White Trash Zombie Unchained

by Diana Rowland

  “Shit,” I breathed. A very obviously dead someone, with sickly pale skin and a partially severed hand dangling by a single tenacious tendon.

  Pierce muttered a curse. “Looks like Wildlife and Fisheries was wrong about the search area.”

  Rachel flicked a glance my way. “The body will be taken to the morgue, right? Angel can still get samples, so it’s not a total loss.”

  “Yeah, but it’s nowhere near as useful as having the whole body. And it’s risky, especially if it turns out to be a shambler . . .” I trailed off, brow furrowing. “I thought all of the Sheriff’s Office boats were white.”

  “Might be a new one,” Marcus said, but a sliver of doubt crept into his voice. He fished a set of binoculars from beneath his seat and peered at the grey boat. “I don’t recognize any of those guys. Doesn’t mean they aren’t deputies, but it’s only been a few months since I left—and they wouldn’t have a pair of newbies out on their own for a search.”

  “May I?” Rosario extended a hand for the binoculars. After Marcus passed them over, he examined the boat and its occupants then let out a weary sigh. “The bald one is a Saberton security bigshot.”

  Pierce narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain? How the fuck could Saberton possibly know—” He cut himself off with an angry shake of his head. “We’ll have to figure that out later. We absolutely cannot let them get away with that body.”

  “We outnumber them two to one,” Rachel pointed out. “Using both flatboats, we can do a flanking maneuver.”

  I shook my head. “We shouldn’t put the non-zombies in the line of fire.”

  Rosario frowned. “Now, hang on—”

  I stopped him with a fierce glare. “You die a lot more easily than our kind. And so does Marla.”

  He flicked a guilty look at the German Shepherd and subsided.

  “Enough,” Pierce said, voice low yet no less commanding. “It’s a non-issue. We could put Rosario and the dog on the bank to wait, but there’s no need. Rachel, Brian, and I will use the ‘dumb hick’ ploy to get us close enough to take them out. You and Marcus will remain here as emergency backup.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “That won’t work.”

  Pierce scowled at me. “It served just fine earlier.”

  “With Wildlife and Fisheries, sure, but this is Saberton.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with—”

  “Just because you don’t recognize them doesn’t mean they won’t recognize you,” I snapped.

  Finally, a flicker of realization in his eyes. It had to be tough pretending 24/7 to be Pierce Gentry, ex-Saberton security honcho, all while not giving himself away to colleagues—like Rosario and Rachel—who weren’t allowed to know he used to be Pietro.

  “Angel’s right, Pierce,” Marcus said. “I should go, and you should stay.”

  Pierce dug a faded Saints ball cap from under the seat and jammed it on his head. “You were a good cop, but I have ops training and experience.” He shoved on sunglasses and drawled, “They ain’t gonna see city slicker Gentry in this here boat.”

  I regarded him then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess they won’t be expecting a New Yorker to go full redneck.”

  Marcus lifted his rifle. “That works. I’ll cover from here.”

  “Still a crack shot, I take it?” Pierce asked with a hint of Uncle Pietro pride in his voice.

  Marcus quietly chambered a round then brought the rifle to his shoulder and sighted through the grass. “I can get my point across.”

  In less than a minute, Pierce, Rachel, and Brian had readied weapons, agreed on a basic plan, and downed a packet of brains each. In the bow of the flatboat, Brian lounged as if half-asleep. Rachel pretended to read a book, pistol hidden beneath the jacket draped over her lap. Pierce set his shotgun close at hand, pulled a beer from the cooler, and cracked it open.

  “Why do you have beer in the brains cooler?” I asked, perplexed.

  He chuckled and took a sip. “It’s good cover. Besides, I happen to like beer.” He took a longer swig then started the motor and headed down toward the bayou.

  Marcus climbed partway up the bank, put his eye to the rifle’s scope and waited.

  “You want a spotter?” I asked, half-expecting him to tell me to stay behind cover.

  “Wouldn’t mind at all,” he murmured.

  Pleased, I snatched the binoculars from Rosario then scrambled up the bank to where I could watch events unfold.

  Pierce rounded the twin pines and turned downstream on the bayou—into plain sight of the “deputies.” The diver had climbed into the boat and was facing away as he shed gear, but the other two tensed, hands twitching to weapons.

  “G’mornin’!” Pierce hollered, lifting his beer in salute as he steered toward them. “How y’all doin’?”

  Rachel lowered her book and shot Pierce a withering look. “Oh my god, Cooter. They’re cops. You’re gonna get busted for drinking while boating!”

  The Saberton men exchanged a glance, then Baldy leveled a stern look at Pierce. “Sir, you need to stay back. We’re conducting an investigation.”

  “Woowee!” Pierce grinned widely. “Listen to our boys in blue, darlin’. They soundin’ all official. Least I can do is offer ’em a beer!” He guided the flatboat closer.

  “They can’t have beer on duty,” Rachel scoffed.

  “But they can save it for when they’re off!”

  Carrot-top glowered as the flatboat came within a couple of feet of the patrol boat’s hull. “Get the fuck away from our boat, asshole.”

  Pierce donned a hangdog expression. “Well, gawddamn. I guess when you put it that way—” He snapped the shotgun up. A split second later, Rachel and Brian had their guns trained on the Saberton trio.

  Carrot-top and Baldy froze, hands on their weapons and very obviously assessing how best to handle the turn of events. Behind them, the diver stood motionless, gripping his mask.

  “Hands off your guns and up where we can see them,” Pierce said with no trace of the redneck accent. “The diver, too. I need to see his hands. There’s a rifle trained on you.”

  Baldy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re full of sh—”

  I jerked as Marcus fired the rifle. Water poofed up a few feet behind the patrol boat.

  “Jesus,” I hissed. “Warn a girl next time!”

  Marcus smiled and chambered another round.

  Expression murderous, Baldy slowly put his hands on his head. The other two followed suit.

  Rachel and Brian swarmed onto the boat and began disarming the three men. Pleased, I panned the field glasses down to the flatboat where Pierce sat with a lazy, deadly smile on his face, shotgun never wavering. Something splashed in the bayou. A fish, most likely. Or perhaps an alligator was watching the whole show from beneath? Hard to tell since I couldn’t see the water between the flatboat and my vantage on the backside of the bank.

  Two quick gunshots split the air, startling me again. But not from Marcus.

  “Who’s shooting?” Marcus demanded.

  “I don’t know—” I sucked in a breath at the sight of the slumped figure in the flatboat. Red stained the back of his shirt. “Pierce is down!”

  As the flatboat began to drift downstream, a third shot cracked. Rachel cried out and staggered. Carrot-top seized his opening and slugged her hard across the jaw, dropping her.

  Heart pounding, I stood up to get a better look, right as a dark figure disappeared beneath the water, halfway between the patrol boat and the spit. “There’s another diver,” I said in growing horror. This was bad bad bad. Both Saberton men grappled with Brian now. What if the second diver shot him next? Or decided to finish Pierce off with a bullet to the brain?

  Or, just as bad, what if they captured one of our zombies?

  “I’ve got to help them,” I gasped, lurching up the embankm
ent.

  “Angel . . . wait! We can plan a—”

  “No time!” I took off, pouring on the zombie speed for a good hard sprint across the bit of land. As I reached the far side I let out a ululating war cry and launched myself into the air. Every head turned my way. Brian mouthed something I hoped was “You’re so awesome!” but was more likely “Are you shitting me?”

  Though I barely avoided a belly flop, the momentum of my ungraceful dive carried me toward my target. The dark shape of the diver moved ahead and below. I kicked hard, reached for him.

  Then popped right back to the surface as the automatic life vest inflated. Shrieking a curse, I struggled with the clasp, all the while looking for a shadow that marked the human shark swimming below. I finally squirmed free of the vest and threw the stupid thing aside, then shrieked again as a hand seized my ankle.

  I barely had a chance to suck in a partial breath before the diver yanked me under. I was a lousy swimmer—and my heavy boots sure didn’t help—but I was one hell of a scrappy fighter. Though my gun was holstered on my other ankle, I didn’t waste effort trying to get to it since the drag of water slowed bullets down too much. I stuck to the basics and kicked and twisted until I broke free of the grip, but instead of making for the surface as the diver no doubt expected, I turned on him and ripped at hoses and mask.

  I had no luck pulling the hoses free from the tank, but I managed to yank his regulator out and mask off.

  Her mask, I realized with a start as the mask dropped to the bottom. Even through the murky water, it was pretty clear this was a woman.

  She jammed her regulator in her mouth even as she pulled her gun and tried to shove it against my side. Point blank was the only way an underwater shot would be effective, but a hard kick to her gut solved that problem. Though the stupid boots weighed me down, they delivered a lot more punishment than her flippers ever could. I followed up with a zombie-power snatch and ripped the gun out of her hand, only to have it slip through my fingers and sink. Pissed, I kicked her again for good measure.

  Not hard enough, apparently. She yanked a long knife from a sheath and slashed at my midsection. I barely managed to twist away then bit down on a yelp as she sliced my thigh on her backswing. I grabbed her arm, but my nifty jiu jitsu moves didn’t work worth a shit underwater. With her tank in the way, I couldn’t even try and get her in a chokehold. Going for a point-blank shot with my own gun was also out of the question as well since she’d move in for the kill the instant I tried to draw it.

  My lungs strained for air as we battled for the knife. I gasped, sucking in water that burned in a new and horrible way, and flailed as panic slithered in. Hands grabbed and held. My body acted without me, took another breath of water. Parasite. Compensating. Like being submerged in the nutrient goo at the lab. But without the nutrient. Couldn’t sustain long, but it was enough for now.

  Yet my brief distraction was all the diver needed. She kneed me hard in the gut then wrestled free of my grasp and jammed the knife between my ribs.

  Pain jolted through me. Triumph lit her face.

  Baring my teeth, I grabbed her hand on the knife and held it firm between my ribs. In a glorious water ballet cartwheel, I flipped to my right, propelling myself around with my boot on her face.

  As I spun, her hand slipped from the hilt. I yanked the knife from my chest then rammed it into her throat.

  Her entire body spasmed. I shoved away from her, knife in hand. Eyes wide, she clawed weakly at the wound, blood billowing out in a dark cloud. Her hands dropped away, and she drifted from sight, limp and unmoving.

  I’d won. And it felt like shit.

  I slit the laces on my boots, kicked them off, then swam for the surface.

  Chapter 10

  I broke the surface and puked water. Coughed. Heaved in air. Puked some more.

  With every violent move, pain radiated from the knife wound in my chest, and brain hunger twisted my gut. The vibrant green of the grass and trees dulled to grey. The pain faded to the background, and the distant birdsong grew flat and toneless. Shit. My parasite was shifting all resources to the task of keeping me alive.

  The current had carried me at least a hundred feet, to where the bayou widened and the banks sloped gently down to narrow beaches. Treading water and hacking up mucky phlegm, I turned to make my way upstream—just in time to see Brian sail over the side of the patrol boat with Rachel tucked under his arm.

  He surfaced and stroked one-armed toward where Pierce’s flatboat had wedged itself in brush along the bank. Pierce shifted a little, though sluggishly, and a teensy bit of my worry eased. He was alive, and Brian would get him and Rachel the brains they needed.

  A rifle cracked, then again. Water sprayed up a few inches from the Saberton boat. Marcus was shooting right below the waterline, trying to hole the vessel enough to sink it, or at least slow it down.

  The shots sounded muffled and distant to my dulled senses. I needed to get my ass to land and brains in my mouth before I lost too much blood, but my feeble doggie paddle barely held me steady against the lazy current.

  A powerful motor roared to life, and the Saberton boat leaped forward, heading upstream—away from me, thank goodness. I was still screwed but not as quickly.

  A grey plastic bag floated by a couple of feet away. No, not grey. Yellow. And not a plastic bag. My lifejacket! I seized it with a groan of relief and looped my arm through a strap. Getting it on all the way wasn’t going to happen, but at least it kept my head above water. I doubted the water-breathing trick would work if I went under for good.

  The sound of another, smaller, motor reached me as our other flatboat came racing around the spit of land with a grim-faced Marcus at the tiller. Rosario crouched in the bow, with Marla right beside him.

  “Angel!” Rosario called out, scanning the water frantically.

  “Here,” I croaked then realized he’d never hear it in a million years. Plus, he wasn’t looking far enough downstream. With every ounce of effort I possessed, I lifted my hand and waved. “Here!”

  Marla’s ears perked up, then she started a frenzied barking. Marcus angled the flatboat in my direction, and in no time at all, the guys hauled me into the boat.

  I slumped across a seat. “Drowned.” I coughed. “Sucks.”

  “Dante, grab two brain packets,” Marcus said, taking in my injuries.

  “I killed her. The diver,” I managed, throat tight, then focused on draining the first packet dry. I knew it had been self-defense. Didn’t matter.

  His eyes darkened with sympathy. “I’m sorry that it was necessary,” Marcus murmured then jerked his head up at the sound of a quickly approaching boat.

  I struggled upright, only to see the damn Saberton fake Sheriff’s Office patrol boat racing around the curve and toward Pierce’s flatboat.

  Gunfire spit from a Mac-10 in Baldy’s hands, even as Pierce and the others threw themselves flat. The patrol boat zoomed past them then veered straight for us.

  “Get down!” Marcus shouted. He snapped the rifle up then dropped it and crumpled, blood blooming on his chest.

  “Marla!” Rosario threw himself over the dog to shield her, and I threw myself on top of him. I could survive most bullet wounds, but Rosario didn’t have that luxury. His head was right beneath my crotch, which meant my head was right by his very excellent ass, affording me the perfect vantage to see a bullet whiz past my nose and hit his gorgeous glute. Too damn close to a fatal headshot for me.

  Rosario jerked and gasped a curse, but kept himself wrapped around the dog. A bullet punched my thigh, but I stayed glommed onto Rosario. A wave rocked us, then something big slammed into the boat and everything went sideways. As we all went flying, I had an instant to realize the Saberton assholes had deliberately sideswiped us. Then we hit the water, and I had to focus on not drowning all over again.

  I’d lost hold of Rosario but
by some miracle still had an arm looped through my life vest. Marla bobbed in her doggy life jacket a couple of feet away and gave me a single excited bark. Marcus popped up a second later as his vest inflated, with Rosario right behind him.

  Rosario spluttered. “They . . . gone?”

  “For now,” I said with a glower.

  Together we helped Marcus to the narrow beach. Of the three of us, he seemed to be the worst off, with blood frothing from a sucking chest wound. Since he was still mostly conscious, I grabbed his hand and slapped it over the wound.

  “Hold that there,” I ordered then stripped off my sodden jacket and shoved Rosario onto his side. “And you, hold this on your ass.”

  Hunger rolled over me in a slavering swell at the scent of a fresh, warm brain. Rosario’s brain. I gritted my teeth and backed away, then did a quick personal inventory. The one packet of brains I’d managed to down had taken care of the godawful burning in my lungs and slowed the bleeding from the stab wound, but now I had a bullet hole in my left quadricep. No visible exit wound, which meant the damn thing was still in there. But at least I’d successfully stopped it from hitting Rosario’s vitals or Marla.

  Upstream, the other flatboat remained wedged in the brush. No sign of movement within. I swallowed the worry and focused on our own situation. We needed brains, which meant I needed to find our cooler.

  Only one teensy weensy problem. Our boat was nowhere to be seen. I stared in horror at a spot ten yards downstream where bubbles lazily popped on the surface.

  Muttering all sorts of filthy words, I stripped off the life vest, waded toward the bubbles until the water reached my chest, then swam-flailed the rest of the way. One thing was for sure: as soon as we were done with this bullshit, I was going to take some goddamn swimming lessons.

  After a deep breath, I dove under and found the boat about a dozen feet down where, by some blissful miracle, it had settled right side up. No way would I be able to pull the thing to the surface on my own, so I groped around the interior until I came across the cooler. It took some tugging and desperate kicking, but I managed to free it and reach the surface before my parasite decided to turn me into a wannabe fish again.