morning.”

  “I’ll have Brian pick you up at noon today at your place,” he said. “Will that work for you?”

  Holy crap. Brian Archer, Pietro’s hard as nails head of security. “Sure!” I said quickly.

  “You’ll be meeting with Dr. Ariston Nikas. He heads up all of my research and development operations. He’ll be able to answer your questions much more thoroughly than I can.”

  Oh my god. I was going to get to visit a research lab? A zombie research lab?

  “That is so cool,” I breathed. “Thanks!”

  “You’re welcome, Angel,” he replied warmly. “By the way, apart from your ordeal last night, I heard you were in a pretty serious firefight the night before. Are you doing all right? Do you need anything?”

  “Um, no, I’m cool,” I said, weirdly touched at the concern. “Your people gave me some stuff on the scene. And I, uh…” I gulped. “Well, I ate a bad guy.” I killed someone. And ate his brain. Sure, he’d been shooting at me, but…A shiver ran through me. It shouldn’t have been so easy for me to do it. I’d killed McKinney when I was escaping from Charish’s damn lab, but that was different. McKinney was a Grade-A bastard asshole and general all-around Bad Person who’d done terrible things to me and to people I cared about. I’d felt zero guilt when I smashed his head and feasted on the contents.

  But the guy the other night…Just because he was working for the other side didn’t necessarily mean he was dipped in sin. Hell, I knew damn well that Pietro’s hands weren’t clean.

  My shoulders hunched forward, and my chest tightened as guilt swept in. What the hell kind of monster was I?

  Maybe Pietro sensed my attack of sudden remorse; when he replied his tone was surprisingly mild. “You made a decision in the heat of the moment. I’ve heard the reports. If you hadn’t taken him out and utilized the resources he had to offer, Heather would likely be dead now, and those men would have certainly captured you.”

  “Right,” I said softly. He was right. I knew that logically, but I also knew I’d probably never shake that sliver of guilt. And that was probably a good thing. If I didn’t feel some guilt and shame, then I really would be a monster. “It’s kinda hard to get used to. Though I guess you know that.”

  “Yes, I do,” he replied. “But killing him was a matter of survival for you. And as far as eating him goes, you’d have eaten his brain without hesitation had his body been in the morgue, yes? It’s simply a different setting.”

  “Yeah,” I said, subdued. “I’m having a little trouble adjusting to the whole being-a-killer thing.”

  He exhaled. “Maybe we can discuss this more later, when things settle down a bit,” he replied, tone gentle. “My people will be occupied for a few days with the aftermath of your encounters with Saberton, but after that we should talk.”

  I hesitated. I still didn’t fully trust him, n
ot by a long shot. And the quick and efficient response to the highway incident had shown me quite clearly that Pietro was, well…when I’d half-joked about him being the head of the zombie mafia, I’d probably been underestimating his power and reach.

  But I had no doubt he had a lot more experience with dealing with the aftermath of killing someone. And it wasn’t as if I had a whole lot of other people I could spill my guts to. I couldn’t exactly go to a therapist and say, “The thing is, I’m having some guilt issues over the fact that I’m a brain-eating murderer.”

  “That would be great,” I heard myself saying.

  “Excellent. I’ll tell Dr. Nikas you’ll be coming by shortly after noon.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll, uh, be ready.” I hung up, shaking my head at the awkwardness of my goodbye.

  But then I laughed. A year ago I was a drugged-out felon shacking up with my loser boyfriend, Randy. In a couple of hours I was going to see zombie heads in a secret lab owned and operated by the head of the local zombie mafia.

  Sometimes life was pretty damn funny.

  Chapter 13

  I told myself I’d study until eleven which would give me enough time to get ready so I wouldn’t be in a frantic rush before Brian picked me up. At least that was the plan. I ended up getting caught up in a practice test, and when I looked up it was eleven-thirty and then, of course, I had a frantic rush to get ready in time.

  Fortunately, I was an expert on running late, so by ten ’til noon I was showered, had my hair dried with most of the frizz tamed, and even had a bit of makeup on. I put on the same pants I’d worn to the Gala, but this time paired it with a simple shirt that wasn’t at all skanky, and my regular low lace-up boots. I’d briefly considered wearing the same heeled boots that I’d worn the other night, then decided that comfort and sure footing was probably the better choice for a research lab. I wouldn’t want to trip and knock something crucial over, land in a bizarre cocktail of chemicals, and end up some sort of freak mutant, right?

  I laughed at myself as I dabbed on a touch of lip gloss. I was already freaky enough, thank you very much. And I’ve also been watching way too many science fiction movies with Marcus!

  My dad stumbled out of his bedroom wearing only a pair of ragged boxers while I prowled the kitchen in search of something to eat. He grunted something at me and continued right on past to the bathroom. I rolled my eyes, annoyance winding through me as I stuck a burrito into the microwave.

  By the time the microwave dinged, and I had the burrito on a plate, he shuffled back into the kitchen.

  “Afternoon, Dad,” I said. I figured it was close enough to noon that I could be snarky about the time of day.

  He mumbled something that might have been an answer as he scrabbled through the pantry. “Dammit, Angel, we’re out of coffee.”

  “I’ll pick some up later,” I said around a mouthful of too-chewy tortilla and cheese. “There’s some Cokes in there.” I shrugged. “At least it’s caffeine.”

  His scowl deepened into familiar lines as he pulled a can of Coke out of the pantry and popped the tab. “You shoulda gotten coffee yesterday.” He took a swig of warm soda, gave me an accusing look as if it was my fault that warm Coke sucked compared to coffee.

  I took the time to chew and swallow more burrito before answering. “I didn’t know we were out,” I finally said. “And I was working. Y’know, for the money that buys coffee.”

  “I buy things around here too, dammit,” he growled, then let out a low belch.

  I bit back a retort that I knew damn well would start a fight. “So, you going anywhere tonight?” I asked instead.

  “Why the hell do I have to get the third degree in my own goddamn house?” He shot back. “I may go out. May not. None of your goddamn business.”

  So much for not starting a fight. “Jesus, Dad, I’m just trying to have a fucking conversation,” I said. Why the hell did he have to be so goddamn ornery all the time? “You’ve hardly been home at all most evenings.”

  He got a cold hotdog out of the fridge, wrapped it in a piece of white bread. “Maybe I have things to do. And you’re one to talk after staying out all night.” He took a bite, then looked me over as if focusing on me for the first time. His eyes narrowed. “Looks like you’re going out again. With that cop?”

  “No, it’s not Marcus,” I said, then had to mentally fumble for what the hell to tell him. Zombie head tour at a secret lab probably wouldn’t go over too well. “I have a meeting, um, sorta job interview,” I lied. Badly.

  He leaned toward me, frowning. “You get fired?”

  “What? No!” I shook my head. “This is mostly a tour, that’s all.” I jumped at a sudden knock on the door. Crap. Brian was here. And my dad…

  I groaned under my breath. “Could you maybe put on some pants?”

  “Oh, for the love of…It’s my goddamn house.” He scowled as he stalked to the window and tweaked the curtain back. I heard him breathe a low curse, and I looked over his shoulder to see a very official-looking black Escalade with heavily tinted windows in the driveway, and on the porch the equally official-looking Brian, dressed in a dark suit, and wearing sunglasses and a Bluetooth headset.

  “Who the fuck is that, Angel?” He let the curtain drop and rounded on me.

  I hissed a whisper, “Jesus, Dad, he can hear you!” I swallowed down the last bite of burrito and grabbed my purse. “Hang on!” I called toward the door, then looked back to my dad. “He, um, works at the lab. He’s giving me a ride, that’s all.”

  My dad glowered at me as he crossed his spindly arms over his thin, bare chest. “You’ve sure taken up with some folks that aren’t our kind, Angel.” Something flickered in his eyes, but I couldn’t tell if it was anger or worry. “You better watch yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” I muttered, then waved a hand at him to at least get behind the counter so that his underwear wasn’t visible. He rolled his eyes and grudgingly complied, but continued to cast dark looks my way as I yanked the door open.

  I gave Brian a bright smile. “Hi!”

  With the sunglasses over his eyes I couldn’t tell if Brian was looking past me and taking in the general state of my house—and my dad—but I had no doubt he was doing exactly that. Though if he found any aspect of it disgusting or amusing, it didn’t show at all in his face. Instead he simply gave me a slight nod.

  “Good morning, Ms. Crawford,” he said, voice as calm and smooth as ever. “Are you ready?”

  “Sure am!” I replied, giving him an overly bright smile. I glanced back. “Bye, Dad!”

  “Whatever,” my dad grumbled.

  I kept the smile plastered onto my face as I exited and closed the door. Brian opened the umbrella he carried and held it over me through the light drizzle as we headed for the Escalade, then surprised the hell out of me by opening the passenger door. I climbed in, barely managing to hold back a sigh of pleasure at the buttery-soft feel of the leather seats.

  He closed the door and came around to get into the driver’s seat. “It’s about a half hour drive, ma’am,” he told me as he started the engine and began to pull out of the driveway. “Feel free to put on some music you like.”

  I didn’t have the faintest clue how to work the radio or satellite thing or whatever the hell it was. Fortunately it was already playing what appeared to be classic rock at a volume that still allowed conversation. “This is fine,” I said. If it had been opera or jazz or anything weird, I’d have had to figure the damn thing out for my own sanity.

  Brian turned onto the highway, then opened the console and pulled out a packet like the ones he’d given me at the Gourmet Gala. “Can always use a bit more, ma’am,” he said with a slight smile, holding it out for me.

  “Oh, sure. Thanks,” I said, taking it from him. “I tend to hoard and ration out my own stash as much as possible.” I tore the top off and did my best to suck the contents down as genteelly as possible. What was the proper etiquette for brain-eating? Pinky up? No sl
urping sounds? A dainty belch at the end?

  “Understandable,” he replied. “And you have an adequate stash?”

  “As long as nothing goes wrong, I have enough to last me about three months if I lost my job tomorrow,” I told him with more than a little pride. It hadn’t been easy to build my supply up to that level.

  He flicked a glance toward me. “That’s impressive planning.”

  “I’ve been hungry before,” I said softly, looking out at the window. Pine trees and horse farms flicked by as we drove. We seemed to be taking mostly back highways, which made for nicer scenery. “It scared the hell out of me,” I continued. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” I pushed away the image of the baseball bat splitting open the Saberton man’s head.

  Brian took a deep breath and released it slowly. “An ever present danger for us.” He paused. “Mr. Ivanov told me you had an unpleasant encounter last night.”

  I swallowed hard. “Yeah, fun times with Philip and a couple of his pals.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said with a shake of his head. “It must have been quite traumatic.”

  I glanced his way. “Look, I really appreciate all the courtesy stuff, but is there any way you could just call me Angel?” I gave him an apologetic smile. “The ma’am thing sorta feels, well, weird. Sorry.”

  “No problem with that at all, Angel,” Brian replied, slight smile touching his mouth.

  I let out a small sigh of relief. “Thanks. And yeah, it was traumatic, but at the same time it was hardly anything compared to some of the other crap I’ve been through. Pissed me off more than anything.” I made a sour face. “Now isn’t that some shit? That getting tackled and held down while someone steals my blood isn’t the worst thing to happen to me by far.”

  “More than your share in a very short time,” he replied.

  “Not quite sure what that says about me,” I replied with a low snort. Shit magnet. That’s what it says.

  “Well, you’ve handled yourself well every time,” he said. “I’ll give you credit for that. The incident on Highway 1790 was damned impressive.”