How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

by Diana Rowland

  My smile slipped out as this particular worry faded away. “I’d like that,” I said and meant it. “Though I still don’t know how I can afford tuition.”

  “Financial aid,” he said firmly. “Grants, scholarships, loans. I’ll help you with the applications.”

  Well, there went my last remaining excuse. “Okay, so do you think I should take Introduction to Life Sciences or Biology one-oh-one?”

  “If you want the credits to really mean something, take one-oh-one. Life Sciences won’t transfer to a four year school.”

  “Wait.” I blinked, then shook my head. “A four-year? I haven’t even thought about that.”

  Nick shrugged and lifted his chin in his I-know-all-about-this posture. “No point in wasting time,” he declared. “Better to have credits that transfer than not. It’s the only smart choice.”

  I gulped. One-oh-one was sure to be a lot harder than Life Sciences. “I guess that makes sense,” I said weakly, wishing it didn’t.

  “Of course it does,” he said as he opened the door to the shop. A delicious mix of smells flooded out—coffee and chocolate and all sorts of baked gooey things. “I’ll order. You want anything besides hot chocolate?”

  “Since you’re buying, I’ll have one of those cherry cream cheese pastries,” I replied with a grin. “I love those things.”

  “You got it,” he said and joined the line by the counter.

  Dear John’s Café offered good beverages, pastry, and snacks, along with plentiful booths and decent free Wi-Fi. But its claim to local fame was the paper enshrined on the wall near the register—a Dear John letter that actually started off with “Dear John.” The letter had been written to the owner, John Hickey, ten years ago by his wife when she left him for his brother’s ex-wife. According to local legend, after a heavy drinking binge and a night in jail, John realized it was the best thing that had ever happened to him, quit his insurance sales gig, traded in his Lexus for a Toyota, downsized his house, and invested everything in the café. Who the hell knew if any of it was true, but it made a good story, and great coffee and a solid business model made for a booming business.

  “Angel,” a woman called from the far end of the shop.

  I looked toward the voice and saw Pietro Ivanov and Jane Pennington cozied up in a half-circle booth by the back wall. Jane gave me a warm smile and gestured for me to come over. A pleased tingle ran through me as I waved and returned the smile. It still floored me that anyone as cool as Congresswoman Jane Pennington wanted anything to do with little old me. She even called me on occasion when she wanted to poll “ordinary, everyday people” for opinions. I was far from either, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

  I tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m going to be by that booth by the back wall,” I told him. “Come find me when you’re done? I have some people I want you to meet.”

  He nodded acknowledgment, and I headed back toward Pietro and Jane. Pietro was a rich-as-fuck local businessman, and also uncle to my boyfriend, Marcus Ivanov. But more importantly, Pietro as head of the local group of zombies, devoted himself to their survival and welfare, at times by whatever means necessary. I didn’t always agree with the “necessary means” Pietro and his organization used, but I’d also learned that none of the issues they dealt with were black and white.

  Plus, I didn’t have much room to talk. Less than five months ago I’d bashed a man’s head in with a baseball bat and then feasted on his brains. Sure, he’d been shooting me seconds before, but there was no denying I’d used necessary means to remove the threat.

  Pietro watched me approach, a relaxed smile on his face that only seemed to make its appearance around Jane. Sixtyish-looking, stocky but fit, he complemented her effortless elegance perfectly. Half-finished cups of coffee and the remains of a shared pastry sat on the table in front of them. I gave Pietro a nod of greeting then smiled to Jane. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “I’m not really,” she said with a quiet laugh. “Only passing through to take care of a little business in my district and see Pietro.”

  I glanced over as Nick approached. “This is my friend Nick Galatas,” I told them. “He’s one of the death investigators at the Coroner’s Office, and he’s also totally responsible for me finally passing the GED.” I grinned. “Nick, this is Congresswoman Jane Pennington and Pietro Ivanov.” I didn’t try to hide the hint of smugness in my tone that I knew such cool people. If the situation was reversed, Nick would be all over it.

  Nick did the handshake thing with both of them, seeming totally confident and comfortable. “I helped a little with Angel’s preparation and studying,” he said, “but Angel was the one in the test room. She worked hard and earned it.”

  A little heat rose in my face at the praise. I had worked hard, dammit, but it was still cool to have it recognized. “It’s too bad you can’t be here a little longer,” I said to Jane. “You’re going to miss the oh-so-awesome Nutria Festival this weekend.”

  Pained amusement lit her eyes. “Believe it or not, I gave a speech there last year on the condition of our wetlands.”

  Pietro laid his hand over hers on the table, gave it a squeeze. “We met at an incredibly tedious fundraiser only a few days after that. Jane stopped me from slitting my wrist with a broken champagne glass to escape the boredom.”

  A joke from Pietro? If he didn’t watch out, having Jane as a girlfriend was going to turn him into a normal person.

  Jane laughed. “I’m not sure it was quite so dramatic,” she said.

  “You were still a state senator then, if I’m not mistaken?” Nick asked.

  Pietro smiled broadly. “Right up until the now former Congressman Dale Grubbs was caught taking kickbacks.”

  “I couldn’t have possibly won the special election to replace him without your help and support,” she told Pietro, voice warm with affection, then gave me a smile. “And as much as I regret missing out on nutria jambalaya,” she shuddered, “I’m off to New York this afternoon for a few engagements before The Child Find League Fundraiser Saturday, then back to DC. Committee meetings, staff meetings, and more meetings.” She shuddered once again.

  “You’re on the House Judiciary Committee, right?” Nick asked, in a way that made it clear he already knew the answer. At Jane’s nod he continued with a smile, “Congratulations on that. Impressive feat for a freshman Congresswoman to score a spot on such an influential committee, but I suppose having doctorates in Political Science and Law helped considerably.”

  I tried not to look as surprised as I was at the two doctorates thing. And here I’d assumed she was a medical doctor. Duh.

  Jane chuckled. “It certainly didn’t hurt, though I’m still getting used to the maneuverings and behind-the-scene deals that aren’t taught in the classroom.”

  Nick gave a knowing nod. “Your detractors who are complaining that you’re not doing enough to secure a defense contract for Saberton don’t understand how the system works.”

  An expression of true regret swept over her face. “I would love to wave a magic wand and reopen the factory so that all those people could be rehired,” she said, referring to the employees laid off after Saberton bought a farm machinery company and then failed to obtain a hoped-for defense contract. “But the sad and brutal truth is that in order to ensure Saberton lands that contract, I would have to expend every bit of political capital I’ve acquired in the past few months, and owe quite a few favors besides.” She sighed. “I can’t afford to ‘blow my wad’ on the Saberton contract.”

  Nick nodded again. “Not when there are bills coming up for programs and funding that have far more impact on this area,” he said. “Wetlands, drilling rights, flood control. It would be a short term fix with long term issues.”

  I glanced over at Nick, probably with my mouth hanging open, impressed and surprised that he had a clue. Hell, more than a clue. I caug
ht the gist of what they were talking about, and as much as I wanted to see those factory jobs come back, I had a hard time getting behind anything that helped Saberton Corporation in any way. I figured Pietro couldn’t either, not with their track record of fuck-y’all exploitation of both zombies and regular people. Yet Jane’s reasoning seemed logical and sound, and not at all based on an “I Hate Saberton” point of view. Then again, as far as I knew, Jane still knew nothing about the zombies. I had no idea if or when Pietro planned to tell her, but that sort of thing was waaay into the sort of none-of-my-business that I actually abided by.

  Jane smiled at Nick, genuine and appreciative. “You know my pain. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I’m going to have to find other solutions for the unemployment situation.” She sighed. “It’s a frustrating dance.”

  Pietro leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “One you do with poise and grace, my dear.”

  Jane gave Pietro a warm smile accompanied by a soft-eyed look that left no doubt how she felt about him.

  Time for Nick and me to leave the lovebirds to do their thing. “We should get going,” I said. “It was great running into you two.”

  Jane reached and touched my arm. “It was wonderful to see you, Angel, and a pleasure to meet you, Nick.”

  We made our goodbyes and headed to the counter. I picked up the box with pastries and glanced over at Nick. “How did you know so much about that stuff?”

  “I read a lot,” he said with a shrug as he collected the carrier with the drinks. “And this is a hot topic, locally.”

  “I’m saving up for a computer,” I said as we headed to the door. “Maybe I can watch news videos or something.” A gust of wind sent leaves scuttling along the sidewalk as we stepped out.

  “It’s important to keep up with what’s going on,” he replied with a knowing nod.

  “By the way, thanks for asking me to come with you. I needed the distraction.”

  He shot me a smug look. “I know.”

  Laughing, I punched him in the arm, hard enough for him to feel it, but not hard enough to spill the coffee and chocolate he carried. I had my priorities.

  He made a show of rubbing his arm, but we were both smiling when we returned to the office.

  Chapter 3

  The living room was empty when I walked through my front door, but I heard the shower—our only shower—running. Crap.

  “Hey, dad,” I yelled through the bathroom door. “You gonna be much longer?”

  “Be a coupla minutes,” he hollered back. “I just got in.”

  Double crap. No way could I fake it and go to the lab without a full shower. Not with bone dust in my hair and the smell of yuck clinging to me. “I gotta be somewhere,” I shouted. “And I’m all dirty from the morgue.”

  “Yeah, well, if you stop shouting at me I’ll be a lot faster,” he shot back.

  Sighing, I bit back an obnoxious comeback. He’d only get revenge by staying in the shower even longer. Stripping off my clothes as I went, I headed to my room and killed some time finding stuff to change into once I no longer reeked of morgue-funk. Well, killed a couple of minutes. Didn’t take long to go through my miniscule wardrobe. So far I’d managed to replace the necessities I lost in the flood: work uniforms, bras and undies, socks, a couple of pairs of jeans and some miscellaneous shirts. And I had exactly one nice outfit—a butt-hugging skirt and a silky blouse, with some fuck-me pumps that I’d scooped up on clearance, beating out a busty redhead who’d been reaching for them.

  I resisted the very silly urge to put on the skirt and blouse and pumps since they’d be incredibly inappropriate for going to the lab, and pushed down the totally crazy bit of wondering how Philip would react to me in the outfit—and where the hell had that come from anyway? Instead I found jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. But with my clothes all nicely laid out, I had nothing left to do except wait with increasing aggravation as the shower continued to run. And now my dad was singing. Singing! Scowling, I wrapped a towel around me and marched back down the hall.

  “C’mon, Dad!” I yelled with an accompanying pound on the door. “I’m gonna be late! What the hell’s taking you so long?”

  “I’m washing my goddamn hair!”

  “Y’only got about twelve hairs on that head of yours!”

  His response was to start singing again. Loudly and badly.

  It was war.

  I tested the doorknob. Locked, and I had a feeling he’d nipped out and done so while I was going through my clothing. Sneaky bastard. But I could be devious too. I ran to the kitchen and turned the cold water on full blast, then went to the half-bathroom near the front of the house, turned that water on, and flushed the toilet for good measure. Listening, I waited, and about fifteen seconds a yelp and cursing rewarded my efforts, followed by the shower going off.

  I quickly turned the water off in the bathroom and kitchen, then returned to the hallway outside the main bathroom, leaned against the wall and folded my arms over my towel-covered chest. I heard grumbling and muttering, but also a rustle of sound that I hoped was a towel drying flesh.

  My dad yanked the door open and gave me a dark scowl, but I thought I detected a gleam of appreciation in his eye. “You’re lucky I got somewhere to be, Angel,” he huffed, then marched off toward his bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist, leaving a trail of wet footprints down the hallway.

  With a smug smile, I claimed the shower, and didn’t even mind that I had to clean out the drain first.

  Since I was already running late, I made do with a quickie shower that was enough to wash the smell of death off me. Probably a good thing I raced through it, since even at super speed the water temp edged toward not-even-close-to-hot by the time I rinsed off. I dressed quickly, shoved my fingers through my wet hair along with a bit of gel, swiped some mascara across my lashes, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.

  Then stopped dead at the sight of my dad standing in the kitchen, buttoning his cuffs and whistling. I sniffed. Cologne? And, wait, cuffs? Not a t-shirt or sweatshirt?

  Nope, Dad had on black denim pants—not raggedy jeans—a plaid shirt that actually looked stylish, and cowboy boots. His hair was combed, and his face free from stubble.

  “Do you have a job interview?” I asked.

  His smile was nothing sort of smug. “Nope. Got me a date.”

  It took me a second to re-engage my brain, and I barely stopped myself from saying, With a woman? “With who?” I managed instead.

  “Tammy Elwood,” he replied. “She tends bar down at Kaster’s.”

  “I don’t know her,” I said, unable to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

  The look he gave me was tinged with amusement. “I bet I know lots of people you don’t, Angelkins.”

  I knew I was being silly, but damn it, my dad simply didn’t date. “How long have you known her?” I asked, trying a different tack.

  He slipped a jacket on. “Not long. It’s actually a double date with Belluci and his lady. They’re kinda settin’ us up together.”

  Oh, lordy. Rick Belluci was a loud redneck with a huge beer gut who seemed to know every racist, sexist, and otherwise inappropriate joke in existence. He and my dad used to be drinking buddies, staying out every Thursday night until the bars closed or kicked them out. I could only imagine what kind of woman Belluci would think was right for my dad.

  “Are y’all going to a bar?” I asked, trying hard to be casual, but I heard the edge of worry in my voice. Dad had been doing pretty good with controlling his drinking lately, and I wanted it to stay that way.

  He gave me a faint smile, understanding in his eyes. “We’re just gonna go see a movie and maybe get a bite after, I promise.”

  “Well, call me if you’re gonna be out too late.”

  To his credit he didn’t laugh. “Only if you promise to do the same.”


  That was fair, I supposed. “Deal.” I moved to him, gave him a kiss on the cheek. God, but we’d come so far. He responded with a hug, then left the house, a spring in his step that I didn’t think I’d ever seen before.

  My dad has a date. How weird was that?

  Chapter 4

  I wanted a distraction from my worries about Saberton’s experimentation, and the universe happily obliged. I rubbed my arms against the frigid air of what I called the Head Room as I peered into the vat. About two feet across, the container looked like an oversized stainless steel crock pot, but I sure as hell didn’t want to eat what was cooking in it.

  “That,” I said with a shiver of disgust and delight, “is seriously gross.”

  Thick, dark pink liquid like blood-tinged mucus oozed its way around the vat, while something resembling a deformed fetus drifted below the surface of the snot. Stubby little hands curled up by its chest, and misshapen lumps like developing organs formed a weird pot-belly. Uneven legs splayed out in opposite directions. No umbilical cord, and the heart wasn’t beating, but I had the weirdest impression the entire thing was vibrating, like a buzz from a beehive.

  From neck to butt, the fetus-thing was about two inches long, but the truly weird and gross part was the full-sized head. Wisps of dark hair clung to the skull, waving sluggishly in the thick liquid. The face had Korean features, though it was hard to tell right now with the blotchy grey and shriveled skin.

  Kang. The first zombie I ever knew, besides myself. Or rather, the first zombie I ever knew who I knew was a zombie. Kang had taught me a lot about survival as a zombie: how often I’d need to eat human brains, how exertion increased the hunger, and how my mental faculties would degrade along with my body if I went too long without eating brains. But Kang hadn’t listened to me when it counted, and he’d ended up the victim of a serial killer who’d been targeting zombies and chopping their heads off.