How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

by Diana Rowland

  “Hey, Zombie Mama,” he said with a grin. “Ready for another day of excitement?” He rubbed his arm. “Jacques just stuck me about a dozen times. I think half of them were just for fun.”

  “I feel ya! He got me earlier. I’m starting to think he’s more vampire than zombie.” I rubbed at the itchy place on my arm.

  “A vampire zombie.” He laughed softly. “Now that would be a rough life. He’d need blood and brains.”

  “Well, Jacques is in the right place for it.” I gave Philip a thoughtful look and made a point of stroking my chin. “Coincidence? Hmmm . . . got a stake handy?”

  “I could probably find a pencil around here, but if the parasite heals the stake wound, it could get ugly.” He did his own thoughtful chin-stroke. “You’d need a stake to the heart and a bullet to the brainstem at the same time.”

  “You’ve thought about this.”

  He gave me an innocent smile. “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Most normal people?” I suggested.

  “That counts us out.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  Together we headed into the treatment room to wait for Dr. Nikas. Power lights glowed on several of the devices on the counter, and Dr. Nikas’s odd shorthand covered half the whiteboard on the wall beside the cabinets. A near-empty glass of sparkling grape juice beside a stack of computer print outs told me he’d already been working in here this morning.

  The procedure chair looked like a cross between a recliner and a torture device, but I plopped into it anyway. Its position gave the best view of the awesome mural that covered the entire far wall—a scene of a rolling grassy meadow and a distant mountain with brilliant blue sky above. Philip leaned against the exam table, and I surreptitiously studied him. Adjusting to life as a zombie wasn’t a breeze under the best conditions, and his had been pure crap. His parasite was damaged from the bad fake brains Kristi had fed him shortly after he was turned, and as a result he suffered excruciating chronic pain, muscle spasms, and other unpleasant symptoms—a mess of afflictions we simply called the Plague. Much of that had been brought under control or was improving with the treatments, but he still wasn’t anywhere near a hundred percent.

  “Your color is better,” I remarked. “But you look worn out.”

  He nodded, unoffended by the observation. “My sleep has been off, and the leg pain hasn’t let up,” he admitted, “but otherwise it’s been a decent week.” He snorted and quirked a faint smile. “I puked my guts out after the last treatment, but luckily it didn’t last long. I’m all for no puking this time.”

  I grimaced. “Yeah, that sucks. I wish there was more I could do.”

  “I’m not complaining,” he assured me. “I promise. Without you helping I doubt I’d have made it this long.”

  “Gotta take care of my zombie baby,” I said with a smile that masked a persistent sick fear. After eating the bad brains Philip had turned two of the Saberton guards into zombies, and both had died within three months of being captured by Pietro’s people, despite Dr. Nikas’s best efforts to save them. My blood helped in treatments for Philip, but I still worried. What if the treatments stopped working? What if my blood stopped making a difference?

  I took a deep breath and tried to focus my worry into anger at the one who’d done this to him. None of this would have happened without Kristi Fucking Charish.

  Philip’s gaze went to the door as it opened, and he pushed off the exam table. Speak of the devil. “Good morning, Kristi,” he said with a pleasant smile to the slim, auburn-haired woman who entered.

  She gave a slightly tremulous smile in return and kept her eyes away from me as she moved closer to Philip. “You’re waiting for the new treatment?” she asked, reaching toward him as if for reassurance.

  He took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “We are indeed.” He glanced toward the door again as Rachel entered, then he returned his attention to Kristi. “This must be an outing day,” he noted.

  “Outing weekend,” Rachel stated, tone brisk but pleasant enough with Philip. “Chris will be leaving with Dr. Charish in a few minutes, but she wanted to see you first.”

  Philip gave a low chuckle and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind Kristi’s ear. “Of course you did.”

  I watched in stony silence. Philip had no reason to like Kristi, and every reason to hate her fucking guts. Yet they sure as hell looked buddy-buddy.

  No, not like buddies, I decided. More like . . . a master and his dog. I didn’t have the warm fuzzies for Kristi either, but this docile version seriously creeped me out. I’d seen her like this before and had assumed she was medicated, but now I realized that wasn’t likely. After all, Pietro kept her alive because she was useful and clever, and she wouldn’t be either if she was drugged to the gills.

  A man with bright green eyes and about a billion freckles stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame. “Philip, you’re hogging all the beautiful women,” he said with an infectious grin. Chris Peterson, another member of the security team.

  “Can you blame me?” Philip replied. Kristi turned and gave Chris a bright and genuine smile.

  “Not one bit!” Chris stuffed his hands into the pockets of a faded leather bomber-style jacket and gave me a nod and Kristi a quick wink, but the smile he turned on Rachel had a lot more heat behind it. To my surprise her expression softened, and she responded with a look that could only be described as sultry. Hot damn, tough as nails Rachel wanted to get nailed?

  A laugh tried to escape me, and I jerked my attention back to Chris. He wasn’t handsome, but he was kind and funny and light-hearted. Nothing at all like Rachel—but maybe that’s what she liked about him? He kept himself in good shape, and though he wasn’t Mr. Suit And Tie like Brian, he dressed well. Today he had on a dark red oxford-style shirt and pressed khaki pants, and of course the awesome leather jacket. He shifted, and I noticed a pair of aviator sunglasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt.

  “Do you fly?” I asked. “Or do you just like the accessories?” I abruptly realized that my second question could be taken as a bit snide. “Crap, I mean—”

  Chris simply laughed and held up his hand to stop me from digging myself any deeper. “Both!” he declared. “Been flying for close to twenty years. I actually had to stop about eight years back. Developed Type 1 diabetes, and they grounded me.” What seemed like grief briefly shadowed his eyes, and I realized that being unable to fly must have been a devastating loss. Then he brightened again. “I got back in the air as soon as possible after I was turned, trust me.”

  “That’s so cool,” I said fervently, ridiculously pleased that the zombie thing had given that back to him. “I’ve never been in a plane,” I confessed.

  “Yeah?” He cocked his head. “I’ll take you up sometime. I fly a couple of times a week.” He shifted his gaze back to Rachel. “You ready to go up with me yet?” he asked her, the double meaning practically screaming through the room.

  Briefly flustered, she dropped her eyes to the papers in her hand and began to shuffle needlessly through them. “I, um, would need to check my schedule.” She cleared her throat and recovered her bearing, straightening her shoulders. “Is your driver ready? You need to get going soon.”

  He pushed off the door frame. “Simon has the car ready and waiting.”

  Rachel nodded. “I’ll probably be up there later this evening for a security check.”

  Security check, my ass, I thought with ridiculous glee.

  “You got it,” Chris replied. “And then you can take a day off next Tuesday and fly with me.” He gave her a teasing chuckle. “Maybe we can join the mile high club.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and a flush climbed up her cheeks, visible even beneath her dark skin. A pained expression came over Chris’s face as he no doubt realized he’d gone too far with the flirting, especially in front of us.

>   “I . . . need to get to the security meeting,” Rachel blurted, then hurried out of the room.

  Chris winced as he watched her go. “I shouldn’t have said that. Rachel takes this job really seriously.” He heaved out a sigh. “I’ll buy her a big box of chocolates to apologize.”

  I snorted. “A gift card to a boxing studio might be better choice, and not quite as sexist.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Your idea is better, especially since I kind of sexually harassed her just now.” He grimaced, clearly annoyed with himself.

  “Y’think?”

  “Not often enough, obviously!” He glanced to Kristi. “You ready, Doc?”

  Kristi gave Philip a questioning look, as if seeking permission. Philip nodded. “You go and have a nice time off, and I’ll see you when you get back,” he said, then released her hand. Kristi gave him another hesitant smile, then left the room with Chris.

  I waited until the door had closed again before clearing my throat. “You and Kristi are awfully, um, friendly,” I remarked.

  He dropped into a chair, face scrunching as if he smelled rotten eggs. “I’ve done a lot of work with her,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of work?”

  “The kind that encourages compliance.” He looked briefly pained. “She’s a risky asset.”

  Compliance. I shuddered. Some sort of conditioning, probably, and I had zero desire for details about how that worked. I knew Philip had some sort of military or special ops background, but I didn’t know any specifics, which was fine with me. “She’s lucky Dr. Nikas insists on the mental health breaks.”

  “Her living arrangements here are comfortable, but none of the rooms have windows.” He made a face. “I’ve been crashing here since you extracted me from Saberton, but at least I get to go outside when I want. I’d go nuts if I couldn’t feel the sun on my face.”

  “Then it’s a damn good thing I made you a zombie and not a vampire.”

  Chapter 5

  Dr. Nikas entered carrying a tray the size of a cookie sheet, with Jacques right behind him pushing a cart full of electronic doodads, wires, and I had no idea what else.

  “Ah, not there, Angel,” Dr. Nikas said as he spied me in the procedure chair. “I need you and Philip much closer for this.”

  “How close?” I asked, then gave Philip an exaggerated wink. “Holding hands close or spooning close?”

  Philip chuckled, but Dr. Nikas had already slipped into his intense focus and completely missed my attempt at humor. “Sitting back to back will do,” he said as he set the cookie sheet down on a counter. To my dismay there wasn’t a single damn cookie on the thing. Nothing but syringes full of various colored liquids. Lots and lots of syringes. Yikes. Good thing I lost my fear of needles when I got turned.

  Dr. Nikas moved to me and, without warning, firmly drew his index finger down my cheek, then stepped to Philip and did the same, this time with his middle finger. While Philip and I exchanged bemused glances, Dr. Nikas touched both fingers to his tongue, frowned, and looked off into space. Taste diagnostics, he called it, and the weird-as-hell process apparently gave him a ton of information in a few seconds. I didn’t know how it worked, but I’d seen him do it a few dozen times, and it always yielded impressive results.

  Dr. Nikas muttered something then proceeded to add incomprehensible symbols to the whiteboard. Jacques brought two ordinary rolling stools into the room, and I plunked myself down on one, gave it a good spin, and pulled my feet up. Once around. Twice. Three times. The thing had smooth action. Four and slowing. I caught a glimpse of the exasperated look on Jacques face, and slammed my feet down to bring my spectacular test drive to a stop then flashed him an innocent smile. Probably better not to piss off the Needle Vampire.

  Without a word, he gestured for me to sit back to back with Philip, then lowered Philip’s stool so we were closer to the same height. No way was I going to complain about having Philip as a backrest.

  Once we were positioned properly, Jacques placed an IV catheter in Philip’s right arm and then another in mine, which I assumed was so all of the weird stuff on the cookie sheet could be injected. Once that was done he began attaching monitoring equipment to us: EKG pads, straps around our heads, the little finger clampy thingies that measure blood oxygen and pulse, blood pressure cuffs, and several other things with trailing wires. I had no idea what the wire-thingies measured and was more than a little afraid to ask.

  Lastly, he moved over to the cart and returned with a roll of duct tape. I watched him warily. “What’s that for?” I asked.

  He gave me a thin, triumphant smile as he crouched beside me, then proceeded to tape the wheels of my stool to the floor. The bastard had to have brought it in specifically for this reason.

  “Aw, c’mon!” I said. “I only broke one little thingamabobby the other day.”

  His face grew more grim than usual as he taped the last two wheels, but when he finished and straightened, his eyes told a different story. Large, hazel, and amazingly expressive, they’d become my best gauge for whether I’d amused him, annoyed him, or Really Pissed Him Off. Whew. I was still in the safe zone.

  All the attached junk made it awkward to get comfortable while perched on a stool. I swiveled the seat a bit and shifted against Philip’s back. “It’s a good thing I like you,” I murmured to him.

  “Of course you like me,” he murmured right back. “Only an idiot wouldn’t like me. I’m dangerously likable.”

  I began to snicker, but some monitor beeped, and Dr. Nikas’s worried frown reminded me to behave.

  After some fiddling with equipment, Dr. Nikas picked up two syringes with blue contents, passed one to Jacques, and then Dr. Nikas injected me as Jacques injected Philip. They repeated this process three more times with yellow, green, and milky pink. Finally just Philip received an injection of a colorless liquid.

  “What exactly is this going to do?” I asked.

  “We are attempting to remind Philip’s parasite how to operate optimally by imprinting it on yours.”

  I processed that. “Imprinting? Like ducklings?”

  Dr. Nikas smiled. “In a manner of speaking. I’ll be stimulating both sets of parasites into a bit of a frenzy, and as yours copes, Philip’s will hopefully follow suit.” Dr. Nikas placed the empty syringes in a sharps disposal container. “How do you feel?”

  “My teeth are buzzing,” I said with a grimace. “Like they’re full of bees.” It didn’t hurt, but it was mighty unpleasant.

  “Mine too,” Philip said, his voice rough. “And my throat is getting scratchy.”

  Dr. Nikas pursed his lips and moved back to the cookie tray, mumbled distractedly as he picked up a syringe with red contents, then shook his head and replaced it. His expression grew thoughtful but after a moment it cleared. He retrieved two syringes that contained what looked like chocolate pudding and passed one to Jacques. Apparently the consistency was pudding-like too, because the needle looked more like one of those turkey baster injector things. Except about twice as big.

  Dr. Nikas crouched before me. “Lift your shirt, please?”

  Wary, I lifted it to right below my boobs. Apparently that was high enough, because Dr. Nikas placed a cool hand on my stomach and set the needle about an inch above my belly button. “This might be a bit uncomfortable,” he said and then drove the needle into my gut.

  A tiny yelp escaped me, and it was with some small relief that I felt Philip stiffen behind me as Jacques did the same pipe-to-the-gut move. It took at least a minute to inject the substance, during which I breathed in shallow pants against the pain. A bit uncomfortable, my ass. “Dr. Nikas, this sucks. I’ll stick with the buzzing teeth.”

  “Give it a moment, Angel,” he murmured.

  About ten seconds later the bee-teeth sensation faded. “That’s better,” I breathed. Unfortunately, rather than echoing my sigh of relief
Philip groaned and jerked against my back.

  Monitor wires caught at me as I tried to twist to see what happened. Jacques slapped the intercom on the phone and shouted, “Reg!” to call in the other lab tech, then moved to us and wrapped an arm around Philip to keep him upright. Philip twitched and let out a shuddering cry. I swiveled the chair, not caring that clips and patches pulled off, and stared at Philip.

  “Angel!” Dr. Nikas said with urgency. “Turn around. Stay still.”

  I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not with the side of Philip’s face looking as if a billion ants crawled under the skin. In seconds, the flesh split as an ugly patch of rot formed and deepened, exposing bone and teeth. Zombie stench, distinctively heavier and sweeter than cadaver stink, rolled over me in a sickening wave. I stared, shocked. We’d had trouble during treatments before, but this—

  Dr. Nikas took me firmly by the shoulders in an unexpectedly strong grip and turned me with the stool until I faced away from Philip again. He pressed me back until I could feel Philip jerking and shaking against me, and held me there.

  “Angel, I need you to stay right here,” he said, voice calm and reassuring. “He’s going to be fine, but I need you to help me by remaining still and keeping in contact with him. It’s important. You have it?”

  Gulping, I met his eyes and nodded. “I got it. Sorry,” I said. “That was seriously freaky.”

  He squeezed my shoulders, then released me and turned away to work with the vials and syringes on the tray. Dr. Nikas always fixed things, but that didn’t keep my heart from trying to thump its way out of my chest. Philip gurgled and twitched, and I held my back against his. “You’re gonna be okay,” I said, as much to reassure myself as him.